Out upon the rocky rampart
Unnoticed and alone
Sits the virgin watchman.
Her tears do not distort the view;
She waits and through them watches
Like Anna and old Simeon
Knowing day does come.
She waits and works and watches
Writing plain upon her tablet
Crying for the day
When sons shall run
And darkness flee away.
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.
How she loves him
She gently strokes his work worn brow
He calls and she comes
He asks and she gives
Her gaze intuits his desire
For his comfort she draws him in
to her warm and beating breast.
How he loves her
Ivory tower his alone
Porcelain delicate, smooth as glass
A treasure fought for
A prize attained
He sets her high
Atop his cluttered trophy shelf.
A man may have the wife of the first stanza and yet never realize the gift and never give her the honor she is due. He may imagine a porcelain prize, his idol on a shelf. She is not a real woman. She is not warm, but cold as glass. Her image blocks his view of the real woman stroking his brow. To him glass is the wife he believes he deserves. This warm woman is the whore he uses.
A woman too may have her masculine prize on the shelf and not see the gift in her arms.