Morning dew is evidence of sweet release upon vestal valleys and rolling hills of Mother Earth.
Passion spent now heat must vent, vapor rise and evaporate with tent while emotion bent, the off-shore fog rolls in.
Fresh spring flowers to while-away the hours, while coaxing green and budding things to cover Earth Mother anew.
Drizzle maybe happy tears if most the day still shines; but when the day stays dull and gray, and blustery defines it well, listen for the bells that tell the heartfelt pain of loss when nature-born is spirit-bound, and bids this world adieu.
Hurricanes and himmicanes bring spousal trouble to bear when Nature’s give-and-take has forgotten how to share; and nothing gets said easily, every word is an accusation till it peters out with sad frustration leaving a tail in its wake of mass destruction.
Steady rain is a time to dance, Sky Father is playful and giving; his candle is lightning, his music is thunder, his flowers the scent of the living… as he bathes his true love with sacred tears.
If you find your path is flooded with a deluge pouring down, you know mankind once more has fallen and the Creator’s wrath abounds; so don’t open your umbrella, stay behind closed doors, and wait for signs of joy before you venture forth, for many who tempt the waters wind-up drowning in their fears.
[Another contribution from JW.]
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.]
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.]