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Lost in history’s places

That was then, when, and now is now.
The point now, need not – somehow –
come from way back when, for then,
for if it does ?, there is no point, the point
becomes lost when you go back – try the join
then – when all to be, became, and all that should have been
became lost, at a cost to all who became involved and have seen,
who have been a part of what is, instead of what should be.
Then is but circles without beginning, without end, no exit to see,
that can take then out of  now, and how can that be
the path to the point ?, the point now – the answers for me
must come from here and now, not yesterday and come straight,
not at the end of some long, long, long winding freight
train that has stopped many – far too many times, to take on life’s baggage.
So much baggage, so much confusion, so many circles throughout the age
of so many winding roads, twists and turns towards the point, never to reach
the answers to straight forward, simple questions that I did beseech.

Laughter

Nervous sounds abound, they ring out
their experiences, their life, they want to shout.
They want to be set free, fly from your nervous mouth
so they, that hear, that listen, can have no doubt
what you, your sounds, your being is all about.
To know, to see, what is buried beneath all those
nervous sounds, sounds that dance upon the wings
of all those sounds your voice, hesitatingly, sings.
Songs of sad tales, of a troubled life with all its woes.
And which of us ?, is he, or she, that truly knows.

Life’s withering soul

My beautiful Daughter, – Child of mine,
this fragile rose bud- will bloom in time !, ?
Sadness do I feel – the experience sublime ?,
not in any reflection, not in this rhyme,
for I see not but a severed broken stem
and nothing I might do, nothing that I am
will bring life’s forces from the roots
to nourish, to give hope, to heal the shoots,
feed this unrealized Rose, in bud, ready to bloom,
whom I seldom see, talk with less, who hides in her room.
I now see this unfulfilled Rose, withering on the thorny
stem of her life, cut off by the selfish hand of this horny
old man – a so called man – The reasons my life is so stormy.
At times, the reasons – I do believe – for my troubled Child,
are emotions, hormones, beliefs, desires and needs running wild,
and from time to time, run me over, slap my face, knock me down.
Nothing I say, nothing I do stops this cycle from going round
and round with such force and energy, it knocks me to the ground
as pain / anger, uncertainty / anger. frustration / anger become the sound
that rings in piercing tones, from time to time, shattering my ear.
It is so overwhelming at times, it is all that I seem to be able to hear.
So the pain and heartache, I try to keep at bay, along with all my fear,
as I wonder what will come, become ?, and fill the spaces of each year,
for this Child, of my ancient seed, this Daughter, to me, so dear.
My Blood, I would like to know, her soul I would like to be more near
than a passing moment on the fly- pleasantries indicated, in passing by
like scattered clouds- out of reach and vaporous –high in an uncertain sky
as I watch – wondering why ? –, eyes filled with tears, trying not to cry.
Praying that one day – before long – changes come, come before I die.
 
B. J. “A” 2
July 9th 2002
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