A little rhyming prose, for you to peruse, it’s my latest toy, hope you enjoy.

My son has a son, I am the son of my father, he the son of his. The son of my son I scour his face for signs, as men are wanting, subconsciously connecting with my primordial past. He has his mother on his face, but the back of his head and hair so many years familiar. The pride, the love, delight unfolding, the connection I feel to my future and past. Where in this loving and loved child do I begin and he ends, he begins and I end. Life never ends, just morphs into improvement, for the forward movement of all mankind.

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About bigsyrb

I am creative and artistic but live in the real world. I possess compassion, charity, and nobility when required. My education is as eclectic as my prose. I have travelled the world and remember Mount Kilimanjaro when it had snow on its peak. I can gently remove the stitches from a sleeping child’s forehead to save him the trauma of a return visit to the ER, and I can outrun a hippo when the occasion calls for it. I love and respect my parents; I love and respect my children, I love and respect myself. I believe in true women’s emancipation, and Germaine Greer is a fraud. Ethics, honesty, and integrity are at their best when no one is looking. I have good teeth; and in my view attractive feet. A bowl of thin cold gruel takes on prodigious gastronomic proportions when you haven’t eaten in ten years, and takeout somehow leaves you hungry. I am looking to fulfill a need and will search to the end of my days if need be. Last book read, Conrad Black, A Matter of Principle. My favorite authors; D.H.Lawrence, Susan Sontag, Darwin, W.Somerset Maugham, Stephen Pinker. The next book I read will be The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen. My last three sculptures, Ayatollah Khomeini, Dead Horse, an English Coalman, working on many more. A neophile by nature who believes unconditional love is a hostage situation. My sense of humor never lets me down in this sometimes painful world and I don't blow away in a light storm.
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