Bella 1d
I want to write a number poem
So,

1) the number of boys I fallen in love with

2) the number of houses you lived away from me

3) the years it's been since we broke up
I know this isn't how number poems work but let's skip,
to five 5

5) the months we were together

7) the days a week I think of you

how about 12)
the month you broke up with me

21) the day you broke up with me

22) what would have been our 6 months

183) the number of days we were together

1,000,000) the number of times I've come back to you

3,159,353,015) your phone number

∞) the amount of people tried to replace you with

∞) the number of times I've cried over you

∞) the number of people I've dragged into this

∞) the number of poems I've written you
letters I've written you
texts I've written you

∞) the number of hours we spent on the phone

∞) The number I hold in the pit of my stomach because I know it will never be us.
The first number poem I wrote (a while ago)
Paul Carico Jun 11
A past forgotten.
A time when the rain,
Never clashed
Against the Pane.
A time stretched so far.
A past so torn,
Stitched with a thread
To hide the scorn.

I never thought Time would come,
To meet me at the end.
Just to say farewell,
Leaving me behind
Where infinity shall begin.
PoserPersona Apr 26
From the iron red sea flows
an infinite forest of white roots and gray leaves

Unequivocally woven in response to
the senses of each unique being

Ahhh, if timeless beauty is what you seek,
let the transcendental levies bleed

For that which may be perceived internally,
will be embellished eternally
Semicolon Jun 8
You are made of stardust;
Your skin sparkles the way those stars do.
Your blood is made of the earth;
Your veins bloom flowers and leaves and trees.
Your breaths are made of the air of this planet;
You blow life into this world.
Your mouth, your lips are made of words;
You speak tales that nobody else feels.
Your eyes contain the universe in them;
They have stories to tell and stories to bury.
Your scars are made of the chronicles your life has lived;
They're constant reminders that you've felt emotions nobody has.
You are infinite.
How'd you think it's okay to burn yourself down?
~Semicolon
rob kistner Jun 7
_

a lightless
void
of
soundless
vacuum

spinning
masses
of
revolving
­orbs

hurtling
fragments
in
crystalline
vapors

molten
cores

min­gled
gasses

dead husks

black
holes

a
frozen
dance
of chaos
on the
tentative
edge
of balance

attractions
and
repulsions
of precarious
fragility

magnificent
obscurity

unquenchable
wonder
­
unrealized
dreams

untethered rubble

relativity’s
fabric
tangled
in the cloth
of
time

reality’s
illusion
set in
fantasy’s
foundation

the ultimate
frontier

unfounded
fear

hope
adventure
catastrophe

hu­mankind’s
triumph
and
sad folly

the
seductive
promise
of
a future

our
salvation

infinity’s
threshold

the eternal
question

the elusive
answer

the
everlasting
bastion
of
never-ending
truth

a
­constant
listening

a
longing call

home of
the
gods

the
fountainhead
of myths
religions
and other
odd
superstitions

a reason
why

a source
of
mystery
font of
knowledge
cause
         Lmm mmk om m, ,,,,lk,,,,,,j,,.  gl',,,k,m mml,l,,,lkll,lllkllkllkk,lk,lll,kl,ly,kkll,,,l,ll,kll,l                           L       l.                         ,                                                                         ,                                               ,of
fiction

Heinlein’s
cathedral

the unknown
of
the
unknowable

ever
expanding
everything

and

nothin­gness
absolute

…space is

_


rob kistner © 2008
my personal contemplation on the infinite vastness of space

it is from a series of poems I created between 2007 and 2010
which were an exploration of minimalist structure
focused on lines of few words, emphasising single word lines
I published them on a blog I entitled "re~flect"
julianna Jun 3
Never
Never
Never
Things I'll never do and never say
Things I want to do, but will never say
Things I've never done, but will never say
It's a finite of nevers,
But they feel infinite to me.
rob kistner May 27
__


watching the cosmos
marveling
tonight I go mind-surfing
beyond my limitations

to a place of mystery
that touches the edge of infinite

the place where humility is born

where the first thread
was tweaked to unfurl

were is spoken
the language of awe

and silent wonder
is the song that is sung



rob kistner © 1/10/15
gazing into. starry starry night
Joe Savarese May 22
When you look, what is it that you see? I don't think you see what I do, yet you might try and tell me that it is so, but the way you read the signs is so blind to the splendor, the extravagance of what is there. I find no evidence you see what I see. Soon my luminous world grows dark as the shadows of yours seek to ground what should be in flight, make cynical of all potential light. Why must the world be cast into black and white when there is so much color?
You think it safe to bind yourself within the safety of your rules,
afraid to venture out,
step outside the here and now,
outside this room, this building, this city, this country.
Within this world erase the boundaries, erase the lines,
and realize what lives sure enough dies. That's what makes it so beautiful, aporia In attoraxic duress, we are merely consciousness, outside the blood and the flesh, outside the vessel. For the universe needed something, so now, I observe it, someone had to take notice. Thus, it was given to us to take it and shape it, make it the wonderful place in which we think we can only imagine. Imagine how if we tried to see the potential, the possibilities, released the hate, the anger, the cynicism. We limit ourselves but I don't want to feel the constraints anymore, I'm ready to be, I'm ready to exist, to flourish, to find beauty in simplicity, to imagine, to create, to wonder, to let go of the urge to know and to embrace the infinite possibilities.
It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
-Henry David Thoreau
Avery Glows May 22
They shall recall
fragments of you.
Your past.
Your future.
Biding farewell
at the darkest hour.
There you lay
with roses tinged white,
a sight, like art.
And in static handwriting,
your name
be drizzled, in soft italics,
delicately, like craft.
They mumbled
Au revoir.
The voices of the living exhale,
in echo with the relief—

You lived,
have lived,
unforgotten.
May, 2017
Next page