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Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Lift. Lofty wish to see,
good smoke.
Man, this is really going out on a limb, fruit flies
wise, look at us how nothing we are,
if you happened,
if you occurred on earth,
where mountains stand wind watch,
and catch fat clouds in old frozen winter passed.

Passing fantacy, as children, fit story's told
to rain and wind and fire, older now than we imagine,
but… yes, that is so, we make nothing we imagine,

we create by recreational efforting, you may imagine
a pleasant interchange, exchanging
as we exude true wonder, worth the effort, looking
farther than our minds can hold as mine, we own this.

As soon as owning taps the child's will to claim more,
than the knowing - awe state,
and the knowing of the cost, to first willingness,
and the doing,
the climb, each upward efforting will, paid, in full.
Septembers collect in new ways, when we use our Assisted Intelligence,
to fish in thoughts so long forgot we find ourselves uncovering old waters
bones of drought
rattle in the sky
the bones denote
a constant dry

no rains came to quench
they were absent
on the Kenyan mound
an arid woe
remaining around

the land morbidly dead
of life's elation
it vanished in the sun's
unrelenting evaporation

people starved by
unrealized crop
cattle thirsted for
a watering drop

and a parching  famine
dwells in Africa's well
the fountain of survival
a desperate hell

bones of drought
rattle on high
the rattle speaks
of an empty sky
aid agencies implore
the world to give
so that fellow humans
can go onto live

— The End —