"calculations" poems
A catalyst is a chemical that speeds up reactions.
At least that’s what I learned in chemistry class.
Catalysts sometimes are the major factors in a reactions and without them,
The reaction could never happen.
Catalyst can be lab chemicals,
alcohol,
drugs,
coffee even,
or a person.
While lounging around one afternoon you were talking physics
And I turned it on your head and spoke of chemistry,
Knowing full well that I was speaking of our personal chemistries.
You were right, the physics of a relationship gives us the laws,
But CHEMISTRY can predict the outcome.
If you do the math and follow the directions,
you can determine the product without even doing the experiment.
Unless the reaction you are creating has never been attempted before by the scientists preforming the experiment.
They can flip through the books,
Read the essays,
Study the theorems,
Even attempt the calculations,
But if they don’t do the actual experiment,
They will never find their outcome.
Some things need a push,
A catalyst,
For them to form a bond,
React,
And combine into a stable combination.
Hypotheses must be TESTED, ACCEPTED, and RATIFIED
Before becoming a law.
No matter how based in logic your hypothesis might be,
You need the universe and its fundamental laws to back it up.
There are still surprises left in the universe.
Maybe you and I can be one of them.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,
Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expected, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;
Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising,
But these were mere boys.
For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.
The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause
In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.
As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.
7.8k
'tis a sad sad
tale of woe
of which I sing
of gods and godesses
and their lessening
how forlorn
the goddess Ceres
once loved by all
and wooed by many
when unprovoked
and unforeseen
a war was wrought
'gainst fair queen
caught unawares
her throne assailed
her forces scattered
'twas all unfair
cast down she was
from lofty throne
no longer crowned
no more beloved
pierced thru
with many thorns
belittled
and besmirched
her reputation
and now her station
lost far beyond
re-incarnation
silently
she slips away
lost
and near forgotten
wounded
and rarely seen
her sullen thoughts
of malice reign
shamed and bleeding
plotting her revenge
till time and chance
provide the proper
circumstance
then all the thorns
that pierced her thru
she shook as many blades
and hurled
those bitter barbs as one
'gainst Hades' mighty gates
shaken he
from his dark slumber
his rallied forces
armed in numbers
their banners raised
on solar breezes
as trumpets blare
thru breathless reaches
voices shout
in protestation
slide rules locked
in astrometric
calculations
oh see how Ceres
scorned and mocked
has wrought
her rotting vengeance
on Pluto's frozen rocks
"Oh woe to thee
my Persephone
flee thee now
to thy father's house
for thy husband's hearth
hath been broken
and Hades' home
now just a token
My lofty edifice
a shattered wrack
an' all that's left
'tis a humble
wretched shack"
Pic Poem
https://www.pix-star.com/media/cache_local/download/23fc881b88e812947b061094f5694d32/JPlutoThouHastFallen-e52.jpg
.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
eating the sludgy contents
of your beautiful mind's conscience
and dreaming in your thoughts
while choking on blood clots
slurping up tangled tendons
drowning in remembrance
tales of your history
have now become a meal for me
digested in your calculations
I am finally free of my frustration.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
lonely nights
show us the darkest sight
of our strength and weakness
to our partner it could bring stress
if you're strong enough
then its fine
else for your partner time is tough
you may act like swine
your heart just give reasons
its our brain that do the calculations
its OK to have an insane heart
but an insane mind can lit spark
from the number of incident
we choose a single moment
where our heart beats loud
and to judge, our insane mind, we allow
the mind come up with harsh decision
but our heart has its own vision
it chooses the one suits
and to negotiate, this decision, it recruits
its us who know;
every moment and incident
don't let your feelings flow
they (partner) may not find it decent!
we must respect every living being
and not take them for granted;
just because they respect our feeling.
our act may get a negative image planted!
if you love the person
love their decision!
and if you can't
simply make space and move on!!
we don't have any right to hurt someone
coz everyone is special in their own.
and what if they hurt you?
its your decision if you want to continue
don't leave any stone unturned
don't let your feelings burn
but to force someone to love
is inhuman hereof!
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
Fibonacci Series
their bodies,
more suggestion than shape,
stretch then swell,
trailing slime
on sidewalks,
an eternity
of space to cross
from grass to grass.
one,
then another
and another
undefine themselves,
wet antennae testing
air and sun,
shells slung on backs.
calcium calculations curling
ever inward.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.
It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.
The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.
Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.
Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.
Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.
Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.
Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
When a beautiful moon was shining in Virgo
And Sun waved hands to me from Aquarius,
I was born exactly mid of noon.
Moon is my heart
where all my emotions are stored
it tends to rise up and down
like our moons delight.
Virgo, a maiden, traveling all alone
Carrying all the storms inside her thoughts.
Well sun not comfortable in Aquarius
Especially in dark Saturn house.
The sign it shows a *** holding the
Bright rays of the sun inside.
Where it shines only inside a ***
without passing away the light outside.
Note. Don't be serious. It’s just my calculation only.
©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY GEETHA JAYAKUMAR
© 2014 Geetha Jayakumar
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
A kilo of fish brinjal pumpkin
Cauliflower raisin and bean
Washing soap and eggs one crate
Need to buy bring from market!
Mustard oil some milk and rice
Cashew nut and a horde of spice
Gourd and potato spinach cabbage
The list is long fills a page!
Feel confused from where to start
How to pile and stack on a cart
Shoeshine cream to adhesive glue
All calculations and maths to do!
Ticked what’s got unticked what’s not
Cash dwindles with much unbought
Trudge back home in sweated daze
She checks items and fumes in rage!
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Heart beating, brain waves erratic
Depending on another to prove you can be loved
Over think like a new theorem
Numbers & symbols & calculations in your head
Try to look back through all the little details you missed
Are you kidding yourself?
Seeking for honesty
Hoping it’s in your favor
Everything seems fine
When you are together
Search for a sign, an inkling
Why do I try to reach out?
Stretching so far just to feel you energy
It’s so strong
Your lips, administer the strongest of narcotics
Paralyzed with your being
When we part, temporarily of course
My vitals change
And my heart & head battle
For reassurance
You make me delusional
The scent of you more powerful than a magnetic field
As you caress my body, stroke my face
I am no longer on this planet
I float with the spirits above
And sadly it cannot be bought
Release me from this paranoia
This addiction
Why so strongly do I fall into your force field?
Is my pull less intense?
Or is it that others just possess an energy more appealing?
You are nothing to be fooled around with
A different kind of beauty not in my realm
But in a parallel
To bring you into my circle would be an extra force in itself
But the lights around you shine so bright
That I’d gladly take the fall
Use my inner being to fight for you
But when it comes back to calculations and figures
One tight hold directly on another cannot compete with various forces in multiple directions
Even superheroes only deal with one villain an episode
Release me from this intangible pull
Because my revolving fire burns too bright
for this ill-distributed chemical bonding
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
Plan A: there is none as such;
though unflinching ego makes
complex calculations, concludes,
reassures it is best laid for sure.
Plan B, hence has no actual relevance
A mountain river, life is, it rushes
the way the cryptic GPS message directs.
If you ask how it works, try to understand
the intricate organic correlations, involving factors
that even a super computer can't process
but your mind would, somehow easily tell you
in a clear voice, if only you are ready to listen.
Every best laid plan is merely a wish
the more profound is spoken as a prayer
words addressed to the voice inside, that listens and acts
fulfillment then, is an emotional construct
you need the scent of that flower to inspire life.
Who says the cosmic plan is mysterious?
One who walks the karma path right, even when eyes closed
knows how to reach where one is headed to.
The truth this: one leads oneself, so keep the inner eyes open.
Subtle wishes that bring smile on the face of thy neighbor
are much more meaningful than selfish desires
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
Intellect without emotion, someone told me once. That's how they described me. That I had more wit and sarcastic charm than I could ever need, and yet I couldn't do anything meaningful with it because I lacked anything real…..like empathy, selflessness…or love. I was the cleverest robot in the world.
The truth is I do have emotion. Bounds of it. It pours out of me through cracks I forgot to seal when I walled myself in. And any attempt it makes to grow a garden is flooded by preemptive rain clouds, conjured up by a self imposed reality wherein the world sees my face in the daylight for what it really is and burns down my garden anyway.
I am no robot, I just hide behind cold metal plates and careful calculations, as if I could possibly predict consequences to chances I never take, moves I never make, and broken down walls I never break. So that the outcome is that i'm the loneliest, cleverest robot in the world, who discarded his humanity for a safety net and a bottle of cheap thrills, a bottle he uses as a telescope to see the rest of world because it looks better through the glass.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Through the serendipity of a naive act,
A mere rumour of the bygone tale.
Perceived by a small offense,
Was the story of Riverdale.
A machine of parts and *****
Built for an arithmetical crusade,
Channeled with high voltage,
The tool for every complex barricade.
For science has toyed with his destiny,
For his life was a written code,
For his face was made of metal alloy,
For his troubles laid on the same road.
For his calculations were neat as heaven,
As his binary numbers were perfectly synch,
Like the sun rising on an early day,
Like the rain falling on the same clay.
But the story took a seismic turn,
His mind was on a number's high,
When like lightning came she,
A thunderstorm from a clear sky
A mermaid out of the blue sea,
She touched his metal face,
For she had seen none of like him.
But that touch created a little spark,
In the metal heart out of chances that slim.
As his codes discharged to form a conscious wave,
For the metal mind felt the aura,
For the metal body moved to dance,
For Riverdale loved that girl,
For she was his fading chance.
But do the humans understand love?
I doubt they do, for the metal heart,
Was driven out from the lands.
For his story never had a start.
The sin of emotion, the bliss of pain,
For his metal heart rusted in vain.
Over his kingdom of broken dreams,
Neither did she, nor a soul felt his reign.
As his metal body rusted away,
In the aura of an insane world,
Where love is a jewellery reserved,
For this misery has now unfurled,
He died a metal death with a humane heartbreak.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
**A lecherous
demeanor burnt
the tongue,
like cheesy solicitations in
antagonistic ruminations of
ventured conjecture, churning
sputtered calculations,
a tactile exercise
in the biting tang of
eviscerating maceration
regurgitating bitter sediment,
unctuous residue
slid down the throat,
the aftertaste remained
long after it was digested**
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Fibonacci Sequence
(after a photograph of snails)
their bodies,
more suggestion than shape,
stretch then swell,
trailing slime
on sidewalks,
an eternity
of space to cross
from grass to grass.
one,
then another
and another
undefine themselves,
wet antennae testing
air and sun,
shells slung on backs.
calcium calculations curling
ever inward.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 5:17 PM UTC
You have your eyes on someone else
I am happy gazing at the shell
It's a nagging zeitgeist, well
I tried to keep a pretence
Could you tell?
I spinned in endless circles
Blinded by the sparkles
Thought there will be tell-tales
Measured self on bad scales
Contemporary delusions hail
Careful calculations also fail
I am trying to move on
From something
That was only drawn
In my thoughts, which pawned
My heart, which still prolongs
Tell me
What should I do?
Everyday I am filled with blues
I could throw this forever
If I knew a little, how to!
Or if I had the slightest clue!
Mar 5, 2022
Mar 5, 2022 at 11:34 AM UTC
As Hamilton once said,
"I imagine death so much
it feels more like a memory."
The thoughts come often,
images of the ways I could **** myself
flashing in my mind.
I walk by a busy road
and I imagine jumping into it.
I stand on top of a building,
and I imagine falling off of it.
I see a bottle of pills,
and I wonder how many it would take to overdose
My mind,
constantly looking for ways out,
searching for the end result of death.
My body has decided to shut off all emotions.
Just cold calculations.
My mind has started to drift away
from my body,
as if I am not of myself anymore.
I don't want to die,
and that is my biggest problem.
It seems as if my mind and my body
want me dead,
but I want me alive.
I can't hurt anyone else,
and I am too much of a coward
to go into the unknowns of the next world.
So I stay here,
trapped in my mind,
trapped in my memories,
trapped with the thoughts and calculations,
of death.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
2 times 2 is four, as my life path
always wonder if I am on the right path
wish I could calculate my path, extract the unknown
prove it with words and numbers, not just inner knowing and tarot cards
math is more believable to the severed body
I use other means to understand my body
holistic, artistic, there's always another way
deterministic, statistic, no place for the grey
calculate how best to waste your days
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 10:15 AM UTC
I fill the void with hunger,
I fill the void with getting lost with people by my side who’s faces i recognize
but who’s souls i do not know.
i fill the void with you.
i fill the void with you because even though i know that we do not fit together like the perfect puzzle pieces that i wish we could be
at least
i’m not
alone.
i fill the void with consumption
i fill the void with cigarettes
i fill the void with inhale after inhale
until my belly is full with the heaviest of thoughts
and my nightmares circle around and around my skull until they come to rest exactly where you always said that i had that golden crown,
the one that i could never see.
i fill the void with madness
i fill the void with pointless anger,
seeping from my throat and drowning my tongue
tasting bitter like a rotten lemon
but the bitterness is better than tasting nothing at all
and it sticks to my chapped lips like an old friend.
i fill the void with endless calculations
meticulously measuring my emptiness clinging onto my insides
with a measuring stick
and even though i measure with repetitive precision,
it never measures up to my own highest standards
and I fill the void by hurling insults at your face
and even after you’ve closed the door, like a poignant period finally occurring at the end of a infinite infinite run on sentence.
i continue to spit, spit fiery slurs that in reality fall more like water droplets that ultimately accumulate mid air
and last a little while,
but never outlast the darkness that is fiercely stuck to the soles of my shoes.
And I breathe it back in
and I breathe it back in
just to feel a little bit more full.
I fill the void with a look of contentment that i plaster on my face because
i
i
can feel when you are looking
i fill the void with confidence
i fill the void with courage
i fill the void by carrying fear across my chest and over my shoulder like i’m going into battle and never
coming
back.
i fill the void with the hope that i can hope hard enough to fill myself up again
but no matter how much i fill
i can feel my insides draining
faster than a bottomless kitchen sink.
and regardless of how hard i clasp my hands against the gaping hole where i used to gently hold a relentless summer,
i can feel that the coldest winter has begun to replace it.
and i can almost still feel its warmth
just like I used to when i used to..
when you used to say you could feel it too.
my frigid fingers lock around my neck as i finally release that empty feeling that buries my deepest desires
and i feel my wild beating beating heart finally submitting to resolve.
and i realize
that i can never be full.
I realize
that I will never be full.
And so i float away
like an abandoned ballon
just like my mother said the others did
and when i join them there
they remind me that at least i’m not alone.
and they tell me that perhaps in the end
the point
was not to be full anyway.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
All Asiatic vague immensities,
And not the banks of oars that swam upon
The many-headed foam at Salamis.
Europe put off that foam when Phidias
Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.
One image crossed the many-headed, sat
Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
That knowledge increases unreality, that
Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.
When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
We Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.
April 9,
2.3k
"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience.
By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor.
She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish.
This was not where she wanted to be.
All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays. Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches.
Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm. A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation.
Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah".
I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze.
The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
pigeons perch themselves preening
on marble fauns ambivalent to their
perch, while dark skinned men prowl;
seeking tourists (Americans) to sell
cheap novelty items, over priced, yet
bought to drive away the insistent
merchants; ignorant to the realization:
if you remain silent and don’t make eye
contact you will not forfeit your money...
merchants who ruin the peace and awe
of grand feats of sculpture—I know they
are human (on a base level)—craving
money to make a living, yet there are
many (more respectable) professions…
their presence crowds the already
crowded (streets and) piazzas—aggregates
of language babble—old women and men
meandering along waiting to die—hoping
it is true: the slower you move the faster
time flows—if not: to hell with relativity!
(should have put chips on more than one table)
can math really explain all?—or
is life more than abstract objects?
while the din of crowds palpitates my heart
making way for anxious calculations,
C— and I hurry pass to find some area
to give the artefacts the respect they deserve
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC