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Poetry Addict Oct 11
The grass wept for her, the ice whispered--
A miscast Adam threw the fruit like a protester’s stone.

And this flesh of your flesh, a rib overthrown by stars
This Eve stepped forward with a smile, in
For a fragile moment in my life.
Ormond Sep 7
She took the flower that she loved,
Planted him in the burning sun,
A desert formed around and the morning dew,
Were tears the flower cried,
It nearly died.

She took the flower that she loved,
Brought him near, into her house,
Her house was cold and dry, with no light to see,
The flower could not leave,
It nearly died.

She took the flower that she loved,
Found the place where he belonged,
Without walls, in shade of sunshine, where flowers bloom,
In peace they bear no pain,
And rarely die.
Ormond May 2
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.
In the quiet does one hear the elegance of Wisdom as she passes by.
When one stops in the calmness of themselves, they may perceive her touch.
For when she touches one - insight is given like water filling the depths of an empty well.

Where worry cuts off the ability to think and move, Wisdom’s touch removes the debris around.
Relief’s sigh exonerates within the depths of one’s soul - the freedom from our circumstantial prison;

The insights, a robust fountain that springs forth from the depths of one's reality, their being floating in the ebb and flow.
How wonderous is Wisdom's touch?
For the waters of reality becomes enlightened to the ones marked by her fingerprints.
I wrote this poem based from the concept of being touched by Lady Wisdom (גבירה חכמה). As I pondered on this concept, this poem simply flowed.
Lewis Irwin Feb 13
A wretched boy slumped through the winter snow,
Ashes scattered; the remains of whom he'd once known.
He clambered, shook, screamed and fell down,
And his knees pummelled into the cold winters ground.

He began to decline into the pebbles, snow, and dirt,
As the blood seeped through his paisley shirt.
Each breath became more withered and cold,
He grew beastly with fear of not growing old.

Just as the soul started it's ascent into the clouds,
He caught the shadow of an ashen haired shroud.
His soul was saved, captured, and regained,
But once a boys soul starts to leave; it never fits the same again.
Lewis Irwin Feb 12
She wakes up everyday,
To her the sky is always lined in grey.
She breaks down in a pit,
And her mind is so corrupt and split.

She covets for answers to what she desires,
As she gaits on a tightrope wire.
Barbed wire knots around her heart,
It constricts with every decision her mind can't bare to start.

She can't bare to think,
With everything that piles up; her soul starts to shrink.
The parables that play out so well in books,
Doesn't seem feasible on Hades sordid hook.

With all good stories luck starts to change,
Even those in the darkest of abyss.
Though some skies are dark and grey,
Each new day brings a new day.

Tomorrow she might wake up and the sky may be clear,
And facing obsidian decisions won't be riddled with fear.
Then small happiness will reignite her soul,
And so a peaceful mind won't seem such an impossible goal.
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Some will always be children 
And for them stories always simple
Little and Big, White and Black, Good and Evil 
Them and Us . . . plain and simple
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