October 2014-10-09. These children are all dire shards of our own ineptitude. The sins of the fathers do not apply any more, Because all the fathers are absent. {Or, the vilest sins of absences ply rampant, And weave off-spring oh-so vacant and Empty of empathy.} Our mules trudge out of our mines, patient. Our mines bellow into our soil, hastily. Our waking and slumber do not fashion lives. _______________________________________________ Mid 60s, my mid-teens, I read somewhere in a book: “Every child I see is my child; my need to water and feed; my responsibility to care for; my duty to teach and guide; my opportunity to live longer in horror or delight.” ________________ I choose my path where I see weird hairy caterpillars cross, Where bees feel like bits of my skin, Where the day rolls over me and my life, interestingly. I feel at home on this planet. Pity about some people.
Posted on: Thu, 09 Oct 2014 20:40:30 +0000
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