No title

 

With each day, come mirrors of many a reflection.

Each day, they become lost in moments of repetition

that begin at the break of my day.

Days come to an end, in the same way.

 

If your days are longer then

the twenty four bequeathed them

and your nights blacker then mine

- midnight skies, black holes in time -.

 

I would gladly take those hours of gloom,

their blackness and make them my doom

so that you might come into light,

be free, spread your wings, take flight
 

to places in this plane, you may never have known,

seen, felt or known anyone who could have shown

you what is beyond and how beautiful the sight,

a glorious space where you know everything is alright.
 

B. J. “A ” 2

October 8^th 2004

The empty nest syndrome

 

Looking up, into the skies, clouds form

an empty nest, it becomes the norm.

I do not desire to know the empty nest syndrome!

Yet must, as my young Bird seldom comes home.

 

It is a natural process- an inevitable course for life,

yet it is difficult to accept, worrying, living with strife

as one observes, in horror and looks, with fear,

into the eyes of all you gave to, seeing it slowly disappear

 

into the groping claws of ?, losing what is Dear,

to the insanity of this insane, as he takes hold

of your beloved, young Daughters innocence, to mold

her – with empty promises – into the likeness of him,

 

this punk, pr~ck, as~~ole, demented, who’s light is so dim,

shadow cannot be seen, life for my Beauty, is a black hole abyss

from which she may not escape – a good life she will miss –

from this place, this place she sees not nor able to rise above,

 

thinking she feels ?, believing his feelings are love,

this sh~t he lays on her – this sick demented f~ck

who uses, abuses, plays her, drags her into the muck

because he can, because of her naiveté, her obsession,

 

her insecurities, her innocent beauty, her depression.

In his life time - an innocent cute ty, never !, never !,

again to know, as never before, nor after – ever !

It is no wonder, under his thumb, he keeps my Melanie,

 

trapped by all – his and hers – she unable to set herself free

as he plays his mind games – threats that will not let her be

a woman, on her own – in the right hands -  that I might see

come to maturity in all her beauty – not to be – to high the fee !

 

B. J. “A ” 2

October 2^nd 2004

My Daughter

I am blown away by harsh winds

 

Melanie, it seems to me, you to be storm clouds

in the distant sky, drifting in and out, passing by

in shades of ever deepening, darker, menacing grays.

You seem to be hidden among shadows, lost in shrouds.

 

Never a word, an acknowledgement, not even a simple hi

when you come home, hide, then go – gone for days.

you drift through, in different shapes, much like clouds,

one minute this, next minute that, or some other, in my eye.

 

Who or what you will be, where you are at, I never know.

One minute a unicorn, the next, some kind of dragon.

We might live in a castle in the sky, then it’s a gloomy donjon,

or a sailing ship on the horizon, then grounded, you show

 

me - no adventures to be experienced, no journeys to take –

that I am surrounded by bells, of deaths toll being sounded

as I try my best to understand, try to be a good man

that in the end, all I think I know, I must forsake

 B. J. “A” 2

October 2^nd 2004

Winters methodology

 

Along the Pitt river banks, I sometimes go.

Watching the murky waters move so slow.

This river that rolls on, in different direction

as I sit, contemplating this world of reflections.

 

There – in these tranquil silences – permeated

by sounds of creatures, Mother Nature, has created.

Their life’s songs – many ~ diverse – pierce my ear

as life flows by, in the blink of an eye, and I hear

 

ducks, snapping out their tunes, quacking,

geese, honking their horns - irritating

bees that are humming in their buzzing,

man made noises disturbing the air – frustrating !

A breeze whistles tenderly among the trees,

it’s song rustling, shaking, blowing, removing leaves,

leaves, magically, butterflies, fluttering around,

- in multi  coloured wings – and around, coming down

 

to let us know, – as they touch the ground –

predicting death / change of, and the decay

of, as fall surly brings winter on its way.

It being the harbinger of life’s changes, it’s all around

 

telling us, it’s so, as it goes on with little sound,

as we see answers to questions we have yet found

the wisdom, the courage to acknowledge or state

as we see - but never hear – as our only fate.

 

Food for thought !, as we become food for this universe.

Food for thought !, that brings me to the end of this verse

and to one day, have a short or long ride in a hearse

after fate, life, karma, humanity and me have done our worst.

 

B. J. “A” 2

October 2^nd 2004

Pauli

Music, – my Muse, my comforter, my companion –

the soul in, the spirit of, the cleanser of, – empty hours –

washing away all the debris, all that lives in the void ,

filling in that black hole abyss with light and substance

 

- elements, dormant - bringing to life that which lays within,

that which lives in the light and life of so many others.

In this state, I wonder ?, can it be my madness

that drives my thoughts of you that become my folly.

 

Could it be ?, my desire to live out my dream

that now seems to leave me, inserting me into darkness,

in the cold, in another void, in another abyss

that leaves me to wonder ?, why another nightmare ?

 

Music, – my Muse, my comforter, my companion –

cloaks my soul, baths my spirit in light to enlighten.

to lighten that heavy load of pursuing many an illusion.

We delude, and my world is but a tear drop in life’s oceans

 

B. J. “A ” 2

September 25th 2004