POEM: As I Poor Myself

As I myself
Out into the streets
A pasture for the people
At ease with just us
Weather soon becoming
A torrent of
Oar that which trickles our fancy
A tributary to
That no’s know bounds
And has no interest in banks

This poem is about that which makes us human, which can run still and deep or as a raging river.  Much of is somewhere in-between, yet hopefully that which reflects our passions and fancies.

This poem also weaves this being human into .  We cannot be fully human alone.  Or better said, we are more fully human in .  This may take the form of joining hands and hearts in working for or simply enjoying the company of others.  Such accompaniment breeds further .

Since being human tasks us with the never-ending paradox of needing to be more than human, we face an eternal question of choosing growth or decay, participating consciously in the unfolding of or feudally try to hold onto what is passing by.  is furthered when its members are self- and when transcends itself.  This perpetual opportunity and call for growth seeds a certain into any quo.  There are always frontiers to cross, new lessons to learn, and new experiences to take in.  The most vital moments in cannot be banked, and this poem concludes simply with a bank shot.  The true currency of is not , , or , but , , and .  And life is never so exacting that there is not left over…

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