Spiritual Vexation 

Spiritually ascending souls frequently encounter irksome guides as they sojourn.

Stoicism and defection cause these souls to stumble as wee babes for temporary moments in time.

A more enlightened individuation of themselves mastered the aforementioned characteristics, long ago.

Nesi Writes

Romanticizing Smoldering Embers

I can feel you in my loins—your smile and sexy voice peeling back my layers.
You’ve got me wide-open.

Our proximity is eons apart preventing satisfaction.

I need you to gratify my decades long of soul yearning. My itch desires relief. Can you do it, huh?

Honestly, until recently, neither of us knew smoldering embers for the other existed—intriguingly interesting.

Look at your sexy self, pushing all up on my psyche, whispering your feelings and crackling my synapses.

Oh, wow, what do we do with this latent itch we metaphorically need scratching?
I’m digging the depths out of you. You feel me?

When restraint weakens, will we telepathically unite satisfying our unresolved groove?

Will we welcome each other in out of the emotional thunderstorm to remedy this thing—this us?

Say what? I didn’t know it was like that.

Mind thrusting each other match-for-match as I come up to meet your truth-telling flow arching my mind’s back—taking all of you in.

That’s it. Lay it down. Put your word-spell on me—like the best you evah had.
I’m feeling your truth all of what’s inside you.

I’m digging your flow, maestro, anticipating you even more.

The tempo of our life’s concerto quickens—oh, the crescendo.

You have me right there like once upon a time when you were my refuge the place I’d go when I needed shelter from the outside world’s disharmony.

As I reflect upon what we once shared, I wonder if I’m over romanticizing what was or am I feeling your psychic energy flowing towards me letting me know that it was and is all real.

Nesi Writes

Hippie Chick Wounds

Art: Bill Hume, Hippy Chick

An elderly California hippie-chick lady crossed my life path, today.

She sported tan leathery skin and blonde sun kissed tresses.

She donned hot pants and a tube top characteristic of a young woman in her twenties or thirties.

Pat drove a sporty jazzy white whip—not your regular granny can.

She preferred friendships with people several years her junior.

She took to me like a fish to water—chronologically she was much older than my Mom.

Periodically, I popped in on Pat for tea while I played with her slightly temperamental furry cats.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; Pat wasn’t your typical elderly cat lady.

We’d talk for hours—mostly I listened.

She felt displaced living in such a conservative Texas town—west coast waves flowed through her veins.

Some years ago, the man of her dreams swept her off her feet making her world complete.

Theirs was a May-December relationship—today they’d say he was a cub my cougar friend tamed.

Upon speaking his name, her face transformed into a canvas brushed with bittersweet strokes from a love long gone.

Emotionally stuck unable to move on, forward, or through, I pitied Pat.

I’m not exactly sure how it ended between the two—though it never ended in her mind.

I just remember her sadness from not knowing his whereabouts.

Their break tore her heart to pieces—pieces never gathered.

Innumerable pieces lay scattered around her home—draping her windows, covering her bed, setting her table, and serving tea.

Still she pinned over him all the years I knew her.

Her pain, stemmed from his absence, still chills me, haunts me, and hurts.

Her morose pain placed a disconcerting strain on our friendship.

Her perception of her ideal love ceased, causing great pain to ooze poisonous venom all over others.

To my knowledge, she never recovered from his absence.

I wonder whatever happened to my poor, sad, hippie-chick neighbor friend with her infected oozing love wounds…

©2012 Nesi Writes