POLLUTED HEART By R Lipinski

GENESIS 6:1-4

" And the daughters were born to them, and the suns of God saw that the daughters of man were comely, and took them themselves wives howsoever they chose. And the Lord said, "My breath shall not abide in the human forever, for he is of flesh. let his days be a hundred and twenty years."
The Nephilim were then on earth, and afterward as well, the sons of God having come to bed with the daughters of man who bore them children: they are the heroes of yore, the men of renown.

Just thought you mike like to see an ancient account of your poem.
Translation and commentary by Robert ALTER, pp 27,27 GENESSIS

A very interesting book

RT

" And the daughters were born to them, and the suns of God saw that the daughters of man were comely, and took them themselves wives howsoever they chose.. . . .

SUNS of God? Sounds like a hot time in the old towne, to me. . .

That's why I have an editor on hand most of the tyme (sic).

I'm nice to you, and this is what I get!!

I bet it was hot times, when you think about it.

another thought:

Daughters of man, Neanderthal or Cro-magnon ever wonder?

RT

Sons', daughters', hear my words. Battle worn, tired and old, weary from the burden borne.
Your youth of ten-thousand years brought forth a momentary smile, replaced with constant frown; followed with constant tear, yet you still followed.
Battle waged in His honor, waged on the plain of ignorance, your youth bearing.
***
War is only a concept for your learning.
Peace a truth you cannot yet comprehend.
Touch my scar when you die. Only then will you understand.
***
Who 'I' am?
You, you who do not understand yourself, how is it possible you reach for the heavens.
You may think you know the answer, yet still, you only pretend.
***
There is more than just an answer, more than you can understand.
You're not asking the correct question, I understand, yet soon, very soon, you too will taste the battle.
You too will tire. Your species grow old, weary from the burden borne.
You too will expire, in the end you see me smile.

The poem (the concept without a doubt) appears familiar, but I can't recall.

Sons', daughters', hear my words. Battle worn, tired and old, weary from the burden borne.
Your youth of ten-thousand years brought forth a momentary smile, replaced with constant frown; followed with constant tear, yet you still followed.
Battle waged in His honor, waged on the plain of ignorance, your youth bearing.
***
War is only a concept for your learning.
Peace a truth you cannot yet comprehend.
Touch my scar when you die. Only then will you understand.
***
Who 'I' am?
You, you who do not understand yourself, how is it possible you reach for the heavens.
You may think you know the answer, yet still, you only pretend.
***
There is more than just an answer, more than you can understand.
You're not asking the correct question, I understand, yet soon, very soon, you too will taste the battle.
You too will tire. Your species grow old, weary from the burden borne.
You too will expire, in the end you see me smile

If' it's yours, excellent.

RT

"Yes, it is my mess," said Robin to his ornery old friend.
"Why do you write such things, have you forgotten to take your medicine?"
"Writing is my medicine. It spills the pent passions of my brain."
"Have you ever thought of maybe just taking up fishing instead of writing? At least that activity feeds the body as well as the brain."
"For you, I will write a poem of fishing, fresh from the pond of random thoughts tormenting my mind. In this style I achieve the same end."
Fishing
Sharpened hook, sharp and to the point, sink deep into your consciousness.
Sharply dressed, you're all the fashion, standing there drinking your gin.
Money is no longer your problem. Food and drink are plenty. Friends, there is no end.
***
Collecting women of grandeur, large plump signs of health, reeking of feminine laughter, yet is this truly wealth?
You with your diamonds, your gold, silver, and land. Are you truly happy? Is this what you planned?
With sickness, you have your doctor. With health, you have your castle. With sex, well, you understand.
***
Yes, you have it all. Title, crown, and the ultimate pride of being called 'man'.
Giddy with success, you fail to see the beggar sitting in squalor, clothes dirty, and what a smell.
Sitting on the side-walk, sitting with a smile.
***
"Pardon me sir, can you spare a dollar?" spoken about all currencies since time began.
Annoying fly buzzing, you flicked the sound from your ear, walking your golden path grinning, following your plan.
Unnoticed, a young boy put a small coin into the beggars can.
***
Smile of youth met smile of the beggar, only was he a beggar?
This man on the side-walk, smelly and poor, this man was fishing for something pure.
Sometimes the real catch is not large, fat, and healthy, rather it is innocent and small.
***
The young child skipped off laughing to grab the fathers hand.
What this man found fishing was what he truly knows to exist, the true heart of goodness, the soul of a real 'man'.
It is the example of this small catch which enables this blue planet, to continue to exist.
***
The end.

[Lester Curtis]

Gods, Lipinski, where do you get this stuff? it's awesome!

Lester, you ask a good question, one answered with a smile.

Smile, by question.

Mind fried by trial, by tribulation and pain. Always the question, it still remains.
You have an answer to your own question, how? Look inside.
DNA strands twined in our beginning, it has always been our way.
***
Africa, Pelargos flying high to bring new life to the splitting lands of Earth.
You were there in spirit, watching the bird bring life.
RNA, amino acids, mixing to begin your answer, adding to your life.
***
Stuffed full like a turkey, strutting his stuff to show all, preening as did his ancestor Pelargos, is this the stuff you know?
Smile Lester, smile, for it calms the pain of life. Smile now Lester, smile, for now you have your answer.
Goodnight.
***
The end.

Some of the best I've read in a long time. I really like your mind.

RT

[Lester Curtis]

Lester, you ask a good question, one answered with a smile.

Smile, by question.

Mind fried by trial, by tribulation and pain. Always the question, it still remains.
You have an answer to your own question, how? Look inside.
DNA strands twined in our beginning, it has always been our way.
***
Africa, Pelargos flying high to bring new life to the splitting lands of Earth.
You were there in spirit, watching the bird bring life.
RNA, amino acids, mixing to begin your answer, adding to your life.
***
Stuffed full like a turkey, strutting his stuff to show all, preening as did his ancestor Pelargos, is this the stuff you know?
Smile Lester, smile, for it calms the pain of life. Smile now Lester, smile, for now you have your answer.
Goodnight.
***
The end.

Wow . . . just -- wow . . .

You couldn't have known it, but I am going through some pain right now, with my novel writing project. It's not exactly MY pain; I've just had to kill my main character's mate, the dearest love of his life (and the object of considerable DNA-related activity ) . . . the thing is, I feel it as though I were him, though, graciously, to a lesser extent. Sometimes it's hard to get three words typed without choking up.

Thank you for the poem, and I envy your ability, but -- please, write the next one for someone else.

My desire is your wish...

For someone else.

To some, there is nothing else, nothing but their own view.
To some, their view is bleak, filled with spoiled passions'.
To some, life is but a carnival ride, spinning and laughing.
***
For all, there is life, full, ripe, rich, and firm.
For all, how we choose our choices will show others if we rise or if we fall.
For all, our spirit within is our soul.
***
Choose wisely or choose to be the fool, it really does not matter except to you.
Smash destiny in the face, take the reins away from fate.
Show the Gods your true human passions, I dare them to take that away.
***
The end

Robin,

How is it possible, that your response in the FORUM is actually better poetry than the original poem? I've never seen so much talent squandered on a single reply to a post. . . .ever. Excellent!

And the original poem was better than just damn good (origin of Nephilim such as Goliath, aside. . . .).

Have you ever considered sending-off your off-the-cuff responses as final draft versions of poems that need no introduction? I bet they'd fly.

It's good stuff, dude.

Really really good. (two 'really's are logarithmic, not additive. . .)

Bill Wolfe

[Lester Curtis]

Mr. Lipinski, I wonder now if you'd care to craft a poem flaming the sleaze who posted reprehensible spam in your comments thread?

I looked at the link, just to be sure . . . if that person were here now, I'd be encouraging my cat to carve her name in his hide.

To gain attention in this world, we announce our cry of birth. We sing our cry while wet and continue to try.
We gain our wealth by trying, by crying, all in vain as we end up dying.
But a request is still a request, so as to flame spam, I will try one.

Spam

Hunker down low, crumpled gravel bedding the belly.
With fingers seeking the trail, interrupting the ants travel.
Black or red, white or brown, the ant knows its travel, it knows its chemical smell.
***
You are the god towering, you are the one in control, the ants destiny is yours, you look down, you smile.
Ants labor, they toil, they travel, mindless in their existence they only know to follow.
A mission is theirs while you ponder the meaning of life, their life is more than hollow.
***
Below you crawls the ant, the slave to the laws which it must follow.
Turning your head high, you spy the Sun, you breathe in life, you ponder in your knowledge.
Plato, Aristotle, King, Poe, Nietzsche, and more, this is what YOU follow.
***
Pity the ant as he labors with small tidbits of ham, or metaphorically known, spam.
Their existence is as dictated by the queen.
Yours is the existence of man.
***
The end.

[TaoPhoenix]

Yee ha! Grand stuff! I'm getting a vision that this would make an awesome Star Trek episode! Capitain Picard would get it instantly - the irascible Riker would probably mutter a line somewhere in the middle of the episode, "Gee, is anything you say ever simple?"
The Lipinski replies:
"Ach, but if I could, sir. For Mine was an uneven youth, without stable foundation. Needs must you chide me for my polysyllabic diction? What else is "casual conversation" but an excuse to justify less semantic content density? Such is the wonder of books - they are your companions when fragile life cannot endure, and among the corpus of the literati emeritus unfolds kindred spirits. Somewhere, someone has shared precisely your brand of pain, yet lived in an age when such expression was not socially molded by the Teal Deer."
Riker, at the corner of the camera, sighs "Forget I asked."

---

Meanwhile, I see a challenge being born! Poems about spammers!

However, since talent belongs to the Lipinsky and not I, this humble placeholder effort must do, below.

...

DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii

DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii
GottaSellMore GottaSellMore GottaSellMore GottaSellMore

DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii DialupiiiAAAiii
GottaSellMore GottaSellMore GottaSellMore GottaSellMore
SingCompSing SingCompSing SingCompSing SingCompSing

[Lester Curtis]

This thread just gets better and better . . .


"Tea -- Earl Gray -- hot . . . "

Lester: Touche, for in the muse you've touched.
Bill: Thank you for logarithmic consideration.

Talent squandered

To piss away the joy of drink, you may think this is the natural way.
To defecate the taste of food, it goes in better than it goes away.
Natural results tend our lives each and everyday.
***
Submitting written work of labor, caressed dearly, then sent away, is like having sex with pictures, it is my least favorite way.
A lonely teen dreaming, turning page by page, longing for the release as the pictures tease.
Better there is a living partner, it is a better way.
***
Writing and interaction, connection with a living brain.
This is the style to my liking.
A much, much, much, better way.
***
The end.

Polluted Heart

By it continues

Threads falling from falling flesh, falling to replace blood dried, fallen from two silent hearts.
Laying bound in a weave falling apart, much as a marriage needing life.
Words spilling from this scene continue to show an angels death, chilling, not thrilling, sad, very sad.
Light, illuminating. illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, falling.
***
Look through the window of morning light.
Sun shining to show the Son smiling, illuminating, illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, falling.
Light falling on the fallen, flies drawn to the sight.
***
Broken union, broken pride, illuminating, illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, fallen.
Mortal vows dissolve, her fallen flesh revealing her past life.
Her smile fallen, viewed by the thread of readers fallen too, in their own lives.
***
"Forgive me Father," spoken by death.
Illuminating, illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, falling towards new life.
Wings spreading, illuminating, illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, rising now, rising high.
***
Angel of death, angel of light, I have regained my wings by virtue of mercy.
Illuminating, illustrating, pure, energy pulsing, I head for my Father.
I head for the light.
***
The end.

[Wormtongue]

It does something to an editor to discover someone who writes this well off the cuff and in the FORUM for cryin' out loud! Lipinski! Are you trying to put me out of a job?

Out of a Job

By low on cash

Coins tinkle, fallen from the slot.
'Out of order' read the sign.
Lost now forever, in the machine of deceit.
You read it, yet you did not believe it.
***
Empty pocket now, empty except for fingers covered in grime, by passage of time.
Turning, your legs carry what was once proud, once clean, one who used to believe it.
Surrounded by wealth, by creation, by those still believing it.
"Vote for me, I'll bring you change!" Why did you ever believe it?
***
So many do.
So many try.
Yet, so many are like you, like I
***
Machine of deceit.
Wealth sucking deceit.
Inhaling life as it see's it.
***
One day.
One week.
One month, year, century.
One moment will come when the machine of deceit will be smashed by a new faith,
a faith of those who believe it.
***
The end