POEM

               
Kennedy then stated:  “Give me a place to stand,” said Archimedes, “and I will move the world.”  And these persons moved the world, and so can we all.        
           
Where do the thoughts come from, and I am accused at a point of stealing.  How do we steal a thought of a King for a fool’s entrapment?  Enlightenment for fools, and the Kings that open wide, for they have been around longer than what you could ever see with the animate roving eye, and we are Psyched! But yet, still they are there to view in the forming of youngness in mind, always as a child born long ago with a memory wide.  I live in my mind in increments of the decades, lived by numbers of, and to the powers of ten.            
           
We see them, and drink them deep for nourishment, washing them down with purple pills that cause majestic scenery.  We have favorites that remind of the goodness in life that would otherwise live and grow in disdain; we remember thoughts that are attached to emotions.  We have deep seeded emotions that guide us to what is attractive to our psyche.  Pain, belittlement, no language - only thoughts of fear.  Suppressing the rage and leaving the weakness in dark corners to die with no sun. Found perspectives in some unknown way by breaking open a thistle weed, and then wondering how it forms as the white milky core now runs free; killing only to gain understanding.          
         
Time is the most definable, yet paradoxical of things.  And the variety stretches in fertile fields working so hard on collecting the beans from the vines.  Over and over, a task unfavorable to a child that only wants to bring the toys from the attic and form roads with rock.  Building dreams in the pliable garden square with doll houses and mud pies, using gravel for almonds.  One perfect day in the garden, with all the daunting labor, then made to tear it down and move the rocks.          
           
Growing as I watched my father love his garden and give the fruit of labor away, never asking anything in return.  And we as children are taught to work with this soil and clay.  Tilling, planting, watching, weeding, watering, watching it closer, and waiting for it to grow.          
              
We look; I look for the fun in the sunshine, to feel it absorbing into my skin exposed, leaving caution to the wind of the burns that it left behind, killing the fields of seeded weeds with flames to leave enrichment for the seasons to come.  And they are not stolen lies from a scholared palsied tongue!  Given to me as a poem from one that has died so young and brave, never to stand again, but make a deep footprint upon my soul.  Wings of truth is right before the eyes of your chosen metaphors.  Individually, give me a place to stand, these are thoughts that touched my life.  For I have no wisdom in words, only the fool am I.  Only the stolen memories that form the bounties of what Om inside my mind.