Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
My beautiful Daughter, walks life’s paths alone,
She does so, by design – not of hers – on her own.
She travels heavily !, from place to empty space,
from space to vacant place – in what kind of race?
A race towards where ?, towards what I do not know,
for, to me – an age and place beyond – she does not show
where it is, - where she wants her future to go
if ?, going anywhere – accomplishing - is a guiding
force in her life, seeking out, chasing after lightening.
There are times, when I hear, in my words
the sounds of need, – empty in their experience –
looking for some of what has been offered.
What has been offered, I see, it is not meant for me.
I keep being dragged back into this nightmare,
a nightmare ?, so I am lead to believe, could it be ?
Within the stories, the tone, I hear, I perceive it to be
but have to wonder ?, is it ?, really but a dream
that can find no reality on this plane , never comes true,
therefore it truly is !, becomes the nightmare.
In the words that tell, I see, I hear, I feel
the sword that plunges deep, with which to defend,
to destroy the foe – the lover – a man not to know
yet not forgotten, not left alone, not let go of.
He - the nightmare – is always there, he doesn’t care,
he is a rotting residue in, a part of life’s moments.
He is your nightmare, in your dreams, in every waking hour!
These sad eyes see, these sensitive ears, in pain, hear the pain,
this old heart feels, but this useless blade, – a knife that hides
within my, closed mouth – seems not able to cut away at the ties
that bind you to life’s strife – to the nightmare.
Could it be unfulfilled desires ?, unrealized dreams ?
What has taken forty nine life times to create,
might be attributed to nature, nurturing or fate,
but may not be digested, accepted, understood or dissipated.
Regardless of the words, the meaning, what else can be stated ?
I know that in forty nine hour days, my thoughts my feeling
will never find a way to reach out and touch a solid ceiling
and so, in my many words, in my actions, I pray
that it all can be set aside, and all can be put away.
A walk from the dark side, into the darkness.
Little, to nothing could this impotent old man / dad offer
his Child, his oldest Daughter, in so much need.
Nothing could he bestow upon his Child, or his lover,
with her insecurities, doubts, his insatiable greed,
and so, escape not, she walks along with his need
as it has been something he has decreed.
Oh !, how remiss to leave them on their own, to agree
to their coarse, a course that could take them on
to complete the journey they started, then gone.
Time, enough !, distance is past
Time to stop !, turn around at last
and face what the outcome will be.
Open eyes, a new beginning to see.
May I leave sun set’s path, face the sun rise
coming through that black velvet screen before me
with it’s spattered, day-glow dots, all aglow
opening inner sanctum doors, allowing me to know.
Thoughts for me, alternative for them flash before my mind.
What will they do ?, am I being so unkind ?
Will one, the other or both be bussed back to Ontario ?
As I walk back to the room, I ponder the scenario ?
Will we ( all three ) carry on with our little adventure
into the canyons and gorges, the city of all nights lights
– the city where angels never sleeps – I cannot be sure ?,
sure if they will end their – for my attention – fights.
Will we see the city ?, where one man built his fantasy,
walk among dreams brought to life, a fun reality
of cartoon characters, animated for the child in us
or in the end, to Ontario on a Greyhound bus ?
Will we see stars ?, stars on a walk, in the city of angels
At this juncture, what will be the story one tells ?
Will the Golden Gate carry us ?, will we ride the hills ?,
on their steel rails, tell tales of all our thrills ?
Will we end these moments in gods country ?,
the city of the British, the salmon run, a hollow tree,
mountains, bays, bears, a Princess, poetess gone to ash,
her rhyme, this forth cousin of mine, they did stash,
hidden from obvious view, in the woods of Stanley park,
where few knew, and for a hundred years, lay in the dark.
Many know not where Native, folk lore doth reside ?
In her books, hand in hand and side by side,
along with as many nationalities as there are nations.
In this place, women brought to life her creations.
Before I leave this bleak walk, in the arms of this black night,
My thoughts are, hope that all will come out all right,
when one of those day glow dots, in that black velvet sky,
all a glow, took off, streaked south, caught my eye
as it crossed the heavens, fast as the speed of light,
in the pattern of a Zed, then disappeared from sight.
( Strange !!!, this speck of star light, it’s unusual flight
as it star-ts out from nothing, speeds south on a
horizontal plane, pauses a split second, reverses direction,
drops down vertically, on an angle northward, towards a point
where it started out, again paused for a split second, then,
on a horizontal plan, zipped south before disappearing into star,
in the starry back drop from whence it took life, for a moment. )
This story, – twenty five years old – in rhyme, comes to life,
for a brief moment, from a memories hoard, rife
with so many stories hidden from sight
coming from rhyme - into light.
B. J.“A ” 2
May 30th 2002
William J. Jr. Atfield
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
THE VALENTINE PHOTO--2014
Bubba was tired and his feet were aching from walking so
much. He and Carly had walked up and down the block 5 times
looking for his wallet. It only had $46 in it but he didn't
want to lose the pictures. There was a snapshot of them
making love on the sofa in their first apartment that first
valentines night and then a photo of Carly when she was in
her valentines dress. His drivers license was in the wallet,
too, but it had expired and he never could remember to re-
"I don't think we'll ever find it, Bubba," Carly
said, resting her backside against a brick building. Just
then Raston came around a building and saw them.
"Hey wots 'appenin Bubba?" Raston said.
"Lost my damn billfold," Bubba said.
"You lose you wallet in this neighborhood and it's in
somebodys pocket before it even can hit the ground,"
"Who lost they billfold?" a girls voice said. It was Patti;
and she had followed Raston around the corner of the build-
ing. "Is they a reward for that billfold?" She asked.
"Maybe, you know who gots my bill fold?" Bubba said.
"I seen that guy over cross the treet lookin in a
green billfold just now," she grinned.
"My billfold is a green one!" Bubba said, heading across
"You be careful now Bubba, that dude is one mean dude!
He chew you up and spit you out."
The guy was over six feet tall and looked like he should be
able to win some kind of a muscle contest.
"Hey man you find my billfold?" Bubba asked him.
"Was they a picture of you wife in a valentine dress"?asked
the guy, a big grin on his face.
"Sure there was," replied Carla. "Now we know you got
that wallet for sure."
"I ain't found nobodys billfold." said the guy, spitting on
"Did too," said Patti. "I seen you."
"Give my billfold now!" shouted Bubba.
"And if'n I don't?"laughed the guy.
"Well I just havta take you apart I guess,"
"You talkin pretty mean for such a little fella," laughed the
"You gonna give me my billfold now?" asked Bubba.
"Sure I give you your bill fold," said the guy, grabbing Bubba's
ding-dongs in a hammer hold. "But first I'm gonna make it with
your woman right her on Broad Street in broad daylight, and you
gonna hold my coat while I do it, and you better not let my coat
sleeves drag the ground neither."
Bubba was still wrenchig in agony and pain when the
guy finished and disappeared around the corner.
"Boy that guy sure was mean," said Carla after the guy
"Now I told you not to mess with that guy, I told you he
was one mean dude." Raston said.
"He sure was mean," Carla said, a sly little twinkle in
"I don't know about that," moaned Bubba. "I done let
his coat sleeves drag the ground three times!"
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet.
Long poem by
Aliagan Abdulrahman | Details |
(FOR MA'ARUUFAH ODETUNDUN)
Today I was but walking on my path, full of self-confidence,
heading towards a purpose I had set from my residence.
My humble head bowed very low, I pressed forward in haste,
yet I was mindful lest I outran my chance to court a waste.
Leaving behind the sights and all that my back had brought
to face what my way’d unveil, I prepared even to be fought.
Forcefully my head was raised, for something had beckoned—
it was an irresistibly pretty figure I saw or so I had reckoned.
I gave a pause, poised to find what the distance would unfold,
little foreseeing I would enjoy defeat from what I set to behold.
The more it advanced the lesser my endurance and my strength.
I trembled: it was the first adventure facing me from this length.
I am a young soldier though, at home, in haste, I’d left my wit,
and now struck helpless by her soothing hit, I am no more fit.
Have mercy, spare me, for all my skills I have lost or unlearned,
or take a wink to look away while I address the desire I discerned.
If I am blessed to accomplish this task, I shall be more than glad;
but If I fall casualty to the defeat of the challenge, I shall be sad,
for I have never before retreated from a duet of this kind all in vain,
yet if I can use up all I have left, I shall not care to manage a gain.
Now she’s near so it’s time I waved her a stop to give my best,
since I’ve got two awesome things—this task and a school test.
To pass one and fail the other (or miss one) is going to mean a crime.
God, help me here with overwhelming words as my tongue I prime,
because I must not exhibit a repelling style or make a worse blunder
and be displeased with my waning military spirit if we’re put asunder.
Do you understand I can’t make out why I stand under your charm,
because it always takes place the other way round without any harm?
The ethereal lures radiating from this unblemished skin equals the cost
of your doting parentage, the root you grew from that mustn’t be lost.
Now you grow, grow and grow, while skeptics marvel as you soar tall
from the root of this tree that you must garden and see it doesn’t fall.
If you can disorientate me in this manner while I forget to remember
what I’m capable of, you deserve kudos from Januaries to Decembers.
Because of waywardness my tongue should give way to my clever pen
which is mightier than the sword and be the spokesman of wise men.
It adores the spotless teeth you flaunt as a sign of mildness and peace;
appreciates the dazzling light in your eyes that reduces one to a piece;
and promises to smear your plumb cheeks with deserving delight
by ensuring that you beam with dimples like the stars in the night.