William J. Jr. Atfield | + Follow Poet |
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Poetry Is It Possible Mandy

Poetry

As I sit here, at my table, pen in hand,
contemplate – there is nothing I understand
about that which flows – I write
not knowing how or why ?, the sight

before these eyes – one calls poetry.
Blinded to technique – what I see,
I do not understand – it just comes.
Thoughts, feelings, experiences – it runs

like blood - flowing from a deep wound
that will not stop – will soon be crooned,
in melancholy voice – stained pieces of paper
that never reach the inner eye of the maker.

Be it he or be it she ?,
this they will never see !,
for they understand – not me !,
be apart ?, - never will be.

Is it possible ???

In just how many a way ?,
is it possible for me to say, 
Mandy, I love you, I love you. 
Despise, hate me, you seem to do.

What is it ?, I might do, I might be
to bring you around, allow you to see,
that, – for me – not many a day
 is left !, to try and change the way

our lives, our paths have been headed. 
Changes to see, before it all has ended.
How might we reach a state of peace ?
The pain, the heartache, anger to release.

Mandy

I feel no love, no thought exists, I have no contact. 
This leaves me wondering ?, why is it ?, you act
in the manner you do – I feel indifference,
the essence of your thoughts, feelings, it’s the reference 

for me, as to whom - I think - you  seem to be
and why you do the things you do, do not reach out to me.
Is this why ?, indifference is all I get to see
from you, in response to my attempts at contact,

to get through to you, to get us back on track.
In our little world, getting through to you, I have failed.
Every time I try to open the doors a little, you have railed
against me, you have made tracks, a runaway train,

leaving me behind, in a cloud, me to remain
among the shadows, the shallow darkest places
of your troubled, young mind, where our faces
are lost to ?, where the evaporate into shadows,

invisible to the mind’s eyes – those windows
through which we look into that troubled, lost soul.
This middle Daughter, I seem not to know,
with whom, family tie should certainly grow, 

yet, instead, cuts with a single, swift blow
from her dark, harsh, keen sword.
Slicing into little pieces – silently - not a word.
I wonder ?, just what was it I heard

in the battle that ensued
- over the phone – that call you’d 
have me believe, was all about,
other than leaving me out.

Another opportunity, an occasion – not to be – lost
to me and my Grandson – at what cost ???
I am truly troubled Mandy, 
by just how cruel you can be

and what you feel about how it effects you and me.
I cannot see Girl, that you really give a **** 
and realize, into your life, I will never fit
as you move on, leave me and everyone behind 

having no place for them or me in your mind.
I truly wish, life in these words did not have to be
Mandy, but that life is all you have left for me to see.
It is the scenario that represents, the you, with me.

Truth be known Mandy, I am no Oak tree.
I just wish - whatever it is – you would set it free,
open the doors – wide – once again let me touch thee, 
the Daughter, I miss, the Daughter, I love.

May you find  a stairway to climb , rise far above.
May you fly with that white bird of peace, soar with the Dove.
Leaving for below all that inhabits,
all that inhibits.

Love Dad 
B. J. “A ” 2
June 9th 2004

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014

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