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SelinaSharday Feb 2018
Adam  and Eve Come Together Again.
In His Image

My husband rest on legs of hope and liberation.
Perseverance and dreams are worn as a well pressed suit.
Like a brassiere Will and Endurance
strapped themselves about my chest.
In His Image!
Determination has stitched itself within my frame.
While truth as a necklace and faith as a hat. Decorates me.
Power and Strength grows within his bones.
Laced with Privacy as Cuffs of Patience cover his wrist.
The two of us were traveling on different roads with similar trials.
Roads that would one day meet up.
As I studied at a underpass searching a marketed village.
I had chosen to set up shop as tourist.
Endured abusive mishandlings as the towns people shopped.
Our shoes scared with marks from a weary journey.
With Patches hidden in hearts places.
We both born in the same month with a years difference,
Fifteen days between our birthdays.
The same seasonal love of Winter tied us.
Our taste buds linked by the similar cravings in food.
Compatible are the Holidays we adore.
In His Image!
The best of likened characteristics thought lost in others,
found in each other to be greater than.
Desires thought only in dreams, brought into our reality realm.
So much compatibility thought to be magically unbelievable.
Goals patterns us into blanketed fabrics, woven into fabulous designs.
Prayers laid before a higher Throne Room.
Searching, finding discovering one another.
Promises we hold fast to. Instilled with patience.
Substance of things hoped for, Evidence of things unseen.
As the distant Moon, we are Moons of privacy.
I the feminine to his masculine.
Only the glow revealed love sealed in gold.
We Live away from the Villages we have traveled.
Away seclusion, growing, waiting, planting, singing.
Trails coming we prepare for. Standing this time as One.
Together United together we come.
We take our places now in Heavenly Galaxies.
He my Adam I his Eve!
This new generation This Adam This Eve..
SelinaSharday Feb 2018
She blamed him he wasn't there while she was searching him.
Alone in the garden. Browsing eyes again feasting forbidden thing.
Told to keep away from.
Alluring be that Serpent seeing her  away from Him searching.
Serpent slithered on in.
Him off working, tilling seeking. Unseeing.
He blamed her, for being off and away searching.
The forbidden thing
She blamed him for not being close enough and not listening in.
Whilst searching for you in my view the forbidden thing came.
She proclaimed.
As yes the Serpent came and convinced me
of the harmlessness of this thing.
Its tempting.
Take eat with me.
As he did eat.
Separation, hardship, incompatibility, neglect,
war and fighting in generations this world it did
bring.
Such unnatural things,  they were put out of the garden.
Oh how soon to come things would change.
Woman as day  As  night is to Man.
Hard to find Him the same ever again.
With out heavens blessings and bringing together of such things.
The Fall and
Clashing of Planets
By The SelinaShardaye
S.A.M 2008 All Rights Reserved
The many points of view on the fall.. Modern rehearse
Ophelia Feb 2018
in the cool of the evening, He told her,
"there's an art to being still."
(she and the ribcage man choke on apple seeds and venom)

she guesses she didn't learn it soon enough.

"don't ever leave me."
she is small
and new
and can feel the sun on both sides when He smiles and traces constellations on her palm
and the wish is not selfish

not yet.
Mikaila Jan 2018
Eve
This is what animates me
The force to set the motion of my soul
Gears that grind, thoughts that whir, the sustenance of something holy.
I do not think I sprang from Adam’s Rib
I think I must have been struck into the ground like a stone
A thread of lightning from the leaden sky,
And the mechanics that rose after
Demanded fuel, demanded heat
And thus was born in the cooling core of me
This mad desire, this stumbling, ceaseless search
For words to light a fire in my head
For eyes to light a fire in my bones
For some weapon of beauty
Some flaming sword
A tool- nothing more-
To sift among the dust and grit of time
To stoke the embers and evoke a spark
Prodding, prospecting
As for gold
Searching for a remnant which still burns
Softly, feeble, buried but unquenched

I chase the fire
For it must always be:
It cannot die
But cannot be held
It is escaped and never captured,
Only felt and lost, an infinite second-
A running step to overtake itself.
Lucius Furius Jan 2018
Adam and Eve

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths, ...
--from Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"

In Eden fair did Adam and Eve
live in perfect harmony.

"No plant or animal devoureth we,
only ripe fruit as falls from the tree."

By bright-green lily-pads in sphagnum bogs
the herons waded gracefully,
bullfrogs croaked their deep, clear calls;
bluebells, delicate yellow buttercups
were rampant; larks sang in the mulberries.

"No pain or hunger knew we there,
only the sameness of Eden fair."

Even the bounty, the beauty, the civility,
the rich perfection, stretching out like the wall
of the great oval garden, day after day,
year after year to eternity,
grew tiresome.

"No shame in our nakedness knew we ...
nor lust, nor desire, nor carnality."

It's the exogamous, the unfamiliar,
which stirs in us the deepest passion,
the basso continuo of mortality
which gives to desire its piquancy
--of which they knew nothing in deathless Eden.

"We wanted to look outside the wall.
We didn't mean from God's grace to fall."

Their lack of control, their disrespect
invited tragedy....
But to deny what one feels,
to deny what one is
is to risk even greater calamity....

"God expelled us from the Garden.
Now we'll know death and all that's human."

Discord ... despair.... Are you better off?
Coaxing grain from the cracked, parched earth?
Maybe you paid too much for your freedom?...
Maybe you wish you were back in the Garden?...

"There be good inside the Garden;
there be good outside....
There is no perfect Eden."
Hear Jerry/Lucius read this poem (at https://humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_095_adam_and_eve.MP3 ).    This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_095_adam_and_eve.MP3 ).
Ollie Dec 2017
i am lost.
i am no longer here
just an empty vessel
the comforter covering my body is the only thing keeping me from floating away.
i don't want to be here anymore.
mental pain turns physical when you have no more pain killers
nothing makes me happy other than this music.
she isn't the one i know.
i've betrayed him.
i can't do this anymore.
fin.
she's not the one so why am i doing this.
Thomas King Dec 2017
Red ripe is my fruit
Plump and bursting with resentment
Oozing remorse and regret
My pain Ready for you to harvest

I have waited patiently
For your uncontrollable urge
To feast upon my agony
And devour my shame

Your greedy appetite
For my suffering is insatiable
Feed your glutinous desires
As you sink your teeth deep
Into my cold flesh

******* bittersweet discontent
As you ingest my poisoned hatred
And choke upon the shards
Of my broken heart and shattered dreams

Now that you have consumed
The essence of my pain
I’m nothing but a hollow core
Return my ravaged remains
Back into the soil of Eden's garden

So that I may be absorbed
Back into the earth
And the seed of mans sins
Can now take root
Taylor St Onge Dec 2017
If you're a patient in a hospital, wouldn't you want to know
exactly how many people have died in the room
                                                                 you're currently sleeping in?    
                           How many hearts have stopped beating, how many
                                                               lungs have deflated, how many
pupils have stopped responding to light—
                                                          ­                 how long CPR was
                                                                ­             performed before
                                                                ­            Time     of     Death
                                                           ­                       was called?
How many DNR patients waltzed into the afterlife
without so much as a half-hearted chest compression?

Ribs can break during CPR.
How many cracked ribs have echoed
                                                                ­  across the walls of your
                                                                ­            hospital room?

                                                           x

Eve was made from Adam's rib.
God plucked the bone and
                                                                ­                  fashioned it into a
                                                                ­             subservient woman to
                                                                ­               replace the wild one,
                                                                   the first one, the no good one,
                                     the woman made from the same soil as Adam:
      Lilith.

                                                           x

We break ribs, break wishbones, break most things we don't understand. A confused patient will take out his IV, his PICC line, even pull at his chest tube or his LVAD driveline.
If it doesn't make sense, we will try to eliminate it in the sake of
                                                                ­                               normality.

                      ­                                     x

Some time in August, we had two codes within one hour.  After 30 or so minutes of chest compressions, they pronounced the second man dead.  He wasn’t my patient that night, and I didn’t know him.  I think his ribs snapped under Alyssa’s hands when she tried to revive him.
                                                            ­      And what does that feel like?   Not just the desperate rush of adrenaline,
        of trying to bring someone back to life—not just the emotional,
                                                                ­           but the physical of it all.

The cracking of the bone beneath the heels of your hands.  
Your fingers laced on top of each other
                                                                ­ pounding and
                                  pounding and
                                                                ­                                  pounding
                                                           against the sternum.  
One, two.  One, two.  One, two.  
                                                          ­            The bone cleaves in half.
And how much pressure does it take?  
I’m sure science could tell us, but
                              how does it feel in your arms, in your shoulders—
                       will your muscles remember the strength it takes and
                                                      stop you next time?

                                                           x

How hard did God have to try when he ripped out
         Adam's rib to make Eve? And
                           how long did it take Adam to recover from the loss?
(Maybe he never did.)

                                                           x

Healthcare is still so barbaric.  You must hurt to help.  
                               Saw through the sternum to get to the heart.  
                 Insert a painful tube to remove the excess fluid.  
                             Drill through the skull and remove
                        potentially useful brain matter.

I have nightmares of tripping over IV tubing and
ripping out PICC lines.   I am terrified of
dropping someone's chest tube on the floor,
                                                 of it ripping violently out of their lungs.
It's not my blood, it's some else's,
                                               and that makes it so much worse.  
                    Being responsible for another human's well-being
                                             is actually terrifying.

I just want to be helpful.  I don’t want to hurtful.  But so often,
                                         I find myself damaging the ones I love.

                                                           x

I would rather have my brain-dead sternum sawed open than
rot in some hole in the ground like my mother if it
                                                        would mean that I could be useful.
                                                   And all we really want is to be useful.
To feel something.  To be something.  
To be proud like the original sin.

Remove my ribs.  All 24 of them.  
Make them into several new women with
several new names and
                                           faces and
                                                            eye colors and
                       skin colors.
Their lives would be more beneficial than my death ever could be.

Like Eve with Lilith, replace the bad, with the seemingly good.  
                                                         Replace the soil with the body.
                                                  It all has to come from somewhere.  

                                                           x

                     How to keep the self close and yet distant from trauma.
part of a larger work based on my work as a cna in a hospital
Pencil Poet Nov 2017
‘Had an apple, ended up here?
Is this hell??
Can I now have more apples?’
?Asked Adam.
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