"calculators" poems
Knights clad in paper armor
Draw their pen-shaped swords
In preparation for battle
Against the dragon named Algebra
All year they've trained for this day
Poring over musty tomes
Filled with archaic battle plans
Entire armies have been lost
In the dangerous search
For the elusive variable called X
The informants A and B
Have consistently given
Inconsistent information
And the number line
Has completely deserted them
The numbers taunt the knights
Mocking their puny calculators
Confident in their unanswerable status
Yet one by one
The polynomials fall
The dragon bows it's head
The Knights have won the day.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Nothing quite makes sense
Try defining this
Why calculators
are only encouraged
after high school
So "they" can say
In America
we know trigonometry, calculus
Or algebra
all in order to
pump gas
work at Lowe's,
Walmart or a restaurant
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
On the first day of christmas my teacher gave to me
1 essay
On the second day of christmas my teacher gave to me
2 major projects
1essay
On the third day of christmas my teacher gave to me
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the fourth day of christmas my teacher gave to me
4 journals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the fifth day of christmas my teacher gave to me
5 binders
4 journals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the sixth day of christmas my teacher gave to me
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 joournals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the seventh day of christmas my techer gave to me
7 laptops
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 journals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the eighth day of christmas my teacher gave to me
8 calculators
7 laptops
6 pencil bags
5 bingers
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the nineth day of christmas gave to me
9 work sheets
8 calculators
7 laptops
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 journals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
On the tenth day of christmas my teacher gave to me
10 mircoscopes
9 work sheet
8 calculators
7 laptops
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 journals
3 text books
2 major project
1 essay
On the eleventh day of christmas my teacher gave to me
11 math problems
10 mircoscopes
9 work sheets
8 calculator
7 lap tops
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 journals
3 text boooks
2 major projects
1 essay
On the 12 day of christmas teacher gave to me
12 test tubes
11 math problems
10 mircoscope
9 work sheets
8 calculators
7 lap tops
6 pencil bags
5 binders
4 journals
3 text books
2 major projects
1 essay
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 11:08 PM UTC
one plus one equals two
just like me and you
but why'd you have to divide your heart
couldn't you give it to me as a whole part?
I used to love math
But now it gives me problems
Literal ones
Couldn't it ask for simpler answers?
I asked why I had to find your x
but you didn't answer y
oh these complicated equations
these numerous fractions
oh yes, fractions and ratios
you gave me a fraction of your heart
yes, just a half and kept the other
just so you could give it to someone else
oh why did math come into my life
WHAT THE HECK WILL I USE IT FOR?
I don't need to use my empty brain
THAT'S WHY THEY MAKE CALCULATORS
I didn't sign up for this
I won't be a mathematician anyway
Oh wait, I lost the point
IT WAS YOU WHO THREW ME AWAY
now I'll just go back to being half of everything I used to be
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
My brother finds comfort in calculators.
He assigns every number a name.
He believes that they add up to certainty and he is upset with fractions that remain.
So I examine these maps with my eyes, and at best I can trace with my finger
all the way to that town where she went in an attempt to forget the cracks and the lines of my face.
So Jetsabel cleaned out the closets for me and she piled up the boxes in the hall.
Tomorrow when she wakes she'll come take them away and they'll never haunt me again;
but it is still hard to sleep with the moon's heavy beams.
I run barefoot to the backyard, just to freeze in my place by the rod iron gate;
too afraid and ashamed to advance.
Today I walked through the snow and found a field of headstones.
They were in rows like the weeks in calendars where each box is a day you can never escape
without pills or the poison of sleep.
These memories leak from these faucets that weep.
Hot tears splash against the shower floor and I stand in the steam as if inside a dream--
I can see her again by the sink.
From behind the bathroom mirror she pulls a thermometer and places it under my tongue.
She said, "You're as pale as a sheet. You look awful, my sweet. Lay down and wait for the sun."
So I stayed in that bed. She brought me water and read each night from a volume out loud.
She whispered soft poetry. Her favorite was Anabel Lee.
And those words, like these drugs, comforted me.
But the clocks kept waving their hands
and she couldn't understand why temperature would never drop.
And though she promised with tears that she would always be here,
I heard truth like the sounding sea.
I said, "My Arienette, how soon you forget this house will never be your home,
and you will leave in the fall when the trees become graves and their colors lie dead in the grass."
Gold and green torture me like the lies I believe too easily.
Oh my Jetsabel, look at this hell that I have made.
If you want, maybe drop by sometime-- put some flowers on my grave
so that I will look beautiful in my silent sepulchre.
Yeah, that's fine. Throw some dresses away. I don't want anything of hers.
For the moon never shines and the stars never rise without bringing me dreams,
haunted by the ghosts of those bright eyes.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
A rhombus is my favorite, crooked square.
I like haunted houses with windows with faces
and fun houses with mirrors that oval circles
that distort my body two hundred degrees.
I like haunted houses with doors at right angles,
and half moon neon protractors
that blur every shape zero degrees.
I like cubes I stack four cubes high.
I like half moon neon protractors
and scientific calculators.
I like cubes I stack ten cubes high
and old houses with ceilings that creak.
I like scientific calculators
and dividing eight billion by pi.
I like old houses with ceilings that creak
with cylindrical cans filled with old beets.
I like dividing eight billion by pi
and fun houses with mirrors that stretch right angles.
I like old houses with crooked windows,
like I said a rhombus is my favorite.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:40 PM UTC
freak of nature
"selfish" screaming in my ears
I digress violently now
Whitman bleeding out of
my ears
I cannot bow
seventeen and furious
I am the poet of the
human skin; of violins
and softly fingered clarinets
singing of the dirt under
my fingernails
self-loathing--the evil twin
of guilt--is blinding
I cannot read graphing
calculators or the
future
but both seem empty
like the box under my bed
that used to hold pieces of my
soul (or I thought it did)
now I am scattered
I would like to
hold onto your hand
(I will be less abrasive this way)
instead of purging myself
of every doubt that
has rudely accosted me
in the marrow of
my simple human
structure
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
"don't grow up too fast
you still have time
to be a child"
you say to me
The difference between us
is that you wish to be a child
whereas I
never want to be one again
your childhood
was playing foursquare
and lava monster
and avoiding the cheese-touch
with your three best friends
my childhood
was being kept out of foursquare
ignored by the lava monster
and being the untouchable object
in my class's game of "Beth-touch"
your childhood
was a playful push and poke
with your classmates
my childhood
was getting my front tooth chipped
and being pushed off of the monkey bars
your childhood
was seeing your parents argue
then make up
my childhood
was hearing shouting upstairs
and seeing my parents sitting apart silently for hours afterward
your childhood
was hoping your mother's flu got better
my childhood
was my mom falling and twisting her arm
on the way to a meeting with the principal
hard enough that her hand still isn't the same size
your childhood
was learning weird new things
through rumors, friends, and what you could find
my childhood
was being left in the dark
on all but the basics
your childhood
was fun elementary school trends
like lunchables, messenger bags, and chocolate calculators
my childhood
was having a different style
and having no common interests with the other kids
your childhood
was a playful time of learning
that you wish to return to
my childhood
was the role of the playground's pariah
and I'm never going back
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Sometimes I don’t get calculators its sometimes quite absurd
I think it would be easier to sit down and work it out like a nerd
There’s no point of a calculator when 99.9% you can’t use it for school
But if you could that would be really cool!
Calculators calculators let me think
Lets change the subject
uhhhhhh Pink!
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
Running for a thousand places
Running for my very hide,
Running to obscure the traces
Run from those I can’t abide.
Pursued by the claw of guilders
Pursued by the Bank of Greed,
Running from the Ruin Builders
Run from those whose lust is need.
I’ve worked to build a modest holding
Worked to feel a pride secured,
Family of love enfolding
Sanctity midst world endured.
Feel manipulations brooding
Moneys lust does intervene,
Those who have it all, concluding,
What is mine is theirs to glean.
Claw back by manipulators
Claw back by the fiends of greed,
Implacable cold calculators
Cut with Law to make me bleed.
Running for a thousand places
Running for my very hide,
Run to flee pursuing faces
Run from that I can’t abide.
Anguish at my walls collapsing
Wailing of my bride’s despair
Futility’s tomorrow lapsing
Monstrous as it flails me there.
Standing in a freezing stillness
Standing in this hall of time,
Forlorn in a prisoned illness
Greed has vanquished me and mine.
Marshalg
For the forgotten people who have been ruined by those, who call themselves the mighty.
Auckland N.Z.
9 February 2013
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
It is irritating beyond belief
That you have absolutely no control
Over what you can remember
And what you can forget
Especially if you are autistic
I want to remember so many things
Essential tasks, passwords, birthdays
I want to forget so many things
People, mistakes, failures
However, Fate works in mysterious ways
Most of the time, it so happens
That you forget what you want to remember
And remember what you want to forget
In the past, I have been guilty
Of losing a number of things
Calculators, earphones, pen drives
I have been equally guilty
Of forgetting as many things
Essential tasks, passwords, important dates
However, over the last few years
I have made some progress
I am much less forgetful
Than I used to be
Because I make notes in my diary
And set up reminders on my phone
However, as mentioned before
Fate works in mysterious ways
Especially if you are autistic
Just as I thought
That I had established some control
Over what I can remember
I have started forgetting again
And this time, there is no turning back
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 4:01 AM UTC
My grandad used to buy
Wall’s vanilla ice cream and
Robinson’s orange squash for me
When I’d visit him as a child.
For the longest time, food of any kind
Was just food and nothing
Was a treat or
Had to be earned.
Now I yearn for a lackadaisical meal,
For squash and ice cream,
For food to be food and it all to be good.
For when calculators were used in maths lessons and not to pinpoint the exact moment I overstep and
My figure becomes
Mathematically incorrect.
I want to re-learn how to exercise for fun and not punishment,
How to be happy and grateful for my fuel and nourishment.
Oct 2, 2024
Oct 2, 2024 at 1:55 PM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
(If you knew this place as I know it)
I am not just me. I have never been just me. I am a patchwork of everything that has been done to me, and that has nothing to do with being just. I am not perfect because I have never experienced perfection, my life has never been picked through for the best footage. I’m bearing the weight of the dailies, every last one of them.
I am not a story. My body is not made of letters, no meticulous thought has gone into me, I have not been drafted and re-drafted until there are no spelling errors in my bones. That does not mean I cannot create stories. I may not be made of the things I write, but the pieces of the world around me are enough that I can give a little of myself to many while still being whole.
If you knew myself as I know me, you would hate it, too much, too little, unevenly and over-dramatically. I don’t know myself at all and too well, all at once.
If you knew this world as I know it, you would love it. Love it and hate it, hate it because it’s going and love it because you’re going with it. I will keep telling myself that different does not mean good or bad, but I’ll still miss picking a crimson leaf out of a stream of sunlight in the middle of snowy fall.
You would miss it. You would miss sleeping. You would miss not being scared. You would miss being able to love everyone. You would miss thinking that everyone was willing to love you. You would miss your friends being free and knowing what you wanted for Christmas and not worrying about being afraid to look in the mirror.
You would miss six feet of snow in November.
And you would love it. You would love knowing more, knowing better, knowing more clearly, more complexly, and more meaningfully. You would love knowing that spellcheck and calculators that do long division exist. You would love re-learning how to imagine the world, to question everything, to accept and believe, to understand a life that is not your own.
I am not just me. I have never been just me. I am not lonely. I am not alone.
(I'm sorry if I sometimes need reminding).
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Caterpillars drowning in the rain.
Not your typical sundance romance situation.
Financial calculators,
Homemade ice cream cake,
Oil change 3 months overdue,
One of those museums made up of an old town where people dress is 19th century clothing,
***** martinis.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
I’d heard a story in that proverbial once upon a time
(Though its origins are hazy, at best, to me now:
Perhaps something my son heard at Sunday school,
Or part of the never-ending nattering
From the marketing guy at lunchtime,
Maybe cackled by the crazy, toothless blind guy on the 16A bus)
Concerning the programmers who’d worked on a project
In the earliest days of nano-technology,
Creating software for their relative monoliths,
Australopitchecuses of artificial intelligence,
Serving as prototypes for some envisioned universe
Where tiny drones served the whims of some doctor or researcher
Operating unseen and omnipotent behind some microscope or monitor.
The trials went quite smoothly, almost flawlessly,
The models impeccably doing what binary switches
And if-then-else statements decreed,
But the researches noticed that
Just before they executed the final bit of code,
The models would invariably exhibit
A slight hesitation--almost imperceptible, infinitesimal even,
But clearly occurring, nonetheless.
They’d assumed, quite naturally, it was a mere matter of de-bugging,
Some misplaced comma or parentheses among the thousands,
But they reviewed the code any number of dozens of time,
Only to find it was clean as a whistle.
What’s more, they’d found that while the vacillation appeared
At the same point in the process,
It didn’t happen at exactly the same time;
Indeed, they cropped up, relatively speaking, months, even years apart.
One of the white coats jokingly referred to the pause
As the machines “Peggy Lee moment”
(You know, ‘Is that all there is?’)
But no one else involved the project saw the humor.
They’d decided to ignore or accept the quirk, though it was rumored
That it drove a few of the programmers to near-madness,
With one or two of their number bolting the project without notice,
Entering monasteries with the intent
Of shutting themselves off from the outside world
For the rest of their days, and its existence was buried
In reams of footnotes at the end of their final report
(Though as I said, the tale’s source is unclear,
And I am inclined to regard it as apocryphal.)
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
tired eyes
weary sighs
empty checklists and picket lines
hands that ache
lips that quake
statements and proposals that i cannot make
calculations, calculators
stairwells and elevators
cold cement
old lament
spring leaves
endless seams
single mothers coddling crying infants
millions stare at the monitors, entranced
worn out books and worn out lies,
these are my final goodbyes
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
In these set of problems,
can you find the sum of my heart?
the difference of my soul?
the product of my hurt?
the quotient of you?
No calculators please.
These mixed fractions constantly tease.
Cancel out my negatives with the BS of your positives
Can you ace this exam?
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
device configured by component device
generated images integrated
visual display driver
unsupported graphics
incorrect function
ERROR_PATH_NOT_FOUND
system corrupted
flash memories
regulators of my process
calculators and computational controllers
emulators and resistor
access is denied
Connection lost
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 7:10 PM UTC
My poems in recent years has become,
The distance calculators: with its up and down
No one can stop them at the boarders, or
Seize their nouns or pronouns,
They can’t or will not be subject your isolation,
because of the singular/plural and tense disagreements.
It doesn’t need a visa or a green card to enter
the hearts of many poetic minds
They believe in us: we believe in them:
It doesn’t need your permission to make others smiles
My poems would always be foreign to you,
Like my way of eating a soft mango:
with just a little opening at the top:
Because of the poems autarky: its freedom will prevails throughout cyberspace:
Translated in the gift of tongues,
My poems owes you nothing,
But it promises you more,
Let my travelling poems, be my gift to you;
With a trendy feel of a human touch
in which the world need now.
Free ***** but allow my poems to travel far
Without your inputs:
Those who would look a gift horse in the mouth do not deserve the gift. Quote Brian M
Love yourself, accept yourself, forgive yourself and be good to yourself, because without you the rest of us are without a source of many wonderful thing: Quote
love yourself, then my poems, appreciated them for what they are,
because what this world need now, is love, sweet love,
not hate, free ***** but let my poem travel.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
It's the time of the year again
Hopes where they can rest their life
On fire and of dreams to ignite other than
What they plan for years ahead
In this summer island they could ever just lay
Heat won't even matter
(But she's sorry)
This summer island, though is in reach
Same set of coal began to burn again
And thought no more miles to go
Papers and calculators moving round in round
Around her head were retrieved worksheets of Chemistry
Even Trigonometry in different corners by her sight
(Just as she thought, by now she is playing her puppy)
The weight of dreams from her youth
Now the weight of failure, heavier
To ever let her travel Summer sadness
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
This is much worse than the Zombie Apocalypse
Girls giving duck faces with neon puckered lips
And flowing bronze locks and waves go on for days
I must have missed going through the pretty hair phase
Static Elecrta and Einstein combined could not compare
To the fuzzy wuzzy mad mess frizzing up called my hair
They say that eyes of course are windows to the soul
Yet they fail to mention the inner beauty of a mole
It has feelings too you know it can hear what you're saying
It doesn't want your blemish cream it's happy so it's staying
Acne nowadays with cover up is a thing of the past
But I'm cherishing my teenage years why not make them last
Appearance isn't everything there's more to life than that
Like when I am in gym class playing baseball up to bat
I close my eyes swinging just as hard as I can
I missed the **** thing and didn't know but still ran
First and second then third base finally gone
By then the teacher yells because I'm doing it wrong
Well I don't like these rules I refuse to conform
Sports aren't in my nature it's the way I was born
Now give me a notepad and a pencil I am set
Or a list of names to alphabetize and my goal will be met
Calculators have nothing in contrast to my brain
But put stairs in my path and I may go insane
Tripping over myself is what I do best such a mess
Sure I'm different, make mistakes, but that's why I'm flawless
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
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Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
I see fear from the press on the television machine. We are controlled by the regime of mass media. Lies Lies Lies and more Lies! Perpetual motion in a cereal box dormant to many accustomed as we fall in line to our governments power play -Structured by corporate one liners and scripted spread sheets across dotted lines in a room being tallied on smart phones, blogs and scientific calculators- when is the commotion in proper logic to be received? - Irrigation of the soul type-cast presented in a bow
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
We are every bit as worthless
As the dirt is
But it grows
We just impose
And peddle
Influential
Genocidal droves
Is all we ever will accomplish
From the reaping
That we sow
Our own destruction seeds
Implanted
In enchantments of a scene
With ease
Entranced
By what askance
Dehumanizes us,
Machines
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 3:00 AM UTC