I don’t understand uncaring spleen,
lowering heights, sheeted between
the worlds of mind which worded Man,
I think I see, with words we stood,
picked up a pen, with answers sure,
the words of mind which worlded man.
I must have missed how we began
demeaning rights; self-blinding plan,
the beasts of mind, which bested Man,
I hate to think we thought we could
pick up a club, so immature
the bested mind beat down by beasts.
I hope to see awareness keen,
furthering sights, helping to clean
the width of time which widened Man,
I think our hands, forgiving should
pick up a life and help assure
the widened mind stands width of time.
Erin Moen
12/17/03
Copyright 2003 ©
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 1/25/09
Im running on, but I liked you poem and have one criticism-of the word spleen_I suppose you mean immune-like self and others.
It seems to protrude against some of the rest of the poem which reads more aesthetically. Perhaps as an ex-biochemist it reminds me of the nuts and bolts, bits and pieces papers I used to read. I wouldnt profess to tell you how to write but I wanted to share some of my thoughts, experiences and interpretations so can get a broader orientation to the other perspectives of your meaning. That where always snowed is true, when we catch it its not found in our hands and I suppose there is a threshold ?turning point where in some the inside is not though too different from the out.
Your friend marvin. .
Carmen
Best regards,
Leland