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Linda,
Lady of moons essence

Linda, often, has said, to the world and to me, 
“ I want to live in a tranquil place – like the sea, 
that space, on the face of the moon, called the Tranquility ?
There I can let myself feel, set myself free.
Realize who I am and what I want to be. ”

In that place - here or there – of magnificent 
desolation, isolation, where I can’t 
be troubled by, caring about human woes.
Where I can hide and no one knows.
A home for you, and your fragile, troubled soul.

You want – it seems – to inhabit that silver orb
that hangs on high, in the night sky, we do know,
that all your pain, doubts, experiences, it will absorb,
so Linda, may live within the confines of beautiful solitude. 
That place, as perfect as the starkness, the darkness of the moon

Then again, you want all that the moon stands for, so soon, 
it can be yours, not just the myths of man’s creation, his subconscious
mind, but to become a reality, become a part of you conscious 
state so that you might live that orb of love’s dreams, love’s desires’ 
love’s play upon the hearts and souls of women and men on fire.

This and these are what I see upon your sad, radiant face, 
 can be seen, etched in pain, in the aching light taking place 
within the shadows of our cold hearted, man in the moon. 
Nothing there for you !!!, to grab onto, no life, no reason to swoon.
Unfortunately, all you end up with – an empty, hollow, star.

Men who could care less about you or who you are.
These men of abuses, falling upon you, like impacting meteorites, 
– leaving you struggling, haunted, enduring sleepless hours during your nights –
that have left deep wounds, lasting scares, creators galore 
that have dulled the senses that light up my face and yours once more.

Who could not ?, but wish upon the moon, the stars, you to restore.

I have been able .

Against all odds, walking to, almost through deaths door,
to have managed – time after time – to elude, one more
walk with the Grim Reaper, to that destination, hand in hand.

This old soul has stood up to the tests, tests of time, taken a stand,
for more times than can be counted, like foot prints in the sand,
wondering, why?, they have not been washed away, yet here I am.

Hanging onto what ?, life ?, for what reason ?, I am doing the best I can,
for an aging, worn-out, tired old man
who’s life lays before him, like paintings on a Chinese fan.
As I suffer in the light of awareness, please, not one fan.

B. J. “A” 2
October 23rd 2002
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