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Moving on ???
I have come to wonder – as time passes – why ?,
the lady brings tears to my heart – makes me cry.
This lady who took in hand, in holy of holies, in mouth,
resurrecting a dyeing old soul, then went south.
This lady who, with a little time, could raise,
the dead, and in that time, did vigorously praise
as she took a weeping willow, turned it into a mighty oak.
That was then, now, never comes back, not a word has she spoke.
I think of times, when beaver lips, kissing, did stroke
a fading son into becoming a mighty oak, at midnights son rise.
I do feel – maybe too much sometimes – that I have lost the prize.
Oh !, why ?, does she choose to ignore, to leave behind
this old man’s limp, impotent, troubled mind,
a mind that feels, that senses, that is trying to find
out why it is that he seems so unimportant,
why ?, it is that this is all he can rant.
B. J. “A ” 2
July 26th 2003
I wonder ?, - with your distance –
if we, at these moments,
are not closer than time will tell.
I wonder ?, - if you, as do I –
feel the losses in never knowing
a mornings glory, of never hearing,
knowing, telling a positive story.
I wonder ?, if our time has reached
out and touched an end.
I wonder ?, if you no longer look for,
need, no longer want me as a friend.
The naked winds of actions, reactions flow past these eyes.
They do not deceive, hide their meanings, nor do they tell lies.
What lies lie behind the eyes of the beholder, is in the telling,
is in their perception of the world, it is what their mind is spelling
out for them, and does not have a thing to do with cold
receptions, distances, avoidances or harsh words told
as moist air drifts across the bridge and it begins to rain
and with one’s nose, know what brings on the pain.
B. J. “ A ” 2
July 28th 2003
A war of the roses, by any other name, was no sweeter !,
as pre and post-midnight hours dragged on in battles waged,
from both sides, where I experienced a clever, cunning, crafty,
master manipulator, a shrewd, screwed, master of mass destruction
that used words as weapons, breaking, crushing the head of the enemy.
I have to wonder if I am the enemy proper ?, or that of a cracked mirror ?,
reflecting the many facets of your life’s experiences ?, and because of this roll
– a docile, inanimate entity – it is easy to throw sticks and stones, darts, knifes
and other keen, explosive, destructive projectiles that seem to flow with such ease.
Could this all be ?, because I have no value, no meaning, no relevance, no importance.
Are these the reasons for the twisted perversions of reality, of my phrasings ?,
of my statements ?, my beliefs ?, my thoughts, thoughts that have come back at me
in a barrage of hostility, at such a driving force, it could knock ones world of its axis’s.
I wonder ?, just how much of this comes from a lifelong habit, of defending against ghosts.
I wonder ?, just how much of this is your reality and how much of this is imaginary / fantasy.
I wonder ?, just how much of this might be – attempted one up man ship.
I wonder ?, just how much of this might be – pure, unadulterated, game playing.
I wonder ?, just how much of this scenario might be an offensive / defensive mechanism.
I wonder ?, just how much of this might be the walls, the moats, the chasms that might hide
whatever the reasons for you choosing / taking an opposing position – for taking the opposite side.
The choices made are the choices I have to live with – acceptable or not.
There is no possibility for me to be in control ?, especially if I am being controlled.
Being in control seems to be the essence, the heart, soul, spirit, the name of your game.
Being right, seems to be an aspect of your game, no matter if the evidence proves otherwise.
You are not the only one. I see many of these troubling traits in other areas of life on this plane.
I see it in other people, friends, relatives, acquaintances and professionals.
So too, with me, and so I must not place to much stock in how I seem affected
by these behavioral traits, I have observe in human nature / nurture, for I am a big boy
and walk this earth, this plane, with both eyes wide open, even if they have been blackened
many times, swollen shut, along with my bruised soul, battered spirit and beaten, grounded ego.
But then, what ?, is a good friend if he cannot stand some abuse
still hang in there and remain a good friend that can be counted on.
Thoughts – few of the many – left in the wake of another battle, waged,
in the war of the roses, that will never be able to release their sweet fragrance,
with total abandon, freedom or true understanding and acceptance of what they are.
Without prejudice – Without judgement
B. J. “A ” 2
July 29th 2003
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