"...There are presumably images in the experience of lower animals...They have not that future and past which gives them, so to speak, any rights as such..." -- George Herbert Mead.

Lower being a term relative to concepts like the limbs of trees or the position in a list, only a careful, philosophical assessment was capable of blooming as a flower from the starfish to the stars.  The past was an increment creating a (perfected, preferred) series of growths unfolding by the propagation of a (blueprint, dream).  The dreams quantized ideology to make the receptivity and the discoveries made by grape hyacinths or hardy grass.

[ d _ cos ln d ( g , h ) P ( t ) ] = { [ tau n ( u ) d I ] / ( d e ) } :
int F ( B ) d I = dfn q ( r ) d r .

Best liked was the colorful effect of self enthusiasm, bringing shade, from the darkness to the twilight, of the trees.  Yet, the animals had learned to grow claws and legs.  Were the birds not learning to fly?  Striving brought a weight of labor, the years were fading into prehistory.  Predestiny had been a decision by tulips.  Disturbances had been required to bring evolution.  Insects were living a fantasy with flowers.  This looked across to obscurity.  Those hidden were not like those dancing.

Tending the light
at the end of the tunnel,
the magical mystery
that plagues the
                     consciousness of
you and I
becomes nothing more
than sinister
        celestial laughter.
A fallacy to some,
filled with redemption
for a penny per sin,
paths are carved and
driven into existence by
wear from
        constant
                      treading;
a symbol of the depth
of the mind’s dark aptitudes
to conceive and believe.
Simplicity overrun by
                  complex, anti-intuitive
conceptualizations of
the infinitism of
beginning
                 and end.

Bursts of desires only shows
How much terrestrial my soul
Became rude and even ******
Was it mingled with all so called human?
And got their color
To utilize its aptitudes of adaptability
Yes it was
A merchant
Pure miser
No love to flourish so far
Awaiting a breeze in equatorial heat
A desert of remnants
Ashes and bones
A carbon valley so visible
No possibility to burn again
Roots of poisonous plants has assembled forces
Yet love transforms them into honey
A mandrake for love has been bought
By a longing parent
A mother
A goddess of love
To heal all, all, all…
Wounds manlike creatures
Commissioned to dismay the cosmic spark
As in a fertile soil sowed
In a flesh
The body
The human body they call
And to decay it
For eternity and a day more

All they could do was block,
Each second with their hearts in their throats,
Feeling approaching death on their skin, nerves sizzling just below,
In the end they felt an odd chill, it signified a release from immediacy,
Freed their thoughts to wander towards their opponent's next move.
No vines rested at their feet, beheaded and convulsing on the ground,
But they knew they might be any second now,
What a bother, I have to try, I hate it when I have to lower myself,
To respect the aptitudes of another,
Andulan was taught from a young age, men and women,
Not of House Venom are animals, running wild and free,
Useless swine without purpose, it was her duty to give them one,
And in the process teach them what it meant to be loved.

Don’t Copy Or, Have I Said This One Before? ✍️

When I write I try to not write what I’ve writ
The months before, knowing that
Each three clichés, each thrice said phrase
Is hinder to the mind’s synapse.

Used-up words five times five hundred,
Never wond'ring why I’ve done it:
I don’t want to copy -
Least of all myself and me. 

Falling for the trick that quickens death of brain
Are quirks and quips and bits of what
You’re sure has happened, quoted over, over.
Mind’s a rover needing change.

I have friends who still say “weird” to amplify each seventh word;
“Weird” since nineteen eighty-four.
What it means I’ve no idea.
And what is that word  ‘weird’ good for?
Change the words,
For copying yourself is worst.

Am I copying my back life story?
Parroting, regurgitating clichés,
Making up my history?
Faking mystery
To make myself exciting?

Copying is weakening
For you, for me, for memory.
Variety’s the key.
You do not need to copy.

     PS There’s a red line running through our lives: character, aptitudes, permanent throughout.  Bones grow up, grow old and change.  Penmanship changes.  Underneath there’s always a youyou recognize.  Keep it in the frontal lobe.  It’s there.

Don’t Copy 3.1.2015/revised 2.3.2016/ re-revised 9.27.2018 Definitely Didactic II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

On Sait tous que la Poésie est un art, 
Mais jusqu'à Aujourd'hui, je n'ai jamais su qu'il était autant limité.
Du haut de son pied d'estale l'art a toujours été un moyen :
 Pour exprimer ce qu'on ressent, 
 Pour voir le monde autrement.
Mais toujours, il est limité par l'outil de son expression, les lettres pour la poésie. 
Alors la poésie n'est pas limitée. 
Ainsi, l'homme n'est pas limité, mais son moyen d'expression. 
Moi, j'ai choisi Jésus. Ne pas compter sur mes propres forces ,mes propres aptitudes car eux ils sont limités. 
Ce monde peut bien supporter l'irréel, l'incroyable, sans que sa coque ne cède pas , et même si tous se mettent au four et au moulin.
L'extra n'est pas réservé pour une classe de personnes particulières , ceux qui forment cette classe ont décidé de se dépasser. 
Briller de mille feux est assez intéressant, mais ton voyage sur terre, ou te mène-t-il ?
Vers ton créateur ? Ou vers son ennemi ? 
C'est simple à savoir. Au service de qui es-tu maintenant ?

Should you alway
feel on the verge of tears
Like one thing could emerge out of the blue
ruin your life
your spirit
your aptitudes
Should ones eye always be teary just on the verge of a sob
Should one live somewhere they’ve despised so long I wonder
I ponder and
try to Imagine a joyous joy away from all these somber distractions
I mourn as I watch my fragile future dwindle down a drain of uncertainty,
suffering and
restrains
I beg and
I beg that they let me free but they
Reassure
, reassure this is what's best for me

I can see the equations of infinity
surfacing in your boundless sea
a liquid vowel spewing with chemistry
and exotic sounds
an addictive alliteration of poetic languages
spinning inside a glowing globe
a hypnotic drug deepening inside my invention
magnifying in a prism of perfection
triangles of symmetrical depictions
concaving around my foundation
a geometry of sequences and series
lining the skyline
a derivative of various entities
expanding into an integration
of physics and philosophy
multiplying anatomy and biology
its intricate equalization maximizing
into extraordinary thoughts and broad horizons
philosophical dimensions seeping int a wave
of sociological photographic representations
each astonishing area a linear alignment
escaping into accelerating gravity
all continuous and phonetically crafted
becoming a final body of bright bridges
deep channeling centuries pouring with
crisp adjectives and descriptive adverbs
There’s a stark stanza embodied with a marvelous voyage
a sudden discovery bursting with timeless terminology
a melodic mountain growing into increasing aptitudes
a flawless function of algebraic architects
unraveling fascinating destinations