We can build an orrery
Yet turn the sky into a junkyard
We're abecedarian, quirky contrarian
Stare decisis from cosmic ovarian
Subaltern, suborbital
Small steps on the heavenly stairway
Pedestrian stardust walking around
Tariffing penguins to tear up the ground
But the stairway is spiral
And it's spiraling down
No escape from the gravity
Found all around
Eyes searching the cosmos
For myopic bliss
In a fallacy galaxy
Far from star-kissed
We're worst when we're first
At least in our mind
Quoting chapter and verse
From each tract that we find
On the ground underneath us
That shifts with each step
Tract's gotten infected
Yet onward we schlep
Each bearing the burden
Of truth stumbled across
When we can patch the thatch
On the roof that we've lost
In that storm of ideas
That threatened the shelter
We've built for ourselves
Unstable ideas full on the shelves
We've forgotten to look
For the beauty inside
While we're gathering dust
From under our feet
Instead of uncovering
What's come from above
While planting our hopes
In the promise of love
If we acknowledge Mother Earth,
How is it we discount her daughters?
If might doesn't make right,
What have we left out of the world?
What do we make of this world… that was made for us?
If we look up to Father Sky,
Is that why we look down on Mother Earth?
Or have we put words in the mouth of the wind,
When we mouth the words of our fathers?
Have we not learned from whence they came?
scorned by society
stranger in his own body
suffering from heartbreak, silently
smiling through pain, yet oozing generosity
he finds his solace in solitude
has a heart of a saint
a heart that will not taint
alienated by life
constantly facing internal strife
he finds his solace in solitude
finds his solace in solitude
expressing his true self in the darkness of
his comfort
expressing himself in a great multitude
solitude is his solace
The spirit world went into spasm,
emitting as it did, a new phantasm,
which pitifully cried and moaned
as a haunting voice intoned,
"I wish that I was protoplasm".
Why was it that the heavenly host
wouldn't give him what he wanted most?
Why did they leave him, oh so sad?
He was such a pleasant lad -
Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Why did Casper do what he did
when he was just a kid?
Kite flying was not his ball of wax,
so he played on the railroad tracks,
which his mom would not forbid.
His mother said, "Go soak your head",
but he played on the tracks instead,
and so, it was all his fault.
His mother took it with a grain of salt,
and now poor Casper's dead.
So, if you see that nice guy, now deceased,
floating from the west or east,
he's travelled many a mile.
So, return his gentle smile.
Don't shrink in fear, just when he needs it least.
Why, wouldn't you
Often wonder
If something settled
In your soul
What player placed
The pallid thing
Gratitude to what god
Forgotten gone
Or offal offered
On what stone
To leave it lying
Or load its seed
What purpose caused
The poetic problem
Who to tell
To take it back
I was wrong
Their gift will weep
Or else its evil
Ever sleep
I am a doctor’s daughter: You go girl!
I am my mother’s (supervising psychiatric social worker) child: You’ve got this !
I am mission oriented: Fried tofu and rice.
Breakfast of champions!
Evolution made its best pitch
for a new ecological niche.
Without so much as a fuss,
behold the duckbill platypus.
Reheating seaweed soup
scooped and steeped from the Milky Way
rummaging sharply into the corners of torn memory
my unripe mother flickers like a candle watching the soup boil
There is no sieve to strain the light of her face that day
yet a cotton quilt smile that could soothe even icicles
a yearning for tomorrow holding starlight pooled within
the fluttering back of my twenty two year old mother
The remaining warmth in the seaweed soup she ate back then
seeping into my time grown heavy as it slowly reduces
tapping my worn and weathered pupils
engraving bitter salty tenacious footprints
Before the birthday dawn dries away
even if only in the haze of a dream
it would be good to see my mother as she was that young day
Quickly, droplets dappled the walk,
Painting the cement a darker grey
Rain and darkening clouds usurped the sun,
Too serene in blue, ever-endless fields of azure
Thunder shook the ground
With deafening sound,
Whilst blinded by a bolt that smote of Zeus,
I felt my soul feint of fright
I saw my death, but clung to life,
I left the tea, the bagel, let the paper blow away,
And leapt inside the open patio door,
Sliding it closed, behind me, as the wind and rain pursued
I listened as each drop hurl itself against the pane
The wind augmenting their efforts in swelling waves
To break it down
They relented in drips that seemed to stagger, defeated
The wind urging them on and into futility
I sat, soaking wet at the table,
And saw a tear drop upon its glass surface
As my forearms absorbed its cold
My face stared back—old, tired
I was shaking, not from being cold
I thought of how I loved rainy days
I thought of how things can change in an instant
Others over a lifetime
God created all before His face
Fish, cattle and birds on the Earth
Preparing a place for man
Jesus said "I go to prepare a place"
For all of the second birth
As it was promised in the original plan
The Evolution pollution
Has many creation theories
It is also a worldview
Full of contradictories, no solutions
So which of the queries
In obscurity do you choose
Evolution is a view of miscues
Relying on the all inclusive mutation
But mutations are a lack, they don't add information
So with the arbitrary excuse
Do your worse with your embolization
The impossibilities contrariness is our cessation
If we acknowledge Mother Earth,
How is it we discount her daughters?
If might doesn't make right,
What have we left out of the world?
What do we make of this world… that was made for us?
If we look up to Father Sky,
Is that why we look down on Mother Earth?
Or have we put words in the mouth of the wind,
When we mouth the words of our fathers?
Have we not learned from whence they came?
The Origin - Oloibiri
We all poise
ushering in
our plots, stage and play
ushering in the birth of a phase
Where all
have become fazed
A place of fame
now erased
a lurking abode
marrying a mirage into reality
smeared with a tainted face
faux words
and dangling puppets
rotating with the stale wind
What we think we know
From the history book as we grow
About how we become humans
Might just be a grain of sand in a desert
Religion taught of the creation
A good will of a bigger being
Who from dust mold, better carves
The most intelligent thing on Earth.
Early scientists say we evolve
From ape-like creatures, bushy hairs
Transformed from round bones to squares
From growing tails to cloning fails.
But I think we a more
We are more of mud and bones
We are more from matter and energy
We are more from light and darkness.
How many tears must hope shed?
Is there no bread left for the hungry,
or cures bred for the sick?
Can hard work feed itself no more,
neither trust share its roots with truth,
with no water left to nurture either one?
Does love have none left for itself,
nor mercy favor fruits of friendship
as it once did?
Do rainbows reign no more after rain
nor doves fly following rainfall
with fresh saplings in their bills?
Has faith lost its will to live?
Will will lose itself to fear?
Would that God would strike it down
with one brush of His hand.
But this Would must submit to God.
World's hope may have fallen to embers,
but God's hope breathes flames of white,
for white knows the rainbow,
which signals water is growing the crops
that feed each fellow man.
Hope's origin is not with man,
but with God.
If hope is lost,
it is because this we have forgotten,
that hope lies in God's only Begotten Son
if i think deeply
i realize that I already knew
everything from the beginning
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