03-15-11, 03:54 PM #1481
I especially liked:
'Autumn Falls as Summer leaves'
'Violating' is a bit similar in style to a couple I have written. I'll pull one out for you.
03-15-11, 03:59 PM #1482
Please excuse the quality/cognitive approach of any of my pieces. All of these are old stuff. I don't write too many these days. This one is a bit long.
Observations in controlled chaos succeeding order.
Decrepidation is the same as mutilation,
Your observation is impaired by retardation,
Move above your very station,
Whilst you lead the eloquation,
Of an alien national rotational.
Is it rational to splash your cash an all?
Is it fashional to hunt pigeons rabbits and fowl?
Will it stop me though?
I shouldn’t think so.
This is the future you know?
A world moving forward,
In spatial time travel,
And living within a mammal,
A breed of being,
Maybe a dream conjured in the mind of a being,
Or a program celestial,
An existence in vestigial organs,
But what is in you,
Join the cue to find out,
About what you doubt,
And don’t know about.
So as all you face,
Or just some from our race,
As do the enlightened,
You seek the answers to the question of the cosmos,
What lives above us?
What lives within us?
And what is the scale to this tale,
Why do some fail to inhale?
Is the sum of some?
Cyclopean in comparison,
To a garrison,
Even though with greater knowledge,
One eye blinkers.
Do we feel no appeal?
Toward our destiny,
That infests me,
With a fleecy appeal,
Mankind subdued by moving into the far reaches of the galaxy at first?
Then beyond great divides,
Exploring alien cultures and ways of life.
The combined strength of the armies of the world,
Would be equal to a first strike by an alien culture,
That had twice as powerful technology again as us.
In ten thousand years time,
Will mankind reach his prime?
Crime sign refined from view,
Our view being global review.
How do you monitor,
A cunningly placed astronomer,
And how is the cosmos seen,
Through the watchful eye of planets of cameras,
Keeping tabs on the events displayed?
When an enemy comes
To destroy our genome
Spread across the stars,
Another virus being,
May attack our space,
And seek to replace,
An old for a new face,
A new face to dominate (space),
Could we ourselves be the aggressor?
For the future,
Is impossible to predict,
But our imagination will always seek to try.
Seek to try the sci-fi,
The modern world implies is inventible,
As this code is followed by
The nation states of the galaxy,
Sentient life drives itself forward into the future,
The virus program of our existence,
Drives us forward,
It is doubtful we will fill all the space that is available,
But our galaxy will be terrestrial,
And as they surge forward they reach,
The true extent of the boundaries,
Of the accessible congression of star systems,
That are now all over-run and overpopulated,
Sporadic wars of differing space races of men,
Powerful ogres against superior technologies,
Genetically modified bio-machines that eat dirt and breathe sunlight,
Man, as he has expanded his physical influence
Has been forced to adapt to ever increasingly extreme conditions,
That have forced severe physical alteration to the races of men.
Traces of spaces,
Still linger in the back of my eye,
Through this existence I fall,
Dragged by my nature,
That now programs itself,
Without consulting the brain,
I evolve now silently,
As I revolve the rules,
Of possibilities and their corollaries,
Which in my mind I freeze,
But it’s a breeze 1,
And of my heart it will tease,
The sleaze that has been poisoning our civilisation,
Since the advent of global communication,
Retardation of the race of men,
Constipation striking again,
Of ideas as secluded is the body of men but tribes of significant power develop in space and face a race to conquer space.
Destination of evolution,
Is it ever reached?
By the nature of this question,
You must surmise,
What the finishing point of life is on the ladder of,
Convolutions lie here,
Beware the reef that has the power of plant life presence,
To cloud the waters of your judgement,
Steer past restriction and donate conviction,
To reverse frictions,
You seek to quantify the quantity of this life you see.
It’s all terminology not astronomy,
Because with all our technology,
Coordination at any given time,
Is only determinable by locationary points and locales that possess different densities and materials,
That emanate from one particular body or mass?
Lines of class are created by perceptional interpretation,
Of stimuli that cross optically toward the brain.
The fact an apple is an apple isn’t determined by it simply having grown on an apple tree,
Rather due to the fact you choose to call it by a name,
Slotting similar physicality’s into groups of likeness,
Do we truly understand what it is we perceive to have discovered?
We being similar in makeup and desire,
Feel an energetic attraction toward a meeting,
Is total contentment a reality or but a feeling,
As you look at me like you’re leasing your right to be happy,
Of explanations in order,
Of the corollaries of consciousness,
I must separate my needs from what is contained in this prison of class,
And in its stead I look at you,
Because you fuel my desire to be happy.
Is the destination you seek realisable?
As the taste of forever lies in the future out of reach,
Does tomorrow carry on into yesterday like before?
And is the rhyme a chore?
A choice, what else?
My rhyme is designed to fuel your fire,
To elevate your desire up the spire of life,
Don’t pull out a knife,
As the presence is rife with violence,
And you may bleed to death.
And what of your last breath,
Is it ingress to live on?
Not is this, the point of this song,
Rather that soon mankind will reach a point of no return,
Not only will we bend the rules of nature and physical laws,
But we will rewrite their very function,
No more will classification dominate mankind’s need to order,
As the spiritual development of mankind,
Is inhibited by his need to categorize we will move on,
This inhibition can be beneficial when it is physical,
This can spur an understanding of outside stimuli,
Which once understood can stimulate a higher awareness of what is inside you,
And through understanding yourself and others you can reach a higher realization of meaning in your life.
However this realization is too connected with mans need to impose rules, gender and put things with similarities into groups.
Fallacy prevails here,
Everything is different and only by realising the chaos theory,
May true understanding be reached,
A complex belief in simplicity is perfection,
Bound together with no strings attached,
No boundaries, with no end?
And as our genome we will reshape,
To the animals of evolution should we apply respect,
And archive that which we change?
For inevitably we will change to the forms created by our own fancies.
As evolution is replaced by our convolution of the coding,
We have inherited from our ancestry.
In what direction should we apply our extension of earth’s beasts?
As a god delves and welds from the codings of the universe,
Is this absolute as chaos and other uncontrollable forces that at times reign supreme?
As before will it happen again as we delve and weld,
Can huge leaps in mutation,
Allow higher forms of life to develop,
That swallow us out of reach,
Mutation by its very nature is random,
So if for all our desire to know,
Conquer, control and change all to our own fancies,
Still as always lies a power of nature,
Yet, uncontrollable to those who seek to tame it,
What is chaos if not random?
And what truly rules our universe,
Surely a balance is already established,
Should we have the inclination to change it?
We ourselves are natural beasts,
And everything we make is the property of evolution,
Evolution of ones body must surely be at one with the evolution of understanding and technological device.
So if we bend the rules,
As we seek to control the order more closely,
Should we decide one route to follow?
We must seek a new balance we can maintain,
For as we are do we not grow uncontrollably,
Is there space enough in this universe to contain our will.
What then is the outcome?
And what gives one the ability to sense its existence,
Imagination of things still impossible,
Must be the bane we bear,
But sadly we will not be here to experience our future,
So instead we must be content to contribute in a small way,
To the wave and power they call mankind.
03-15-11, 04:02 PM #1483
This is a few years old:
Out of the scum comes the shining ones,
Demons flourish amongst the streaming minds-eye,
they feed on the scum that grows from rocks,
thoughtful detritus from the airy garden falling,
covering all of us in the sins of others.
We don’t stop, we feel their fiery temperament,
We enjoy it, we use it, we need it we think.
But out of the scum comes the shining ones,
covered in ash, they have fallen from the future,
thought far-seeing, prescient pathfinders,
As alluring as the demons ever were.
The matches burn with internal battling,
children love to play,
they know no better.
They feel they need to feel,
matching their fire with the new constructs in combinations new.
The future will ensue,
the demons can not stop us.
Although infiltrate us they have,
solemnity is their new friend for forward we look…
To educate our children we turn the world to our tuning.
As the longing dissipates:
Belonging spreads as a disease,
that eases the conflicts by example.
The efficiency of care extinguishes its lessness,
as saving time saves the very cause of its conception,
or at least a channelling of time and the energies into,
a circuitry of coalescence.
Deep down amongst the pit of hells,
the demons chuckle at our capricious desires,
our squandering and hopeful battling,
chuckling at the “fuckling”,
at the very insipid roots of our stupidity,
that root in their hearts.
The watering is fresh and cool and sticky at times.
They lick our face with rough toungues,
cleaning in a chemical way that infests us.
“Fuck them dry”
“Colour them in”
You cant get the monkey off your back,
his red skin burns his hands holds tighter,
their innards joining yours in a systemic link growing deeper.
The lump is gone now and the snow is falling,
An overloaded immune system at last working once more,
Psychodelical snowflakes make him laugh,
Future man falls and the soft net catches him,
He is free to fall.
03-15-11, 04:02 PM #1484
Stove is lit.
Wind rocks gently,
lapping eyes sinking,
lids ballast filling.
Mind wonders through many things.
Warm clear sky,
Dewforms melt the minds eyes garden.
Affinity towards the beauty that presides in the souls of free people.
I wish I was more free.
Sometimes there is too much sameness.
Others break free from their bondage.
A dreams fitful theme releases childhood fear,
I awoke with things to say, but no one is there.
Last edited by universaldistress; 03-15-11 at 04:26 PM. Reason: I erroneously double posted so thought to replace with a lil' one
03-16-11, 09:25 AM #1485
AT THE BOTTOM OF IT ALL
The last watch fire, that of mathematics,
Lights the shadows of the universe,
Telling us much about its machinery;
And, yet, there is a kind of mysticism
About this and its Platonic forms
And ideals of perfection;
So, although no one
Has been killed in its name,
It requires a kind of faith
In what magic lies beneath it;
But, perhaps, what is really there
Beneath and at the bottom of all,
Are statistics and probabilities
Averaged over large numbers of small events,
Which, though math-like come to be,
Are not exactly the root mathematical formulas;
So, perhaps math is not at the bottom of all
Although it is very much amenable
To the emergent and secondary patterns
That we observe and measure thereafter,
Being very effective in describing that “real” world.
It’s just that, as Lee Smolin sort of said once,
About Platonic forms being underlying,
“A flower is not a Dodecahedron”.
Is the universe, and even more so the world
A reflection of some perfect mathematical form?
Or does the world rest on the kind
Of statistical methodologies
That underlie our understanding of biology?
Physicists, unlike biologists,
Wrestle not with reality but
With mathematical representations of it.
This is a great and masterly art,
As is that of a painting artist,
The high beauty obtained
Not from reproducing nature,
But from representing it,
With the addition that
A physicist’s greatest creations
May even truly capture some of
The deep and permanent reality
Behind mere transient experience.
There can be moments of blissful clarity,
A rare combination, indeed,
Such as when one
Really comprehends Newton’s laws,
And realizes simultaneously
That what one has grasped mentally
Is a logic that is realized in each of
The countless things that move in the world.
And, yet, neither Newton’s nor Euclid’s laws
Completely capture the world,
But are still a fine mirror of it,
Although not the finest and
Truest mirror of reality;
Plus, there are areas that
Can’t be completely captured by math.
And, thus, what is both wonderful and terrifying
Is that there is absolutely no reason
That nature at its very deepest level
Must have anything to do with math directly.
In many cases, there is a simple,
That an aspect of the world
Follows a mathematical law
On a subsequent plane.
Some systems have an
Enormous number of parts,
Such as why the air is
Spread uniformly in a room,
No mystery or symmetry being required,
Or how the force on a rubber band
To the distance stretched,
This reflecting nothing deep,
As the rubber band force we feel
Is a sum of an enormous number
Of small forces between the atoms.
Each of which may act in a complicated,
Even unpredictable way,
To the stretching.
A Platonist nightmare, then, would be
That, in the end, at the bottom,
All of our laws will be like this,
All the regularities turning out
To be more statistics,
Beyond which lies
Only randomness or irrationality.
It must always come to this,
As we already see in biology:
That the tremendous beauty
Of the living world is but, in the end,
Merely a matter of randomness,
Statistics, and frozen accidents—
For which the capture of there can be
No one, single, and beautiful equation.
(Gleaned from Lee Smolin)
03-16-11, 05:51 PM #1486
The equation if ever possible will probably be a monster which will have different ways of forming itself. Then people will add to it saying it isn't complete. Such is the nature of "I want MORE!"
03-17-11, 06:23 PM #1487
1 + (-1) = 0 (and no more)
THE ALIENS ARE HERE
You feel that you are not alone;
They are all around.
The near-invisible life forms
Of viruses swarm all around you.
The alien has integrated itself
Into the very fabric of life
That surrounds you.
There is no escape.
It has invaded and won!
Viruses are nanocreatures
That have penetrated
Forms of life on our planet
With startling efficiency.
They are merely genetic material
In a protein coat.
The dominant forms of life on our planet,
When measured in biomass and diversity,
There are 250 million virus particles
Infecting bacteria in every milliliter
Of unpolluted natural water ecosystems.
The existing equilibrium of our planet
Is dependent on the actions of the viral world.
20-40 percent of bacteria
In our marine systems
Are killed by viruses each day,
Which provides a tremendous source
Of organic matter, releasing amino acids,
Carbon, and nitrogen, recycling nutrients.
They also prevent any one
Bacterial species from dominating.
Because of their high mutation rates
And their ability to exchange
Genetic information with one another,
Viruses are tremendous generators
Of genetic variation.
The introduction of a retrovirus
Into our ape ancestors
Led to a new mammalian gene
That play an important role in our placenta.
The use of unadulterated vaccinia virus,
A variant of the cowpox virus,
Allowed humans to wipe smallpox,
Perhaps the worst scourge humanity
Has ever faced, off the face of the Earth.
Like aliens, viruses are usually portrayed
As either perfectly benign or perfectly evil.
They are the ETs.
03-18-11, 01:11 AM #1488
Nobody goes in that room anymore
A room with no view, a small charnel home,
and the flies fill this void with their own buzzing
That’s where we went but you can’t hear our
calls, and no one can stay in its blue tainted
The door has a hole but no air filters in; no one
looks through, the dust blisters the skin.
Remembering the names it recounts the sins
in this dust that has hung to the hinges and
The marks on the walls are like clouds and blue
ink; like our last baited breath made an art of the
The concrete is brown, its all stained dark and
drear, and the rusty great door still encloses our
Will now all the motes in their blue tainted skins
dance with the flies in a purging of sins?
The flies buzz the blue and motes dot the eyes of the
ones who were marked with their hatred and lies.
In this room we are dust, now the light trickles in
but no sins trickle out it’s encased in this bin.
Will the ink sky now fill up this dark tainted pit?
Will the ink painted clouds soon envelop this crypt?
Nobody goes in that room anymore, it’s all chained up
now with a sign on the door.
03-18-11, 01:22 PM #1489
The train runs bold;
and yet as her brain folds,
and her thrown body embraces the wheels,
the brakes screech their triumph.
The officer reaches down; a sheet falls on her;
the traces of tears glistening on her
cheekbone's loose coverings show through.
Masks of severance accompany the sick on his chin.
Under red droplets his boots shine as they step on.
Chunks of body and lunch mingle.
He sucks the air.
Wide eyes twisting see more down the track.
And as their boots step on,
the bag slowly fills;
their souls stretched,
the stretcher flexed;
the zip rips upward without a glance.
The woman, the men, slip over the fen,
sloshing paths, sloshing burden.
As the van sighs at the demise,
all tainted forever, they leave together.
03-18-11, 09:59 PM #1490
TO THE END(S) OF THE UNIVERSE
I took a road trip
Through the universe recently,
Smoking some pot
And playing the radio loud.
Holy-moly, there’s nothing holy out there.
In fact, it’s a very uncongenial place for life.
I’d much rather be in Australia
96% of it was useless
Dark energy and dark matter.
The rest was mostly rocks gases and dust.
Dangerous radiation zapped all over the place.
And it was fricken freezing!
Oh, what I would have given to be in Canada.
Whatever designed the universe
Certainly didn’t have life in mind.
It even took evolution billions of years
To fine-tune us to the earth.
Then we nearly got wiped out
By huge disasters right and left,
Even once shrinking back down
To a population of around 2000.
I saw the graveyards of stars
And some stellar nurseries, too.
All kinds of energy swirled about—
When it wasn’t exploding and wreaking havoc.
I stopped to eat at the restaurant
At the end of the universe,
On a moon,
But it had no atmosphere,
Plus all the food had been microwaved,
By the CMBR.
What a wasteland
Of a wilderness of wilds
Of a whole bunch of crap
That nearly goes on forever
In every direction.
This was as much of a place
Unsuited for life that there ever could be.
I’m back, thank my lucky stars,
Noting that, 14 billion years
After the initial chaos, here we are,
Having beaten the odds.
Well, someone had to!
We won the universal lottery jackpot.
Here comes a humongous asteroid!
Darn, all that luck for nothing.
Double ‘00’ has come up.
It was only a matter of time.
03-19-11, 07:19 PM #1491
LIFE, LOVE, AND BEING:
FUMES FROM ANCIENT TIMES
An Exploration of the Joys of the Human Condition,
The Astounding Secrets of the Universe, and the Mind,
Through the Life of a Loving Couple
Engaged in the Ultimate Relationship,
Across the Centuries and into the Future.
While writing, much more is drawn from the mind,
For there is relative silence, with no starting gun,
As in speaking—for that is in real time done.
The muses then, are one’s own depths mined.
A man and a woman, feeling young again,
Were walking through a fertile valley, in the year 1810,
Traveling toward the misty mountains, and beyond.
He carried an ancient book that he’d salvaged, sound,
As the monastical village had burned to the ground,
And she carried but a single red rose.
Together they softly hummed the melody
Of the Pachelbel Canon, freely,
Each singing one of the fugal voices,
For they lived as two-part harmony’s choices—
As equal partners in life and love:
They were, at once, free yet attached, and ranging,
Playful but serious, stable yet changing,
Thinkers yet doers, adventurous though not foolish,
Poetic as well as prosaic, and reasonable but passionate.
“We’re free now!” she said, playfully nudging him.
“Yes, we’re free at last,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
A smile of love passed between their lips,
For even though they were now quite homeless,
Their life together had become a celebration blest,
And thus they happily walked on through the valley
In the dark by the light of the setting moon.
False dawn came and went all too soon,
And morning twilight later glowed in the east.
A familiar nightingale sang in the breach,
But just as quickly flew away, lo;
Whither and whence it flew, they did not know.
03-19-11, 08:25 PM #1492
Well I saw the thing comin' out of the sky
It had the one long horn, one big eye
I commenced to shakin' and I said "ooh-eee"
It looks like a purple eater to me
It was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater
(One-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater)
A one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater
Sure looks strange to me (One eye?)
Well he came down to earth and he lit in a tree
I said Mr. Purple People Eater, don't eat me
I heard him say in a voice so gruff
I wouldn't eat you cuz you're so tough
It was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater
One-eyed, one-horned flyin' purple people eater
One-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater
Sure looks strange to me (One horn?)
I said Mr. Purple People Eater, what's your line
He said it's eatin' purple people and it sure is fine
But that's not the reason that I came to land
I wanna get a job in a rock and roll band
Well bless my soul, rock and roll, flyin' purple people eater
Pigeon-toed, undergrowed, flyin' purple people eater
(We wear short shorts)
Flyin' purple people eater
Sure looks strange to me
And then he swung from the tree and he lit on the ground
He started to rock, really rockin' around
It was a crazy ditty with a swingin' tune
Sing a boop boop aboopa lopa lum bam boom
Well bless my soul, rock and roll, flyin' purple people eater
Pigeon-toed, undergrowed, flyin' purple people eater
I like short shorts
Flyin' little people eater
Sure looks strange to me (Purple People?)
And then he went on his way, and then what do ya know
I saw him last night on a TV show
He was blowing it out, a'really knockin' em dead
Playin' rock and roll music through the horn in his head
03-19-11, 08:30 PM #1493
03-20-11, 11:27 AM #1494
(The epic poem-story continues.
I can't put too much at once.)
Although the day-tide had barely spoken,
He, nonetheless, opened their precious token—
A mysterious book of poetry that had been sealed
With a waxen shield, it remaining concealed
For over ten centuries in the secret chamber
Of the library of the old monastery’s remainder.
The tome was written in some foreign language,
In verses of thirteen syllables, in four-line stanzas.
They opened it as one would a tender lover:
A small bottle was encased inside the front cover;
Some of its spirit had apparently escaped
When the volume had been undraped,
For they’d been captivated by the Persia fumes—
The perfume of ageless rhymes from ancient looms.
“It’s written in Persian,” she noted, looked,
Having handled many of the foreign books,
In her role as editor in the abbey’s nooks.
“It’s the library’s most valuable book,”
He said, having illuminated and unhooked
So many of the monastery’s great books.
“It was the only one I could save;
It’s the only book we’ll ever crave.”
They watched, amazed, as the book came to life,
Like a good husband in the presence of his wife.
The words of the Persian poems began
To move around the page, as over it they ran,
Sometimes briefly changing into English,
Entire verse-lines dancing, like a dervish.
Then, after settling, from the struggle
The words would yet again jump and juggle,
Hanging back, and then ever surging forth,
Darting around through the verses’ course
Within each stanza, to form a brighter source,
Lines which still stated the differing aspects
Of the original and pervading concepts.
‘Twas as this magical language transmogrification
Was attempting to preserve the entire relation
Of the original poetic scheme throughout—
The whole translation process so devout,
Including literal meaning, rhythm, rhyme,
Melody, syllables, meter, and time;
However, this didn’t seem to be workative,
And so it followed that something had to give,
And that ‘something’ was the ration
That was usually lost in the translation.
Finally, out of apparent desperation, uncaged,
The Persian verses jumped right off of the page
And splashed into the bottle of perfume,
Wherein they redistilled themselves, subsumed,
Leaping back out and on to the empty page,
Whereupon they recondensed, restaged,
And recomposed themselves for this new age,
Into Victorian style verse, into new quatrains
In which only the essence of the remains
Of the original concept of meaning was maintained.
The lines were now ten syllables, rather than thirteen,
Holding many related meanings heretofore unseen;
But the verses were still in groups of four per stanza,
And the correct lines still rhymed, as per lingua,
Although some of the rhyming schemes
Didn’t always have quite the same means.
Yes, some things unnecessary had been lost,
But something new had been added, not tossed—
Something somehow much better told,
Although still within the spirit of the old.
“What are you?” she asked of the book.
“Are you alive?” he asked, as he shook.
The book replied, “I am the book of life,
My pages rife with the antidotes of strife;
I am conscious dream, a living philosophy—
I live forever through my words, wholly.
“On my pages you will find all of man’s follies,
Joys, sorrows, wisdom, and all his jollies.
Read me and my ideas will come alive—
Demonstrating the happiest ways to survive!
“It is by experiencing my words
That you shall know them forwards.
“Yes, many arts may enrich human experience,
But they’re no substitutes for the living of it.”
“What is your name?”
He asked of the same.
“My name is a question only—
A mystery that you have to solve, namely,
‘What is the name of the Rose?’”
They looked for a minute at the tome,
Deeply inhaling its perfume.
( It was Persia-fume )
03-20-11, 11:30 AM #1495
03-21-11, 07:16 PM #1496
An Ode to Russell Crow
An Ode to Russell Crow
When I was young I didn’t know,
about the man called Russell Crow.
Yes he can act and he don’t do blow,
he owns the mighty Rabbithos.
O Russell Crow, O Russell Crow!
Those Pommies don’t like silly poems.
Sing to us in mellow tones, of a
Kiwi in an Aussie home.
And when you’re on the silver screen,
you make the South of Sydney scream.
Big acting man, a bogan’s dream.
A Rugby player’s cash machine.
And Eric Watson might be a nob, but don’t
you punch him in the gob.
Cause telephone in the fourth degree
was not a pleasant sight to see.
And that Robin Hood might be a flop
and your accent should have had the chop.
But on radio you shouldn’t cop some
Pommie DJ’s smart arsed knocks.
And has your career jumped the shark?
Is a question in this Ode I ask.
Do we smell a hint of Mel? Will you rant
and rave and go to hell.
But we all stand up and say not Russ!
He’s the Kiwi bloke who’s adopted us.
And when we saw you on the Oprah show,
you made all of our nipples blow!
There is no a greater man alive and forever
will his legend climb.
Yes he’s going to take us on this ride, and be
a font of Aussie pride.
03-22-11, 06:31 AM #1497
03-22-11, 12:13 PM #1498
03-22-11, 12:22 PM #1499
03-28-11, 10:00 PM #1500
The stars began to take flight.
Night’s cup had seemed empty, light,
Bottomless, heartless, and cold;
But day was about to fill it with gold.
They felt the touch of that dawn, then,
As its freshness washed over them;
It was a sweetness and a serenity,
Like a mist that drifts into a valley
And fills it fresh with moisture fully.
Some refreshment was anticipated.
Reaching up to a rose bush, unsated,
They bent down the branch of Moses,
And drank the dew from the roses,
Then stooped to pick some strawberries.
What is the name of the rose?
They had wondered, silent as a cloud,
Until they each had spoken it aloud,
Although without answer from the depths plowed.
They strolled into a forest of floral colors
That were lush and soft, in bowers:
Lavender, crimson, and ever-during, green flowers.
The leaves of the previous autumn
Had made a multicolored carpet spun.
Ideas cascaded over their minds—
Thoughts suddenly loosened, in time,
By the inspiration from the exerting.
A light rain was falling
That excited their senses, calling,
Jogging their thoughts, unwalling.
“Walking is good exercise,
“I am feeling energized.”
“Yes, it gives back much more than it takes.
Walking is as easy as falling forward makes!”
“Oh, yes; breathe deeply; relax about,
Let your thoughts flow up and out.”
“My thoughts are becoming clear.
Alertness tingles in my senses, dear.
Oh, I am becoming so wide awake.
I love this world and everything it makes.”
“Breathe in all that’s good, freely,
Then breathe out all that’s bad.”
“I feel peace flowing into me, really—
It’s warm and wet and glad.”
“It’s spreading through your body
And into your spirit, my lady?”
“Oh yes, oh yes, dear yes, my lad;
This is the best life I’ve ever had!”
“It’s like an eager sap rising in the veins;
We’re inspired by the warmth of a spring rain.”
“Because you’ve lived through winter’s chills,
“To see yet another round of daffodils!”
“Like sparks from the smoldering embers, tame,
We’ve rekindled our fires from nature’s flame.”
“Could it be that a rose is a rose is a rose?”
“No, for that answer would be much too easy a pose.”
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