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We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,

to the never ending beat of our universes heart.

Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull. grey,

aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality

that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose

releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly

down the sides of its imaginary nose.

Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 18^th 2003

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I stand on the edges of a desire,

  a desire to be all that, – in this life –

I have never been, – in all likelihood –

could never be, for it is not in me.

Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,

autobiographies, ancient histories,

I see the dream – illusive as it seems.

Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,

fall before these old brown eyes.

Only, the telling comes in ripples

that dot the landscape of reflections

painted upon the cold black surface,

of a pavement that lays before me.

A sad portrait is painted every day,

it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.

Life has flown me through valleys richly

carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.

Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,

dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.

Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,

down raging rivers without a paddle.

Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,

upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.

Life has guided me  into heavenly spaces

where one will find beautiful places.

Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses

of blackness where light of night stars hang

in the endless skies where one opens eyes

B. J. “A” 2

April 19^th 2003

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Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden

as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden

with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.

The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.

And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.

And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.

And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.

And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.

 

With Easter at hand.

It seems the hand is the only one who cares.

Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?

B. J. “A ” 2

April 20^th 2003