Here is a riddle I have composed after many months of a certain line of contemplation.
A Point of Life -The Riddle
by Susan Ector Ward
I occupy a point.
The point is a location on a particular line.
The line is located on a particular plane.
Within the plane, I am occupying a location on an infinite number of other lines.
The location of my point is claimed by an infinite number of other planes each of which incorporates an infinite number of other lines whose path also claims my point.
My point is the center of an infinite sphere.
I may move in any direction along any of the infinite number of lines occupied by my point.
Successively and momentarily as I move, I will be occupying one of an infinite number of other points each one not only located on the line along which I move but also located on an infinite number of other lines and also located on an infinite number of other planes, few of which are occupied by the point at which I began.
As I move, each point whose location I occupy becomes the center of a new infinite sphere.
I may change my direction by choosing to move along any of the infinite lines whose path
claims the point of my new location.
As I move, I find that I have influenced an infinite number of spheres whose center I have occupied.
If I move backward to retrace my path, though I will again pass through the center of every one of the infinite spheres whose center I had occupied before, I cannot influence any sphere in the same way I had influenced it before because I have been influenced by each of the infinite spheres along my path. The fact of my movement has changed me. Though I go back, neither I nor my point can ever be the same as we once were.
Who am I?
Finished guessing? The answer here.
Earth is raped
And forced to bring forth
Not after its kind,
Like Rosemary’s Baby
Half fiend and half man.
Creation groans in labor
Caught in the evil embrace
Writhing and crying and struggling
To burst free
From the rhythmic thrusts
Of the rapist.
The anguish in this poem is for the corrupting of nature through genetic modifications and the poisons created to kill.
I have always been inside the hedge
Protected, safe and guarded.
Yet as I run non-stop and blindly
Each step just reaches past the edge.
I may by chance discover
Rock or soil or even watery depth
Unseen to me
Below each falling foot.
Onward moving, always dashing,
Ever within, yet ever
On the edge.
What if Time is the medium of Eternity?
As water is the medium of the ocean
And all sea creatures move through water;
As air is the medium of the atmosphere
And all surface creatures move within air;
So Time is the medium of Eternity
And all Heaven and Earth move through and within Time.
The movement in Time
of the collective consciousness
constantly creates reality
in the ever changing present moment.
The past is gone.
Yet, the past has left evidence
that it was present.
The future hasn’t happened yet;
it doesn’t exist.
It’s still in the planning stage.
definition: collective consciousness -the sum of every individual awareness of every conscious being
Before his ear can hear it,
Before his eye can see it,
He perceives the coming.
From lonely heights atop the wall
The watchman waits and scans the sky
For bird or cloud or dust or smoke.
He feels and knows, yet does not see.
He looks below at brick and earth
And gropes the ground for movement there.
There’s something in the air beyond,
A song or distant melody
Beyond the audit of his ears, a most familiar strain.
Perceive he must, and grips his silver trumpet fast.
The blast he may not sound too soon,
Or, “Wolf,” would be the cry.
With trembling hand and firming lip
He lifts the trumpet to his mouth.
The time has come for war.
For the Son of man is as a man taking a far journey,
who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work,
and commanded the porter to watch.
Watch ye therefore:
for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in the morning: Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping.
And what I say unto you I say unto all,
A Poem by Susan Ector Ward
He reaches out to lift me up.
His gentle face is bleeding red,
And I’m the one who hurled the stones.