What a heavy helicopter
Such a thing is a sight
Give mankind a lift
A species to itself
This planet is a rift
Green like grass
From the mind of floating trees
Humming birds
Chloroplast
A gift to society
Kind totality will sift
The inventor's soul
Will
Give to life

.
The fly makes his way through the house.
Its tongue, like billions before, is tainting  
All it touches.  The fly has wings to spread  
His mess, and though he has innumerable  
Facets to his eyes he cannot see  
The swatter coming.

The house surrounds the fly and is sacred.
As the great blue world beyond is sacred.  
And the fly is spreading fast, flitting here  
And sticking there trampling his own  
Shelter, spreading pollution and excrement  
With a rolling tongue  

That spews and spits upon his own home.  
And though he is happy while he soils  
His house his eyes are two dead worlds  
Barren and still, born to die by the hand  
That flies even higher, so, the fly cannot  
See the swatter coming.

Buzzing, like a burn, through the innocent  
Air he dreams of vast minions rooting  
His world with legion hands.  The house was  
A garden that led him in, he cannot  
Wait for his seed to fester, all's he needs  
Are God’s green plants  

And clean water, some fresh air to conquer.
This house was made for him he would have  
Himself believe.  But when all has dried  
And all is soiled the fly would wish to move  
On, if only he could, trapped as he is  
In the earth and wooden house.

He could taste it all, oblivious to oblivion
In God’s green wooded world— all spinning,  
The sands are running in the sacred home  
That he himself has always defiled,  
As he has never shown any grace;
The swatters hand is His—
Own spendthrift hand.
.

The sixth day began bright,
Sun’s fire, on earth, lighted;
Prophecies trumpeted,
Brighter, hotter, fires burned.

Eight, but one, ancient, kings
Ruled the day; If agree,
All in their hearts shall be;
The stars, Man's destiny.

Chains of five handshakes
have woven a net around me
connecting me with everyone

on earth, they say, with the world
that calls out to me:
Love me, please!

.....To do so would really be difficult
.....It's okay to love my neighbours
.....but physically and financially

.....I do have my limits
.....and even then, what is the answer
.....if I ask you: Love me, please?

We all prefer to love
the friends from our own
groups, don't we?

That's why I'm listening
within my own circles
wishing I knew who

.....I can trust
.....and who just wants me
.....as his possession

.....because without trust
.....I can not reply
.....I love you