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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Where did my life go ?
Oh, how I would like my life back !
It seems the fabric of time has developed a crack,
and through it, I seem to be falling.
Every day, work, work keeps on calling
and my days melt, one into the other,
no time to do all I must cover.
Hours are so few
For all I have to do.
Very little to remember of this one’s day
For they are all the same.
No longer a life, no time for play !
Work, work, work is the frame
of reference, routine of little variation
is my life, sometimes a little creation.
This is where my life has gone !
Work, work, work and nothing beyond.
it has penetrated, permeated my dreams.
Work, work, work, no escape it seems ?
B. J. “A” 2
June 3rd 2012
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2012
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Fentanyl, and All
Grim Reapers, on call !!!
Dark days in the clutches of fentanyl,
have been your journey, your down fall !
Are you realizing the essence of its call ?
NOTHING will be left, NOTHING at all !
Many of your years, have been such a waste !,
as you reach out, towards an end, in such haste.
What is it, that we can do ?, for you,
to help you get past, to start anew.
It seems that there is but a sad view,
for us, who want to help you through.
That Beautiful little Girl !, who knew ?,
- what seeds ?, deep within, that grew
into this debilitating, destructive drug addiction -,
what it’d do to all who care, want your resurrection !
All we desire !, is for you to see the light !,
step out of the darkness, stand up and fight !
From drug addiction and death, take flight !
Look into a mirror, see, do what is right !
Help us all alleviate what is our fear !!!
Help us Daughter, help us my Dear !!!
B. J. “A ” 2
December 2nd 2015
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Time Travel
From conception, into birth,
from childhood, into youth,
from youth, into a young adult
is but a short journey on a long pier
A time for learning / A time for doing
Adults usually go on in blind flurry, doing.
Middle age meanders along that – shorter – pier,
looking into the waters, seeing life passing by,
catching glimpses of, reflections gaily dancing,
and reflecting upon the pier walk, thus far
A time to acquire / A time for losses
Wisdom in old age, it becomes a slow and painful walk,
- off what has become - in time’s passing – a short pier –
that has taken all seven – not to heaven – on a long, arduous
journey through rough seas – old age sees the essence of life,
time and space - yet throughout the journey, wonders ?,
what was it ?, what is it ?, that could be, have been his place.
B .J. “A” 2
November 25th 2004
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Sun Bathing
There is this brilliant gem hanging on high,
radiating down upon me from a clear blue sky.
It takes me back and into a time
when laying in fields, on river banks was sublime.
On a spit I sit, going around, browning under the sun.
Not a care, a worry, no obligations – there are none
as I read history, of the future and contemplate,
what is it that Nostradamus, predicts as our fate ?
Being showered upon by shades of soft, pink flakes,
flowered blossoms light as spring air, no mistakes
by Mother Nature, on her journey – brought down
by springs cool breezes that keep blowing around,
kissing, glistening, crystal spheres, upon a body browned
by the noon hour sun, making the hour feel so good
as all of life’s moments, upon this plane, should.
I lay here, absorbing the waves of musical sound.
Music has been, is, and will always be my companion
until a time when we become a part of the All, to champion
that which lays among the essence of another plane
that will carry us beyond all of our todays pain .
That plane, the beginning and never ending sojourn
that takes us around and around, our souls to turn
into a part of the whole, a place we will never yearn
to depart from, never again needing to know concern.
B. J. “A ” 2
April 26th 2005
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Reverie
Saturday in the arms of Mother Nature
That state – in between – just before one leaves consciousness
in order to cross the threshold into that world of the subconscious
That place between semi wakefulness and the land of dreams
where life is surrealistically richer, deeper than reality
and clearer than the images one sees in the world of dreams.
In this fantastic, altered state of being, I felt, I touched
a beautiful pink where all life begins, and begins !
My lips, my tongue, my fingers tips sailed across a body
of pure water, caressing every atom, every epithelio
of life, stroking your soul from head to your little toe
and back to the world of pink, where sweet lips met mine,
lubricating my tongue in the most passionate French kiss
your motherhood has or will ever have known !
My state of reverie !, my dream, but not your reality.
The reverie of my Saturday, I’d love to make your reality !
B. J. “A” 2
February 18th 2007
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Everything was created to perfection.
Order and harmony was its reflection.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Are a world unto them selves .
Man portraying his pigmy elves.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
We - a voice creating a wilderness.
Many try not to, this I must confess.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
|Are we able to become the salvation ?
for Mother Earth, Mother Natures creation.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Will the meek stand up and tower
over the strangest Creature’s power ?
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Is faced with inevitable doom
as this little blue planet lowers the boom.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
B. J. “A” 2
July 22nd 2015
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Men’s Secrets
There are men of god who like innocence for their pleasure.
There are coaches, teachers etc., who never – their actions – measure,
as they destroy the impeccability of this, our worlds Treasure.
There are so many men – thoughtless – leaving so many scares.
Destroying the spirits, the souls, the luster of so many Stares.
Leaving them as barren, distant, cold as the surface of mars.
What is in man’s heart ?, that drives all this horror, all this insanity.
Why do they not see ?, what they are doing to a segment ( fifty percent ) of humanity.
What ?, lies in the murky depths of these men’s sick, broken souls and heart,
that makes them shatter the chastity of a life that will never know how to start
living out their lives, and on a much higher plane
and not know the stress, the depths, the separation caused by all their suppressed pain,
pain that comes on, comes out- screaming with every action,
action that stops one – who cares, who shows with every reaction,
yet neither – these sick men made it impossible – will find peace or satisfaction.
B. J. “A” 2
March 6th 2014
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
April 26th 2005
Once again – like on April 26th – I had opportunity to lay
under that enormous – self-consuming – orb of bright flame
sending out and all around, it’s essence, in glorious ray,
turning this withering, old planet into colours of the same
hue, that, for some time to come, will. upon me, stay.
Breezes blow to cool, caress, kiss, twirl and dance
through the forests of this old planet turning red
- forests soaked in crystal droplets – not by chance
but by the pouring out this old planets essence - toe to head.
Drawn to the surface by fires, creating rainbows to enhance.
Waves of sounds, of instruments, of lyrics, of voice
skate across the ice fields of this old - laying soul.
Zamboni scraping layers into flakes, shivers of choice
that was and was not for me or anyone to know,
yet these chilling moments come to the surface, give voice
to all that has and has not come to light - may or may not show
what may lay within the heart, behind the mask, within the psyche.
Do we dance upon illusions ?, guided by the way the wind blows ?
Is this ballet, the pirouette to life’s adventure for me to see ?
An afternoon under Helios’s, penetrating light, this is where I go.
B. J. “A” 2
May 26th 2005
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
My house is not always a happy home .
Journee’s we all take – from time to time -
take me into thoughts travelling on roads to the past,
where I walk with ghosts, that sometimes haunt,
along with spirits that fly – free – into the sublime.
Both sojourn with me to places where dreams,
nightmares find refuge, incubate, where they be
- the facts of life – one carries with them to the end.
For sanity to survive, one must make both friend.
Unlike most else in life, they are with us forever,
even if we burry, no longer see them in the light of day.
Like most else that moves on, they will not fade away,
just hide in dark corners of our house until night key
comes to unlock the subconscious, set the ghosts free.
That is the nature of the psychological, mind game
that human nature - the gods – have ingrained in you and me
and that is what ties us together as one, in there, we are the same.
B. J. “A” 2
August 22nd 2004
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014
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William J. Jr. Atfield Poem
Age’s toll
The soul screams – cries out in silence –
in age, without dreams – never comes a chance
for souls, it seems – to experience another dance
under moon beams – have life’s moment enhance
the hours of one’s day, or better one’s ways,
no matter how they pray, for hours to fade away
so that one might say, nothing lasts, nothing stays,
no one left to play, so for everyone who may
get to see, get to feel, get to understand and know
the essence of the one who takes the time to show
what is buried beneath the snow of a cold mans soul
which by north winds, and by south winds, doth blow.
( B. J. “A ” 2 )
March 23th 2006
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2015
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