A thousand miles of memories
have passed since our goodbyes
Hard to believe
it was yesterday
A hundred songs I’ve sung
poetic verse that stung
Lips wet to kiss
A score of sightings thought to be
you in periphery
Simple ghost tale
one haunted by love
A dozen days of purgatory
from town-to-town sans you
born wild and free
A single door that separates
passion from pleasure
turn key and open
She never stopped waiting for you
[Another contribution from JW.]
My father’s father survived a war torn land as a child but could not survive the war that raged within him.
My father’s mother carried the weight of a broken generation on frail shoulders and fed it with pockets full of imitation love.
My father perpetually relived the death of his dreams till Death finally came for him.
My maternal grandfather built the Interstate of Integrity through the Badlands of prejudicial injustice.
My mother’s mother was born to please Earth with her scent – like Night Blooming Jasmine – only to be gone by morning.
My mother lived her life for others except for a momentary lapse that left her a lone wolf without a pack.
I live as a ghost in a life of lies built on the expectations of others.
[Another contribution by JW: art and words.]
[For those who may be curious, Kat is doing much better, but is still dealing with some issues. But I’ve got months of medical issues still ahead in the near future. So we are grateful to JW for all he’s done and continues to do for us here.]
The innocence of beauty
and the wisdom of wounds
can be a powerful combination
when harmoniously balanced.
Yet beauty’s teaching will always be
inferior to the wisdom of wounds.
Beauty is fleeting.
The wisdom of wounds endures.
The wise learn from their wounds:
yet fools see the same wound multiply,
since wounds, untreated,
However, only a masochist seeks pain.
Like a society worshipping youth
and beauty above experience and wisdom
forever doomed to repeat
its self-inflicted wounds.
How many of tomorrow’s pains
could we be spared if we’d only
learn from the wounds of today?
There truly is…
wisdom in wounds.
[Another contribution from JW: art and words.]
Pure, yet fleeting.
Six-months at best,
following a twenty-year void.
From the black hole to exaltation.
From nothingness… to “BOOM!”
When independence craves
And single accepts double and change.
Though change changed once more…
and has yet to cease.
Bliss is gone.
No tracks to follow.
Perhaps a whisper.
A dream… often forgotten,
since dreams are equally fleeting.
And yet Love remains without Bliss.
Still pure… Even more than before.
No dross remains.
The fiery furnace of life’s trials.
the final curtain call.
Yet Love does more than linger.
Though Love’s thirst is quenched
through a daily rain of tears.
Tears at the hands of the infamous foe
who chased young Bliss away.
Sickness was who came calling,
and he did not come alone.
Wegener’s Granulamatosis Vasculitis
and the dreaded Zodiac sign:
The breast variety.
A battleground of flesh.
A battle six-plus years and still going.
Like all wars, it’s taken its toll.
The battleground is ravaged.
Consequently, only those engaged
in the battle know the true worth
of the battlefield where blood is spilled.
The womb of war.
The birth of pain.
Yet True Love sees passed the scars,
into the thousand-yard stare,
and never loses sight of a soul-mate.
Hand-to-hand and heart-to-heart combat,
no matter how the flesh may change.
Thus, the loss of Bliss is bearable
as long as Love remains.
Yet woe to all where Love departs…
and woe upon woe
where he or she’s never been.
[Another contribution by JW: art and words. We appreciate everything he’s done for us as we continue to battle the medical needs we’ve been facing.]
The human condition is far from perfect,
and yet there’s still no greater beauty.
In fact, the closest we can get to perfection
is in overcoming our imperfections,
while overlooking those of others.
Though it is true, imperfections, like beauty,
are in the eye of the beholder.
Nothing can be done to alter that fact.
A person cannot be forced to view others
through more compassionate eyes
in order to see the true beauty.
It’s their God-given right to be a fool.
Needless to say,
it is wiser to be true to oneself…
scars and all.
Heed not those who habitually point out
the imperfections of others, as they
simultaneously, though ignorantly,
spotlight their own.
Those who confess no imperfections shine a
beacon on that which they confess.
To judge without knowing is like intelligence
without common sense, it’s nonsense.
How one responds to imperfections, one’s own
or others, is a great indicator to
Therefore, sex appeal isn’t what others see in you,
it’s what you see in yourself.
Love can always look beyond imperfections
to find the beauty.
Including a healthy love of self.
A proper course of action:
cease dwelling on imperfections.
The cost is too great.
Everything of substance is forfeited in the process.
Imperfection is a part of life,
deal with it and move on.
You’re perfectly imperfect just as you are.
And if you show me anyone without a blemish
I’ll show you someone to avoid when
the shit hits the fan.
Part of the grand design is that humans can
overcome imperfections, individually and
collectively, proving miracles still happen.
Which does not imply all such miracles include
a transformation from
imperfection to perfection.
Nor does it imply mere acceptance.
Humans conquer their imperfections by not
allowing the obstacle control over their lives:
keeping them from their desires.
Individuality, confidence, peace of mind:
Living with imperfections.
Never allowing imperfections to hinder
living to the fullest.
[Another contribution from JW: both art and writing.]