How many more times
at deaths door ???
From the abortionist hook, I did escape.
Escape from, seems to have become my fate.
Death, around my body fell.
Grandfather, pulled me from the well.
Fell through the basement, trap door.
Straight down to the basement floor.
Landing on my two year old head.
Still around – alive – not brain dead ?
Shot at – not blind – hit in the chin,
older than two – mind you – at the coal bin.
That is the way - thus far – my life has bin.
Got blood poison, from big toe to thigh,
up into belly – Thanks Grandmother – for a keen eye,
otherwise I might be up there with the stars in the sky.
Became allergic – in the hospital – to penicillin.
Jesus !, god, where could my life be headin ?
After all, all this by the year I am ten.
At fourteen, I hit a hundred and six,
my brother / uncle “ you should be dead”, what a fix !,
as I lay under his Ford, nineteen fifty six
Twenty, and rolled my car over twice.
Not one of six, hurt, how so very nice.
Is arm wrestling the Grim Reaper, my vice ?
Hit by a train at the age of twenty seven.
Totaled my new convertible, yet, have I touched heaven ?
Becoming conscious, showed a picture of my car and the train
that wiped out my Comet and into space shook up my brain.
A nurse told me, after she showed me, “ I was lucky to be alive. ”
I did not believe it, could not see it, did not understand her jive.
Thirty years of age and into a black tunnel,
minutes later, the light begins to funnel
out into a bright, mystic light,
light that has come from this flight
of a soul – gone – no longer before my sight,
that which seemed so very right,
until we rolled over twice in a canoe.
Lost my companion, my friend to the raging river !
Who could have foreseen ?, who knew ?,
that his sole, his sprit, in fear would quiver ?,
I would shiver, but survive and he could never
leave this plane, be stuck here forever and ever,
never to be seen in this life – alive again
leaving me to question, why did I remain ?
Which, in the end, became so very wrong
and now has become part of this sad song.
The tale, the journey, the essence of this story.
All, comes with hope, but without any glory,
some of, filled with fears, some of, full of tears,
some, no more than many, many wasted years.
Some – cup filled to the brim- with life,
Some – the cup emptied – by the hand of strife.
At fifty four, downed by an aneurysm rupture in my brain.
Rupturing once was not enough, the doctor ruptured it again,
yet, here I stand, – what does fate have in store ? – I still remain
among the living and the dead, but never seem to be giving
to either the half dead, or dead, the half living, or living.
As for the thoughts of, “ why am I still around ?
and not six feet under, part of the ground ”,
still amazes me, after all these years, yet many more stories,
than those mentioned above, where I should be sorry
for all the foolish, stupid, insane, dangerous things I ‘ve done.
A sleep, drunk, stoned hundreds of miles behind the wheel
and yet here I am, not a scratch, and have yet to run
out of luck - bad or good – makes me wonder, what is the deal ?
Personal rhymes to deep. / Nowhere man still asleep.
From his uncertain hand. / Within his nowhere land.
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014