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Zywa Jun 17
What is new is old,

because it does remember --

what has been before.
Collection "From Sacred Scriptures [1]"
We’ve had 60 million years to get it right.
The key step: We invented flight.
Oh, and there’s 180 degree vision--
definitely one of the better decisions.
We pared down the midsection
and the meaty tail.  
Enormous size—well, that was a fail.
But an asteroid couldn’t do us in.
We found a new form—the chicken.

Who needs all those teeth—they just decay.
A beak’s good for tearing
a nice fat mouse--favorite prey.
A hawk rules the skies, far above
slow humans below.
The telephone line hosts the mourning dove
and the crow.
Some of us may die, but some will survive,
no matter how the world changes.
You see, we’ve had a lot of practice
through the eons and ages.
Birds rule.
Billie Marie Jan 23
Venus is retrograding back into darkness,
right along with Mercury.
All the good vibes and smart thought
gone out the back for a smoke
and some fresher air.
We tire of the same-old-same of life
and think up different scenarios
retrofitting our changing flight.
No tears come for left-behind dreams
not serving up the crème-de-la-crème
at the top of the crop. And really
for you and for I, all this backstepping
is only a piece of the step to this
hilarious dance that is life. We see
our intro through doors of inspecting
all we see; and we see our way to
adjusting a slightly altered version of
each varied moment in our reality.
Be kind in your retreat and respite
from the steady movement and marching feet
following the wheeled-in ruts
imprinting the road behind. Yeah sure,
they got us here, but that doesn’t
grant them right-away passage
further onward into that dreamland
we see but can never quite reach.
Venus turns direct on Jan 29 and Mercury follows a few days later on Feb 3. Hang in there!
vera Jan 21
I have left my soul unfed
I stare at 1's and 0's all alone
I live within my phone.

I have no words but empty ones.
I speak the same script as everyone.

Who sees me?
If I don't speak.
Who loves me?
If I am not here.

Everything is fine.
Is what I say all the time.

When cliff sides erode
it is nature changing, becoming new.
What will happen as I lose myself, bit by bit.
What is hiding behind my soul?
All the More Human, for Eve Pandora
by Michael R. Burch

a lullaby for the first human Clone

God provide the soul, and let her sleep
be natural as ours, unplagued by dreams
of being someone else, lost in the deep
wild swells of losing all that "human" means ...

and do not let her come to doubt herself—
that she is as we are, so much alike
in frailty, in the books that line the shelf
that tell us who we are—a rickety ****

against the flood of doubt—that we are more
than cells and chance, that love, perhaps, exists
because of someone else who would endure
such pain because some part of her persists

in us, and calls us blesséd by her bed,
become a saint at last, in whose frail arms
we see ourselves—the gray won out of red,
the ash of blonde—till love is safe from harm

and all that "human" means is that we live
in doubt, and die in doubt, and only love
the more because we only know to strive
against an end we loathe and fear. What of?—

we cannot say, imagining the Night
as some weird darkened structure caving in
to cold enormous pressure. Lacking sight,
we lie unbreathing, thinking breath a sin ...

and that is to be human. You are us—
true mortal, child of doubt, hopeful and curious.

Keywords/Tags: Eve, Pandora, human, clone, humanity, human being, human condition, evolution, birth, death, life and death, soul, soulmate, saint, youth
The scaup is searching for a shore
To build her nest, a lonely beach,
Or rocky cliff no fox can reach.  
Egg-gobblers and roosting mothers war.  
There is no land, just churn and spray,
The billows heave and wave-crests foam,
Nowhere for her to make a home,
If there’s a coast, it’s far away.  
From hovering and fluttering, her wings
Are weary, and her soaring droops.  
Neither scanning, nor her endless loops
Find shelter from cold blusterings.  
And soon she’ll drop, and soon she’ll drown.  
Unless she finds a landing spot.  
And there, out there, a blip, a dot.  
A floe, an island made of ice,
Too big to bob, and just as firm
As any continent, a berm
Bears, seals or penguins would think nice.  
Not great for birds, but she’s no choice.  

She lands, she rests, she lays her eggs.  
Her frigid roost has numbed her legs,
But it’s a nest, so she’ll rejoice.  
Her eggs are warm, and soon they’ll hatch.  
Hatchlings can sip from melted snow,
But grubs don’t squirm on this bare floe,
And there’s no fish around to catch.    
Icebergs are barren and they’re hard.  
But far beneath the ice and sea,
Rich bottomland, a cozy lea,
The sea-bed makes a better yard.  
Born to water, they will breathe
Water, as their mother did the air.
And though aquatic birds aren’t rare
Gilled scaups are scarce as hens that teethe.  
A separate species, her lost young
Will never know their mother soared,
Or dropped the offspring she adored.  
In ocean depths unwarmed by sun.  
In that strange element they’ll thrive,
Becoming what has never been,
A species hitherto unseen.
Unknown to her, but they’ll survive.  

She drops the eggs, and trills goodbye.  
Then, mournfully, the scaup takes wing.  
To cross what’s past accomplishing.
The coast’s too far, but she will try.
Nigdaw Dec 2021
emotional kata
series of strokes
against the resistance
of canvas
a picture evolves
almost like nature
becoming organic
an extension of emotion
battle conquering calamity
the brush talks
even shouts some passages
poem based in
pigment and oil
at the end
everyone is exhausted
something happened
beyond the reasonable
control of evolution
Creating a stronger, smarter, human is fading,
Look at evolution today!
Raising children, no respect, or manners,
Thinking cell phones, and video games,
Are the path, to a successful life today.
No common sense, making rules, as they play,
Some get too deep, then the gray bar motel, they stay.
A lot of crazy talks, not a clue what they mean,
A bunch of words, no job, they can’t afford a cone with ice cream.
Spending, their grandparents, and parents, retirement away,
Not showing, any love or compassion,
To those who care for them, every day.

The Original: Tom Maxwell ©
12/04/2021 AD
7:00 AM
Zywa Nov 2021
The little mermaid:

on her tail, she got buttocks --

from all the sitting.
Collection "NightWatch"
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