These tired eyes may not see as good as they use to, but you will always be beautiful to me, for I view you thru my mind’s eye and the dictates of love.
These old hands, once calloused and rough from constant toil, are softer now from lack of use and the effects of arthritis here and there. But they never tire of your hand in mine or feeling how your body responds as I caress your flesh from head-to-toe.
The on-again off-again effects of tinnitus may cause me to miss a word or two in social settings or cause me to turn the music and TV up a decibel or two, but the sound of your voice is so ingrained within me that I must hear it daily before considering my day complete. And the sound of your whimpers and moans when aroused never fail to thrill me to the core.
This old nose, with a deviated septum from stopping the occasional punch, may not be able to discern a wild rose from a garden variety, but it never fails to come alive with the slightest whiff of your essence: whether it be from natural pheromones, your sexy sweat, or the arousing scent of your equally aroused secretions.
My mouth no longer has perfect pearly white teeth. And it never has been able to distinguish the secret herbs and spices in your daily recipes. But it never fails to be thrilled by the taste of your kisses: lip-to-lip or when our tongues dance in unison. And the taste of your skin, whether I trail my tongue in carefree journeys from front to back and back again, or enjoy sucking your taut nipples, is only surpassed by the elixir of love that causes me to swoon in an intoxicated stupor as I lick a meal from your aroused pussy.
It is true that each of my senses have been changed from the ravages of hard living and time. But this old body never fails to see you, touch you, hear you, smell you, and taste you in the imaginably loving ways as they always have…and always will.
May this be a far better year than the last, for us, and our followers.
Rejected at birth
like the runt of a litter
but it was a solitary birth
Never taken to breast
no lips to nips
never tasted Mother’s milk
I still wonder why
How does an hour-old child
earn ostracism from his mother?
asked to play house
till alpha mom returns
to her senses
or heart leak is dammed
finally gets a homecoming
It is hard to feel connected
when you’re rejected
the first half-year of life
The bond that was made
with the aunt in eighth-grade
Familiar touch is gone
at times abrupt
at times timid
when left alone
than uncomfortable bonding
or wishful thinking
It’s hard to be a sage
at the ripe old age
of 180 days
[Another contribution from JW.]
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.]
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.]