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AW Nov 2021
If even there were
A force in this universe
Sustaining life beyond just breath
Beyond this web of neurons
Firing in predictable patterns
Prescribing every inclination and desire
A flame in which is fully forged
The consciousness that
Dreams and dares all things
Beyond our mere survival

If even there were such a force
How would it be made known?
How does a foundation work
When the fundamental building blocks
Are massless, pointlike?
As much wave as particle
Basking in the sunlight of uncertainty
Existing in duality

How, when everything else is
A void a million billion times more extensive
Than anything substantial
That surrounds it
A vacuum that renders
The remaining matter pointless
How could force be hollow
Yet encompass all
What does it all mean
When all of matter falls in between

This unseen field
Rippling, wriggling, rigging
Everything it fills with the seedlings of decay
Each day
Moving along the breakdown towards
Splendid chaos,
Almost too perfect to be called such

How could we not see
The force
Still elusive, but unchanged
Striking a balance
Between fate and volatility
The neverending battle
That morphs each how into a why
The demon and the butterfly
The Science Sessions
dorian green Jul 2021
sunsets ripple across southern skies
like skipping stones across a pond.
i'm thinking about how we all die.
what will nothing feel like?
what did it feel like before?
i catch myself guessing -
the void and cold conjurings of a
scared temporary consciousness.
loneliness beckons and repulses me
in equal measures, existential inquiries
painting me into nihilistic corners.
is this just some brief gift?
i hem and haw and waste the light,
i become the universe i fear,
endlessly eating my thoughts,
embodying entropy as i gasp for air.
David Rissik Apr 2021
I close my eyes
Find myself alone with thought
What is thought?
What is what?
What is?
In the moment of silence
We experienced everything
A second for one
A lifetime for another
Moving between hot and cold
The cold darkness of nothing
The burning embers of creation
Bubbles pop in and out of existence
The abyss sits waiting for us to come home
The cold and heat disappear as equilibrium sets in
Entropy takes over and we become one
Francie Lynch Apr 2021
I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.
Zoe Mei May 2021
“You are the universe in ecstatic motion.” –Rumi

I am endless infinite possibility,
a Boltzmann brain fluctuated from the
furious buzzing entropy thrilling the
scattered melted formless universe,
collapsed into the thin singularity string of
an impossible human being.
The world is testament to my stunning genius
a grand hallucination of my own creation
and I am my own invention.
JV Beaupre Feb 2021
In the beginning there was procrastination,
and I can't wait to start putting that off.

To begin or not to begin that divides us all.

Deferring action never increases entropy,
and lengthens the life of the universe.

Completion happens once, but delay has no limit.

I'm not dithering, just exploring all the options.

This "beginning" poem has just been hijacked by hesitation,
and dragged down the rat hole of reluctance.

Oh well, there is always tomorrow.
One can always say, my muse took a snooze.
Oskar Erikson Feb 2021
granted, taking this loss
somewhat harder
than expected. couldn't have been the sort of guy who asked for permission
to grieve
sort of happens.

i am taking a little breath before the next break so speak now or
forever hold my hand

you were doing so well
so was I
we are falling
without a plan to land
- Jan 2021
I’m afraid of entropy. A thing so fearsome, it can only be alluded to with the letter S. It is haunting; it looms silently over everything, only expressing itself materially in the mess that litters itself on the edges of highways, in a crowded mall, in a subway full of disparities, in images of landfills. Images so foul and beyond our imagination, they look almost like artful depictions. We find beauty in them, abstract them to colors and shapes and assure ourselves in the efficacy of our ideology. Chaos surrounds us, makes a necklace around the circumference of the ocean and hangs upon the necks of its oldest inhabitants. The shell of a sea turtle looks like infinity. It carries the resonance of a pool of water, an entanglement of snakes, a rat king, a mangled mess of necklaces. Unbreakable chains. Putrid and infinite. The stuff that emerged from Pandora’s box. We yearn for boxes, we want to contain our sins, our sorrows, our shame. We look for safety within four walls, in the shadows of concrete structures, in straight edges, things we can count. But silently, we despair, because we know, for all our effort, it does not suffice. Everything around us builds in complexity and in inextricability, linking the mother and child to the predator and prey, holy things become impure, ugly things become common in our collective imagination. We try to filter out the horrid symbols completely, but they linger like an albatross hung round our necks. Our spines weaken, our postures relax. We feel the humidity and the stench of garbage follow us to the countryside. Poppies lined in gunpowder and pain. ***** tinged with the scent of blood. Products spring forth from the ground, but they aren’t the bounty promised by our ancestors. They are made of plastic and tin. They long to be recycled, made homogenous again, but that fearsome letter. Will always have its way.
mal frost Jan 2021
we package everything
put things in tiny little boxes
all neat and organized
our own personal battles against entropy,
wasting our life force on something inevitable,
or perhaps something we don't understand, if you're lucky enough
to have faith

but i still don't understand
why do we try package ourselves
into the same tiny little boxes?
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