"formative" poems
Born to a body I do not know
formative years spent in ignorance
crashing trucks together, hot wheels
running them off the curb outside
with my best friend
He is distant now
same classes, same neighborhood
lives spent together
running through fields and muddy waters on rainy days
my friend
Familiar friend reaches for my hand
he kisses it, wet lips leaving trails of hope
a life spent apart
running through absent moments, a blissful craze
does he know me?
He holds me close, hands on my cheek
he kisses my lips, leaving a fire inside of me
a life come around
recognition a threat to a blissful moment
he knows me…
…and kisses me again
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
Echo and Narcissist
He stared into her life
It enveloped him, metamorphosing his reality
Sometimes we are changed until we dont remember
those quaint things that we pretend to adore
and lose ourselves in the Medusa’s gaze
of a life
trans-formative and different.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
At school I had trouble socializing,
And still, The Owl, comes all too late?
My formative years are spent deep within caves searching,
Yet The Owl is never found there?
The failures and sadness accumulate over time,
Leaving The Owl traversing some other’s sky,
I feel life slipping away each day,
And still The Owl never manifests!
Where is The Owl? Does it not come with time?
Will cleverness induce her, perhaps woo her with rhyme?
Quell restless mind, The Owl reforge me so I’m freed!
Grant me your talons so that I may succeed!
And still, The Owl, who never manifests,
And still The Owl never manifests.
I curl chalky fingers into travertine-grip,
Aged ruin takes a hold, in my despair as I slip,
Sans which The Owl never did manifest,
To wit, sans The Owl, pounding sand as I jest,
So what, The Owl, never did manifest?
And still The Owl never manifests.
Life without The Owl, was no life at all,
No solemnity of greatness, a life of doltish pit-fall.
And still The Owl never manifests.
And still The Owl never manifests.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
"I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed"
*her pale white arm,
back and forth,
flashes before my eyes face,
cutting my few blonde many grays,
she tumbles pieces of
now dead me,
to the floor,
in cut wet clumps
there, across her underarm,
placed there to be but
half-hid,
my Bostonian via Albania haircutter,
(I am a human explorer)
reveals a tattoo uttering
in Arabic
that cuts me
deeper
then any scissored blade
she metal possessed*
I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed
*revelations daily granted me,
this one,
incomprehensible,
as she cuts,
I imagine,
my mused blood superheated,
clotting this poem
oh the words are readily understood,
but unknown is
the inspiration,
the event
so formative
it was deserving of being
transcribed, inked,
permanence earned by,
recording pon human flesh,
exposed
yet hidden
and I dare not inquire...even I...
who among us dare say
that they have not
suffered?
yet, you,
say the word slow
suf-fer,
hiss it
in two parts,
then ask yourself again,
have you experienced
the unimaginable
as real?
and needy to record it upon thy own
human flesh?
I have walked
empty mirrored hallways unending,
stood by rivers imploring,
begging me to join their current,
sleepwalked for days without count,
punishing penance for
acts of commission,
acts of fearful cowardice
I learned
I changed
better
for the betterment
of my united untied
bodied bloodied soul
*where?
my tattoo?
readily visible!*
in every word I ever wrote
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years
in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley
i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn
i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water tower
lording it over all
i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun
our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink
poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill's hoist with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing to silent attention
and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill
all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
you will thrive in your own cocoon—
legless arthropod wriggling out
of its leaved shell, crunching
on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel.
you crawl up the leaves like they’re
the steps of a winding staircase,
circling and circling to one day
step out of your cocoon.
you are your own skin—
a wing ripped in figure
eights of formative tearing.
at the bottom of a
wind-leaned green tower,
you are torn down as if starting all
over again, away from the pace of
a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.
you are not quite a monarch butterfly,
not yet the zebra-patterned black and white,
but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve—
thriving as a flower, swaying and alive.
you must visit the filial leaves and trace
their veins gently.
soon you will thrive in your own cocoon;
as those plant’d seeds will
soon leave legless arthropods wriggling—
for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither
without your leaves crinkling beneath it?
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 8:59 PM UTC
I look out at my hometown,
And what is it I see?
I see a stranger,
Bearded and haggard,
Staring back at me.
Oh, my hometown,
So filled with cherished memories,
What happened to your pastures and your fields,
Your farms and your special feel?
Where I explored so deep in my formative years,
Never able to uncover all of your secrets.
Your fields are now filled,
With cookie-cutter suburbs, million-dollar home-o-ramas, and strip malls,
Your farms a distant memory,
Your pastures destroyed and paved over,
Parking for the urban refugee.
You were a place of mystery,
A home for 8 generations before me,
But now you are nothing but a hollowed-out husk,
Gutted for profit and a name.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 2:55 PM UTC
returning
to the place..
to remembered beds
and nourishing breakfasts..
home of
our growing years..
this one nestled
in imponderable
Animas mountains..
these reflections
of an autumn retreat
now daily receding
into November bleak..
a white bench
vantage by streamside
afforded absorption of
the stream's flickering lights..
and later reflected
by a ridgeline full moon
decorating the dining..
life friends together
celebration and renewal
of many good years..
a white bench
also gathered reflections
from distant heights
where nighttime chills
painted evergreen and aspen
setting lanterns aglow..
the glow casting shadows
on the valley's red cliffs
those red markers of our
formative days..
a white bench
now gathered the sounds..
an old train's
whistled announcements
evening and morning..
a reminder of time
enclosed in this
valley of stillness
which we were favored
knowing once more..
a white bench
gathered the guests
from distances afar..
their life glows
and shadows
in conversations revealed..
overlaying past
with present..
end and beginning..
Logwood
we returned...
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
*Let the playgrounds be there for children
Hosting games which are played fairly
Formative minds exercising for healthy future
Open grounds let’s them breathe fresh air
Embracing bonhomie and fair play
Giving equal opportunity and space to each other
Playgrounds will nurture the formative years
Learning to play with dignity throughout life
Growing up to be torchbearers of the nation
Healthy mind resides in a healthy body
Playgrounds be the venue for diverse congregation
Spreading the message that games are not trivial
So many feuds are resolved with dignity
Children can teach the art of resolving strife
A playground can be the hallmark for diversity
Giving equal opportunity to all the players
Let’s not botch up every possible place for our needs
In the name of development, only concrete structures
Only meandering roads leading nowhere
Let the playgrounds be there for children*
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Salt in the air
Grit on my legs
Smoke in my lungs
578 days on and my only memories of you have been swallowed by the lapping tongue of the sea, have I ever seen you somewhere other than the edge of an unforgiving ocean? Did we spend all of our formative years splashing and smiling? Did we only spend so much time on the water because you or I or both of us loved it?
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see you elsewhere. At the end of a carpeted hallway, doubled over in a laugh shaking the walls. Drunk in the back of a car, wrestling with a seat belt. Perched on the top of a structure we used as a degenerate hangout, adjusting your camera. But still, the vision of you on a beach or cliff are the ones that sit on top of my portraits and stills in my mind.
I find myself by the sea on your birthday, the second one you haven’t seen. Do we celebrate without you? Do we celebrate for you? I pick up sand in my fingers and whisper secrets meant for you and let them slip back through the cracks, the gossip filled grains meet the earth and I hope they scatter to you. I can only see your face by the water, I hear your laugh in the waves, and I wonder if you live in every swell and crash. Where do you live for other people?
When it is my time to go, will I be returned to the sea the same as you,
and will you meet me there?
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 12:07 AM UTC
there's something bitterly comedic about seeing you talk about trauma
like you're the victim of something great,
like you're holding all these secrets in those big, wretched, calloused hands i feel in my darkest nightmares.
poor baby, poor teddy,
oh brother,
do you feel small?
and did i feel small, hiding in closets, or under that loft bed?
under that same loft bed. hand made, white painted wood,
heart-shaped pillow, lavender dollhouse,
quiet games,
dead childhood,
stolen innocence.
come to me, cry to me,
you just lost your girlfriend,
you just lost your job,
your life all fell apart
and i am soothing you through gritted teeth
remembering how you ruined mine before it even had the chance to start.
they say
i know you don't like him but you must love him.
i wonder if blood is still blood once you've drawn it?
and i still feel like i owe it to you.
it was us against this whole dark world that left us
but you were supposed to protect me.
i should have been playing with toys,
but i was the toy.
when we went hungry i was the raw meat in your mouth.
you starved for anything you could tear into, cut up, make a mess of.
we had that holes in our couch, holes in my childhood,
"you're not on my hit list yet,"
"i'm just checking up on you" kinda brotherly love that is swept so neatly under the rug until it eats right through the floorboards.
i try to will those gaps back in my memory.
it would be so much easier if i just swallowed it right up dry, choked it down, let it digest, let it melt away to a stomach ache so i don't have to think about you.
i will scrub my skin raw at the end of this scream,
try to wash you off of me,
but this has been embedded deep in my skin for so long,
too long-
can you tell me when it started?
honest to god i don't remember.
what was it about me, soft face, soft limbs, empty mouth that made you want to hurt me?
my earliest memories exist in haunting.
my formative years are a poltergeist, you are the evil thing inside of me.
and so you come to me with stories and expect sympathy,
And i will hold my tongue in my mouth lest i feel enough like a wounded animal to try eating you alive,
pretending the iron taste of blood that floods my mouth is yours,
that i am as strong and metallic.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC
Deception mistaken for protection.
Oh so naive.
Unwittingly taking fiction as gospel, wholeheartedly, they believe.
The art of lying, simply unable to conceive.
In these formative years, all the elders did was sugarcoat.
Upon uncovering the truth.
They realize all that they've been fed is poison, slowly, it has been secreted.
Down their throat.
Cruelly cheated.
The innocence of youth.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
(First draft)
An authentic smile defeated then deleted long ago, zero chance of winnin' stretchin' all the way back to my beginnin'
It was a genuine expression that slowly melted to an unrecognizable reflection
All pigmentation givin' way revealin' a secondary, ghostly stand in
Granted, it happened in my formative years before I was abandoned due to the mutation
But the impact has been felt through forty somethin' calendars and countin'
A true representation of life's failed mission, I'm guessin'
Not necessarily my opinion but one every other person is holdin', no question
Still wouldn't say it's been a waste but the needles strongly leanin' towards no reason for existin'
An overall lack of position, doesn't seem like I was designed to fit in, that is if my life has been any indication
I manage to make it to and through the proverbial one more day but where's the lesson?
This just feels like non-monetary extortion of a life-sized portion
Take far more than what's given, with or without permission
I'm still in competition with myself, the prize, livin'
The compromise, loosin' myself in a broken system or durin' the transition
The eradication of an inner companion, replacin' compassion with aggression, smooth sailin' with frustration, no direction, no validation
The transition to curmudgeon happened earlier than expected, drawin' parallels from the curious case of Benjamin Button
Not for nothin', the infestation of negative thoughts caused a mutation inside and out, completely loosin' what it means to be human
It's not a lose lose situation, and it sure ain't win win, and any other option, I'm guessin', got lost in translation
But I'm pretty sure somethin's gotta end in order for another somethin' to begin, at least that's what I'm hearin'
Still can't find a reason that justifies the conviction, is what I'm feelin' damnation? Is what I'm seein' my own creation?
It could just be that no matter what I'm not goin' to enjoy the conclusion, not allowed to settle on your preferred endin'
No fat lady singin', just a band playin' as I feel myself sinkin' into oblivion so pardon me for givin' up on salvation
It should go without sayin' but you're waistin' away waitin' for divine intervention, be careful what you use for inspiration
It may not be your intention, but there's no hate like the love of a christian, I'm just sayin'
Pay attention, who you're praying to every day may not be the one listenin'
©2023
Aug 25, 2023
Aug 25, 2023 at 3:45 AM UTC
Three decades back,
A communist,
As a fad atheist,
To my chagrin
You taught us
"God doesn't exist!"
To my surprise
After mass
I saw you yesterday
Kneeling down
Hands upward
Wholeheartedly when
You Pray.
Out of His mercy
And benevolence
No doubt
God will forgive you
At once,
For what matters
Is your repentance.
But I can't help to ask
What will be the fate of
Of those credulous children
At their formative years
You sent off the track
Without a mental map
To return back?
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Let me learn the crests and valleys,
this mapwork work of your skin,
find beauty in every vitiated inch
most see as flawed, but I know
naturally formative of experience.
Allow me next to you
on Mars' sacred arid landscape,
finding hidden rivers
and reflecting pools
to hold our memories.
Permit me that smile
creeping across your lips
as you walk through night skies,
picking bouquets of flowering stars,
freshly in bloom
and neatly wrapped
in comets' tails.
Holding your image carefully,
I've tucked you away
between brainwaves,
safe from the deep sleep of time,
figuring your figure
too precious for decay.
And though you've privileged passage,
I am plagued with hands unable
to run their familiar tracks,
watching cascades of violet twilight
run through my fingers,
down that nook behind ears
I'd whisper sweet everythings into,
taking off at your neck
just as we let the music
open our shells.
Setting out as astral projections
our dances innately elemental,
yet intricate,
all spirits and gods we'd cross
rapt in our movements.
And in an instant
we'd finished,
pirouettes had you engulfed
in a dress-skin fusion,
drifting into a ravishing
black hole finish
as I'd burnt out,
causing time to split this mind,
both sides struggling to grasp
which course I'd been carried to.
Left back wishing for some insight
on your skin's stunning topography,
searching for those pools
in which I can wonder
what you ever did
with those bouquets you'd made,
and wishing that
I didn't have to wait
to see if this time
will lead me down a different path.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
From formative years
To adulthood serfs-baited
Servants ill-treated
From their means
Of existence alienated,
It is with hatred
From- serfdom- of- every-kind
-the- newly -unshackled heads'
Formatted!
Though their much-lamented land
Has come back to their hand
Tardy,their mind proves not free,
That is why they engage
In a killing spree!
Worse still death to all, allies
Inclusive,they decree!
Although it sounds funny
They pay back gal
For received honey!
Also to cultural norms
And religious ideals blind,
Atavistic they slay
A woman and a child
In a way that is wild.
Oblivious for 9-months
They had a lodging
In a mother's womb
They want to blast it
With a bomb!
They want to shove in it
A spherical thorny wood
As far as they could.
Alive,they grill a man,
For idle or unskilled what
They can't do, he can!
In the name of God
Or religious sects,
Replete at this
Satan-released age,
They behead a man
Made in God's image!///
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Little brown boys in knee pants
Single file.
Marching forward in reverence and godfear.
Genuflect on left knee.
File in and sit in wooden pews.
Whispering hope resounds irreverently.
on hallowed walls
each word an affront to god.
How do I know?
The sisters told us so.
every Friday. " bless me father for I have sinned"
seven year old. " really".
Crucified idol nailed to a cross.
Kneeling on knobby knees.
conjuring sins.
Ten our fathers and ten hail marys.
neutered males living in denial.
concealed desires cloaked in a Cossack.
cloistered women.
hiding in a habit.
who is ******** whom.
I was ten and the birds and bees
cows and horses, Friends and neighbors
unpulled the wool .
Had to scratch my head a lot
in those formative years.
The Vatican?
First world power.
Inquisitor's tower.
O.K. burn me at the stake.
Heretic.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.?
No. Divinity has a window.
but small.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
If I never were to hear your name again
You'd join the now-stagnant cesspool of men
Who wish they'd never kissed my spine
Men with whom I've flirted
At the expense of myself and them
Why couldn't I have been more patient?
In choosing a suitable soil
Before dabbling in the Delicate art
Of planting a Seed and offering it water?
Alternatively,
Perhaps these brief interactions
Have meant something more than so many "fragile" (fruitless) disappointments
Could they instead be documented
As some of our formative experiences
Ones of transcendental self-discovery
Research and Study in preparation for the Gardens Ahead?
Sun and water help the Plants to grow
Up
and
Out
But an attentive Gardener must provide organization and mindfulness
Plant, Animal, Mineral
Under proper conditions, a dazzling heart can be formed from coal
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Apathy and ignorance tainted humanity
into droplets of unsettling mists
formative actions just pours blood
as enclaves of prejudice forms unrest
Whose nations are these?
where moral compassion is tool we lack
leading to unjust unidirectional tracks
for entitlement is an illusion
a dismiss to the evolutional revolution
For many months I watch the clouds pass
asleep as the layers of the skies seduced
whilst supremacists are hanging undone
whilst terrorists are merging undone
whilst institutional racism stand undone
Who are these unsaid heroes?
tired of fighting and just trying to survive
segregation is virtually an erosion
a creation of a constrained imagination
breeding just mere criminals and monsters
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
Your flaws run deep,
Like the valleys through your face.
But do not look at that with your
Aging eyes
For all you will see is your
Slowly creeping demise.
Look with me,
At your wondrous face,
Can’t you see?
There’s not a thing out of place.
Your emerald green orbs light up with a spark
Your greying hair, is luxurious and still maintains the dark
That you wore as an oh so youthful teen
Before you married, when you were living the dream.
Though losing its marbles, your mind remains sharp,
You sit here with me, creating art
And everyone else, you seem to have lost,
Their cheerful interactions now met with frost.
You tell me you’re worried, that I’m to be next
That you won’t remember me after the fix
Your shaky hands move towards mine
In an attempt for comfort in desperate times
Because time is now slowly running out
And I believe in you, but I have my doubts
So we knit and we knit and then we crotchet
And when day time tv is on we pretend we’re okay
And then the one day I made plans to hang out with my friends instead of visiting you,
It was the very day I lost you.
September 18 2015 5:47 pm
The time I got the call.
I wasn’t there for you at all.
I knew you weren’t well that day.
And I still decided to stay away.
The last day of the school term, I thought you were fine
I truly believed we had more time.
Turns out even if I wished, I still was wrong.
I should’ve stuck with you all the way along.
I never got to tell you, that very day,
That despite the disease, you were beautiful in every way.
Though your flaws run deep, just like a valley,
To me, in my formative years, you were my greatest ally.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
Lazarus left a final song
of mystery and awe
turning passing into another performance
recorded and acted with panache
you will always remain
a chain of memories
formative around my neck
you taught me everything
about the magic of music
about masquerades and disappearing
into another skin
to get your message across
cracked wires
you survived addiction
I am doing my best
luckily never had the funds to sink
so low
and now I read you owned a unit in Sydney
my hometown
and I would have loved more than anything
a random encounter
on the street, in a pub
just to nervously worship
at the altar of you
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
in their formative years
these stars burnt bright
movie theatres took them
on a stratospheric flight
they became famous
for being kids of talented nerve
the rolling camera's
showing their dynamic verve
yet the tinsel clad images
weren't portraying the true self
child actors were a studio's
road to greedy pelf
when reaching the teenage
period of their existence
drugs and alcohol plagued them
with much persistence
something was absent
as they grew to adulthood
little or no care given by
pushy parents in their childhood
tiny stars that once twinkled
did fall hard on the ground
their careers in dream flicks
bought them all unbound
Hollywood's picture factory
wasn't substantive in its part
which left many juveniles
to feel so aggrieved of heart
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
for a legendary 70s-80s Sydney nightclub
wearing those clothes
like we did
being there
back then
paying too much
for that shirt
those shoes
pointy & suede
buckled not laces
16 in nightclubs
being tall
an original sister
1959 sequins
sunglasses matching
there was no light
being afraid
of the men
metamorphosis
women used
those urinals
confusion reigned
in a young man
we danced
the music spoke
bartenders poured
all sorts of
concoctions
another track
began
& a floorshow
eyes wide open
miming & movements
others queued
we were hustled
inside
out come the
freaks & early on
we got it all
on studded sofas
on the dancefloor
the fresco was
roamin
we moved feet
to the rhythms
slaves
not knowing how
formative those days
were
never getting anything
but drinks
until later
legal with dollars
juiced up
better lights
victims resting
in seats people
occupied
when a visiting act
blew simpler minds
wallets
we thought that
record was good
then they played
B52s, Blondie, Numan
the floor caved in
from ska
pogo. bouncers
cleared the scene
original grace
as an ape
stomps
up a staircase
disappears into
lookalikes
then a spotlight
highlighted
the real thing
that was us
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
A great gift is awareness
and the first man, himself as a collective unity,
a principal, the lord and master of the Earth
And woman, as a symbolic image of
man's mother and companion,
everything that is fruitful and formative
were driven from the garden lest they
eat from the tree of life and live forever
And so all paramount woes of humanity began
Yet the sky blue like an angels robe
enlightening the world as well as mankind's
liberty born of the psyche is key
to the mystery of the intuitive mind
and all and any trials can be endured from the
viewpoint of instincts pursuit...
for the knowledge of good and evil befell
from that mistaken fruit
that begot freewill
and expelled the pair from Eden.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 5:16 AM UTC