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Our most prized-May 1995 adjusted on January 2013


distances...

distances…

This poem was inspired by the disadvantages of distances separating us from…

Our most prized
——————–

The need, the warmth
Living so far apart
Precious time wasted
Each preoccupied

With their lives
Working day in
Day out, slipping
Into the bed of

A satisfying day
Yet nostalgia
Seeping…
———

Stealing eventually
Into a few suitcases
Memories and laughter
Till it bursts so we

Will not go missing…
Wait, count the months,
Days… To cozen distance (1)
Bargain again

And pack a rod
Of love from
Our most prized…

————

(1)
coz•en
v. coz•ened, coz•en•ing, coz•ens
v.tr.
1. To mislead by means of a petty trick or fraud; deceive.
2. To persuade or induce to do something by cajoling or wheedling.
3. To obtain by deceit or persuasion.
v.intr.
To act deceitfully.
________________________________________
[Perhaps from Middle English cosin, fraud, trickery.]

A day of our lives February 2010 Oa essay


©copyright2013owpp

©copyright2013owpp

A day of our lives
—————

Last night I felt like waiving it all. Does it happen to you too?
Ironically, the arguments I want to run away from are the very reason I will not give up.
Even if the scales prove otherwise, working my character defects is now the reason for me to stay on.
So, I am hanging on a thread, as a spider, slowly weaving my way, consolidating my web.
My thread is my connection to my élan vital. To what is home now. It keeps me linked to my sparkle. That is why I hold on, toil my way through. Anneal the base.
My thoughts shout. Build a wider faction, extensions!
Outreach calls are of paramount importance yet, I have been shying away from that assignment.

We tend to build protective walls around us, which need to be broken down at some point.
Some build fortresses throughout their lives, staking up watchmen to mark their borders that stretch out further and further away from their former territories and lose themselves in it. Opportunities for light and life shrinking away from their grasp as the ebbing of a tide, leaving its emblem to be stamped on by the carefree, merry vacationer.
Others stay jammed between the doors of desperation, forlorn in an ocean of slavery to some addiction or another, plaguing them constantly with thoughts and acting upon them in a half-slumber, as if it is their destiny, as if they had no choice in the matter.
They live in a no-man’s land. In the crepuscule. Passengers erring between countries restlessly, looking for comfort and finding none.
Solace, evading their days and nights. Their soul giving them no rest. Until they are bestowed with the gift of sagacity and composure.
The skills for living in the right sense. Fully, truly, joyfully and peacefully.
Those miracles can happen. It is only up to us to create the vessel to receive them.
All there is to do is hope to be awarded with the volition to shape, mold it, as a sturdy thick, impermeable, hermetically sealed receptacle that will enable us to treasure those gifts never letting them out of our sight,
Whatever the cost.