"abacus" poems
I want to be your abacus baby,Oh you can count on me.
I wont say that i love you, or i heart you, I less than 3 you.
Your molecules must be moving fast,girl. Cause your really hot.
Are you igneous sedimentary or metamorphic? All i know is baby you rock.
And if god existed I'd thank him for you, but I'm rational and read a lot of Sam Harris.
Your beautiful like the font garamad,but i want to see you sandarac, take your pants off.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,
And i observe your quirks oscillating, and I'm formulating, a g-string theory..
Like an archeologist,I'm gonna try and compute your age. cause i really want to date you.
You make me feel like a male giraffe. I want to nudge your **** and make you urinate,and mate you.
Scientific fact,thats what they do.
The value of my love for you cannot be expressed exactly. More rational then Pi.
Hey **** is a legitimate word in scrabble, just FYI
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
You can **** me into your super massive black hole, the center of your galaxy. Im talkin ******
I may not be the strongest or the prettiest, but my knowledge of grammar shines.
I know how to use the words further and farther..correctly. Every fricken time.
Example:farther indicates physical distance
and further a depth or degree
example: the moon is getting farther from the earth
about 4 centimeters annually. Fun factoid,take it home with ya.
You just keep getting further into my heart.
You just keep getting farther into my heart.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,and if the situation is ambiguous, further and farther can be used interchangeably. Just a fun factoid.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
Baby i less than 3 you.
So please take off your pants.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend
Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves
Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows
until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall
and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade
In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me
A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"
Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money
They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks
with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)
I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds
A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown
Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray
we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward
on this living journey
we will take
a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
upon each lovely lovely face
*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Three thousand miles
navigating a storm
without drop of bad weather
Abacus odometer clicks
rotating forward ―
spinning with the
world go round
Circling back down
a long and winding road;
where unforgotten memories
were once searchingly explored,
untrodden pathways
coursing way up north of alone
on the low highway
Now an aging shepherd
wonders without a compass ;
a vagabond deprived of light
from an ever blurring north star
Heart empty as a gas tank
with a broke down gauge,
running on fumes of hope
for unpromised tomorrows
Running from loneliness
just to be on the run
The gales of silence bellow
No feelings I can see ― lay me low
Wild-eyed daydreams
of Full sails billow out
through the windshield,
only hearing the unspoken
moments sigh restlessly ―
The dull droning road rumble
re-sighs renunciatively,
a tired monotone voice
mimicking the loathe silent echo
wallowing in an
omnipresent hollow void
deriding unspoken chaos
between the passing centerlines ―
A frost heave pothole erupts,
with a leaf-spring rattling thud,
as a fleeting cloud of dust arises,
set adrift with the draught
headed off the east side
of the Alcan highway:
blown way outside the lines,
towards the Alberta prairie
White knuckled steering wheel
held sway, rolling down
a beckoning wilderness
reincarnation;
default reset button paused ―
stuck in a moment ― until another jaw rattling
frost-heave pothole in the highway,
jars it free
Leaving it all behind
like a sigh breathed
in a silence a heart has outgrown;
just a fleeting cloud of dissipating dust,..
a paling whisper
the past seems to send forth
like a fading last breath
Letting it all unfold to become what it is
harlon rivers ... May 2018
... travelogue 2 of some
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
2.9k
IF you are not a tantric how could you know tantric have secrets?
How did you know Freemasons in the lodge hidden away
have secrets too?
This is tantrism
We know tantra means loom weaving, but what is woven together?
Like the right and left hands grasping…is that where true prayer happens?
*opposites magnetic
union pragmatic
cosmic dramatic*
*dharmma and a-dharmma ,
duty and rule breaking
Sage or Demon, *
the tantric sees the fullness of the tapestry
before it is woven
Fire, Earth, Water, and Wind…
The breeze blows and There I am
Masculine power seems to require hierarchy
to pass on the sounds of the absurd
So if you hear their's in secret
and bring to bear its use
you may will fail…
but
if an enlightened woman, warm with shakti glowing gives it to you
hold on
for it is yours
This keeps the inside safe from the outside.
Keeping harm from the uninitiated.
How many secrets do you really know?
the 108 sanguine rose beads keep track
like divine fingers across an abacus
tracing the age of the cosmos
Would be immortals know of 5 dangerous things that could swallow you
What do you know of the imbibement of
meat-fish-wine
Next
Was it secret gestures or parched grain???
Symbols set to confuse the rest
the secret remains the same
Forbidden in kind
the ****** relates to the mind
being undone, Mold Antipode to the Classic Culture
the mortal and immortal
human and divine
are secrets Immortal?
Like Ouroboros the Consumption may consume you…or free you.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
TO LAYLAH EIGHT-AND-TWENTY
Lamp of living loveliness,
Maid miraculously male,
Rapture of thine own excess
Blushing through the velvet veil
Where the olive cheeks aglow
Shadow-soften into snow,
******* like Bacchanals afloat
Under the proudly ******* throat!
Be thou to my pilgrimage
Light, and laughter sweet and sage,
Till the darkling day expire
Of my life in thy caress,
Thou my frenzy and my fire,
Lamp of living loveliness!
Thou the ruler of the rod
That beneath thy clasp extends
To the galaxies of God
From the gulph where ocean ends,
Cave of dragon, ruby rose,
Heart of hell, garden-close,
Hyacinth petal sweet to smell,
Split-hoof of the glad gazelle,
Be thou mine as I am thine,
As the vine's ensigns entwine
At the sacring of the sun,
Thou the even and I the odd
Being and becoming one
On the abacus of God!
Thou the sacred snake that rears
Death, a jewelled crest across
The enchantment of the years,
All my love that is my loss.
Life and death, two and one,
Hate and love, moon and sun,
Light and darkness, never swerve
From the norm, note the nerve,
Name the name, exceed the excess
Of thy lamp of loveliness,
Living snake of lazy love,
Ithyphallic that uprears
Its Palladium above
The enchantment of the years!
2.1k
Under a low-hanging branch of magnolia,
a foolish young person lay breathing his last.
He bled out his guts to the soft-stirring air,
Soothed as white petals, like ghosts, flitted past.
A foolish young person believed those around him,
A foolish young person left Mother at home.
While many would say that she tearfully warned him,
She was one among many who told him to go.
She told him of bravery, bloodline, nobility,
And of destitution, tables yet to turn.
Under the branch that snows down white magnolia,
He bleeds out remembering others’ words.
Under a spice-scented branch of magnolia,
He thinks of the will of a God he knows not.
God would not wish for the sins he’s committed;
This murderer is not on his way to meet God.
He thinks himself hero, and calls himself savior,
Conservator of all that his short life has known.
To keep others underfoot, deprived, and in chains,
He gives up his body, his blood, and his bone.
Under a low-hanging branch of magnolia,
His heartbeat an abacus, he tallies up deeds.
He fought not for money, he fought not for "rights,"
That reasoning is long since lost to the weeds.
He fought not for love of the branch of magnolia;
He fought not for dignity, the saving of face.
He fought for one thing, and one ugly thing only:
A life lived as if of superior race.
One could say he did not know his own motivation,
Because he so fervently deluded himself,
And many, thereafter, denied it as well,
Till they worshipped the rag that led him to death.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
I know a man who thinks he can
Talk in circles and still demand
That people rise at his command
The moment he lifts up his hand
Stranger still is his ambition
One he deems a worthy mission
He proclaims that his ignition
Only turns with his permission
He walks around with head held high
And looks at no one in the eye
His body language speaks a lie
As if to say he'll never die
They claim he's always been this way
A man immune to making change
And yet he knows that come what may
He can't escape the final day
The hours pass as time rolls on
And he proceeds to move along
Convinced that he has surely won
He executes his closing con
Now he's gone
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
The tempo is in the calm.
Much how lightning keeps her thunder in suspense.
My private thoughts are in the wind
Between the spoken word and the microphone.
Temples have no god.
The desert drowns the cactus and the snake the same.
Caverns tune their Hymns to Mars
To harmonize the choir.
Strange...Fruit Bats lose their radar and collide
With mangoes, more than Fate.
And People think of Stunning
As a tazer and a can of Mace.
And nothing is more hopeless than attempting.
When you're counting,
lose your place.
When the monkey cracks your Abacus
It figures
you'll improve mistakes.
Blunder into Wisdom
With more open arms
than Shiva
When you pray.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC
Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of **** backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust
- you can call her “Godfather.”
The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - think tiger stripes.
Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.
Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.
When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.
Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while on line (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.
Finally, it was my turn. we cheek kissed (fait la bise).
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We la bise again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.
Ooo! Another steward!
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
charred exoskeleton
with a spider-like crown
empty network of wires
skinny black straws
a burnt-out wreck
of salt-flecked bones
mottled gaps unfilled
now an eerie static abacus
a blemish in the sea
crumbling like stale cake
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
Counting is an activity one takes for granted.
When one and one are two, it is truth.
When one and one are five, it is the failure, not of the device, but of the counting.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
collecting bits of memories
left hanging in a row
gathering the sunlight
as they're swinging to and fro
and counting on an abacus
the time we've left to spare
for making more of memories
to hang up in the air
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
i count
these shy stars
scattered
in the night sky
like beads on an abacus
little jewels
coalescing
to form shapes
like a fish, boar, turtle and a lion
each cluster
merging into a milky ocean
wherein
the cosmic flutist
plays a tune to which
all the stars dance
© 2017
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
If there should ever come a day
when the heavens should file for bankruptcy
and the stars pack up and walk away,
know you no longer have reason to stay
and watch the waves abandon the sea.
If there should ever come a day
when gravity breaks down, losing it's way,
and molecular bonds begin to disagree,
let the stars pack up and walk away.
If mathematics come undone and run astray,
break the last abacus and then decree:
"If there should come a day and that day is today!"
If and when it comes leave Earth in disarray,
disassemble each and every tree,
tell the stars, "Pack up and walk away."
Call up all the physicists and say,
"Discontinue paying your A.P.S. fee"
if there should ever come a day
when the stars pack up and walk away.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
Beads are moving
On the family abacus.
Five to the right.
One to the left.
Five welcome concerns.
Five welcome mourners.
No hand controls
Or limits which ones slide
Along thinning guide wires.
Enter. Hello. Right.
Exit. Good-bye. Left.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
.
Sad kings would have themselves
Be known as Bard, tho without music
They clack song, clang along, bleeding
Ears in their sycophantic, bull kingdoms,
The horns, hardly trumpet in the barnyards,
For it is writ, because they have so inscribed,
All must now be audience, and used witness,
The spotted fawn, is all their sorrowed brilliance,
Yet, the tower raven mocks these kings crowing,
How they vainly display their sorry proclamations
On flea broken, loosed, rusted, disused abacus,
Their tabulations of worths non are mounted
In a mirror by their chambers and hands,
But all the knowledge of fallen Rome
Are simply pleasures to dream,
As their dim wordy dreams
Know praises so hollow,
As fools on a throne.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
You always count on her
so why not
make her a necklace from the
beads on an abacus
and make it official.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
i saw a downed tree two weeks ago.
it was green and full of life
despite the evenly-spaced, spliced logs
its trunk had become.
each with over forty circles,
outstanding the test of time others could not.
to us time is current, to nature it is recurrent.
all we know are the rings around,
cycles repeated, cycles abound.
we stand ready to survive the day,
while nature stows and stocks away.
for next year, for many to come,
nature, like the tree, prepares to endure its run.
we say let's live to see another day,
why not another year? would ten not be okay?
calculations, calculations,
always counting through observation.
abacus please don't feed me lies,
the tree grows rings and then it dies.
blooming, blossoming, full of expression,
its leaves are brown now, nourished recession.
but fear not how, not when, nor why,
this poor giant never planned to die.
see, up they grow, from seedling or sapling,
to shade us all, optimistically happening.
no bowing their chins, no lowering their gaze,
for the sunshine is their life force today.
if ever dazed, lost or swayed,
just climb a tree and learn its ways.
the future can't be met just yet,
go ahead, breathe in the day.
all we know are the rings around,
cycles repeated, cycles abound.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 12:23 AM UTC
#2 | 31 Poems for August 2016
A poem written by my heart so every single word you hear is a pulse.
I’m a literary writer living inside the mind of a spoken-word poet.
I still write beautiful words; you can ask Luyanda – even she knows it.
Things change, circles grow smaller, conversations get shorter and eventually hearts grow distant.
But I’m glad that Luyanda, Faith and I still manage to talk every now and then.
It’s sad to see that you’re not around, it’s like you just disappeared into thin air.
Still hoping that you’d call or text but you’ve probably lost my numbers by now.
If you’re willing to talk to me, I promise to listen like I always do.
You can count on me like an abacus, sounds cliché but you know it’s true.
Even if things don’t always go my way, I just hope that everything will be okay.
I’m learning to embrace a metamorphosis I was previously oblivious to.
It’s still no mystery why my aura will always long for the company of yours.
I’m a literary writer living inside the mind of a spoken-word poet.
I still write beautiful words; you can ask William – even he knows it.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
Things change but I’m glad that William, Terrence and I still manage to talk every now and then.
It’s sad to see that you’re not around, it’s like you just disappeared into thin air.
Still hoping that you’d call or text but you’ve probably lost all touch with most people by now.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
Had an adder in my garden,
His name was Abacus,
A simple snake was he.
He never ever dared to bite,
And his sums were always right.
(c)LIVVI
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
The shades are drawn in endless daylight, begging the night to fall yet loathing the months of night that will too soon follow these endless months of days. Sleep does not come swiftly as feet twitch restlessly under cool sheets. The mind relives peaceful mornings by the creek with fishing rods in hand ******* on lollipops and skipping stones. Stones that for others seem to float on the surface, yet, thrown by my young hand sank like the rocks that they were. click, click, click, the beads of the abacus counting time in my dreamlike wannabe state. The beep of the microwave oven jars the mind and the scent of coffee wakes the brain, only to realize it was the sound of the alarm clock and the cupboard does not hold the coffee so loved in dreams yet detested in reality. The solitude of morning, which looks like evening, which looks like night tastes like rotten onions in the mouth you struggle eat with. Remnants of equestrian dreams linger in a hazy head pounding like a basketball across the the court. The lampshade is covered in a purple scarf, giving off just enough light to not have to open the shades.
Day begins with a gargle of mouthwash that tastes like Campho Phenique
hoping to get rid of the residue of rotten onion dreams that remind you of a life you never thought you'd live.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC