"concentrations" poems
Diffusion is the act of a high concentration going to a low concentration, and vice versa.
However, what happens when the concentrations grind to an ugly, messy halt? I've seen this happen, once too many times.
It's ugly.
Crumbling.
Pathetic.
Every ache ends in another night of weekly wines, and daily sobs; does it help? No.
The light of the TV glow gives her a sense of motel cheapness, like a stain that the dry cleaner can't get rid of.
Is this the act of diffusion?
Yes. Yes, it is.
The self-deserving, overly confident diffusion. It's left its victim drained and powerless. She doesn't sleep anymore.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
Rhythms of Mother Earth
Those which to life give birth
The pulse of all her life
When disrupted cause strife
Why is it we feel better when we go outside?
What has Mother Earth that is not inside?
Everything is connected
And, in turn affected
By that which causes disruption
Mainly, human corruption
Drop a pebble in a lake
All things affected by that wake
Of those energy waves emitted
Like those from a tower transmitted
Where have the butterflies and bees gone?
Those that took fancy flight above our lawn
Why have their numbers decreased?
And why have more become deceased?
What is this pulse, what is this beat?
That which surrounds us and is beneath our feet?
Mother Earth's heartbeat, herRESONANCE...7.83Hz (hertz)
The same rhythm with which humanity flirts
Circadian rhythm, day and night
Daily cycle of dark and light
A world, from the eye unseen
Yet perceived by those who are keen
Aware of our world which is synergetic
With waves that are light, electric and magnetic
What happens in a world without bees?
Does the fruit still fall from the trees?
Do we want to live without the beauty of flowers?
All for the incessant need for transmitting towers?
What is the ultimate price that we may pay
If we do not hold our cell phones an inch away
As waves lethal as high concentrations of uranium
Are pumped continuously into our cranium
Wireless hot spots become pervasive
Much like a species that is invasive
Birds migratory instincts disrupted
By those towers that have corrupted
That natural balance we have with our mother
A balance that cannot be replaced with another
This resonance attributed to Schumann
Is a frequency that is also human
(C) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Prom. I'm not Pretty In Pink. I'm not Cinderella at the ball. List of saving graces: My dad slipped me drugs during the father-daughter dance; I had my best friend to help me the whole night. Insights: my principle was a ******* the sight of Jody during a panic-attack makes my world spiral & fall down a million shattered glass hills, the no-escape land where chests turn into cages & clench lungs so hard they can't make full breaths & hands turn into ADHD fire ants, pushing and & twisting skin until raw, scratching necks and arms nervously & don't mind the drawn blood, sweetie. Where politics & family trees go on forgotten & why did they send HER heroutgetherout I can't do this Tom. Where I'm backed up in a corner & I'm stuck in the no-escape land. Clastrophobia; why are all these people around me? Swarming me. Incessant little panic bees swirling constantly touching always "don't ******* touch me!!" & Tom is raising his voice at them; I can hear the volume and the sheer chaotic amount of noise but can't distinguish the words. &then; the panic bees file & march forward, nothing to see here, folks. "It's just me & you," he's telling me "they don't matter" & he's looking at me & then the breathing concentrations & the pain in my throat & the chest loosens a bit & I can feel the pulled muscles all over me & I can climb up the glass hills & the shakes? Oh, they don't stop for a looong while.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
4. For Fear of Returning Home
I curl my hands up into little *****
small concentrations of the frustration I'm boiling in.
I fold in on myself like a sheet of paper
I crumple and wrinkle
and I haven't spoken to you in a while, now.
I am a sad excuse
for a great many things.
But he loves me anyway:
saying those things are just things,
just that,
even if I have been through
"more than most people should."
And he still tries to talk to me
He still feels the need to tell me
things I would be better off not knowing.
"I liked cuddling with you,"
he tells me.
I collapse in on myself and forget how to exist.
We are traveling at 70 down I-55
tire treads and wooden crosses forgotten on the shoulder
and I think of the monks in Vietnam who
walk two thousand miles around a lake
falling prostrate at every third step.
And I think of how much easier that would be
than to pray at the side of the interstate
falling prostrate every third step
onto broken glass and all that litters
and glitters in the headlights--
and catches your tires as you slip into the shoulder
late at night when the moon is new and absent
and you are tired.
I think of how much easier it would be
falling prostrate every third step
down the fifty miles to my bed
than to promise myself that I will
wake up tomorrow at all.
I slept all day today, my love
and I know you are disappointed--
but sometimes, most times,
it doesn't really seem worth the effort.
I wonder what motivates a seedling to keep striving
for the surface at the promise of sunlight
after spending so long in the dark.
Is the sun even shining, my love?
Can you promise me that one thing,
that pushing through whatever
hell this is
that there will be sunlight when I break through?
I don't want to tell you--
your love scars the side of my leg worse than
his **** ever did--
*but he haunts me worse than
anything before him*
and I am afraid of going back home to look at
the God-fearing family that sleeps
ignorant.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Corporation bosses
Tossing the lost
Into the fist of jaws
Concentrations flossing
The reparation of old glory
Muted and refuted
I’m not joining the band
Just because he said
Yes we can
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:55 AM UTC
you continue on the outermost experience of stimuli
consuming with poor digestion, your surrounding world
you continue on the premise of emotion and nothing more,
no analysis, no insight, you exist as a simpler species than
those who do analyze, are insightful and it is only negative because
you are inefficient and infectious in your inefficiency, less energy is
required to live as you do but you are not progressive, you do not offer
this human species anything but a vector for dna, an avenue to perpetuate;
and you are this way by choice -- you possess potential to have potential
but you do not engage and in consequence, you are ignorant and malignant
to our human species and perhaps I am a misanthrope or perhaps I am a
realist but you will only hinder the most capable of us unless you cease to
continue on the outermost experience of stimuli; you are inefficient with the
potential, a resounding potential, for efficiency and if only you would wake from
this superficial condition our species would gain advantage in survival but I
suppose it is irrational to wish for such things, as we are inherently flawed and
perhaps our concentrations should not be on perpetuating the human species
but rather giving rise to an organism more evolutionarily advanced -- more efficient;
more perfect.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
When the evening fades to shadow
and the moon is sailing high
I want to stay beside her
but I have to say goodbye
She smiles and says 'I love you'
and I know it’s all a lie
But the moonlight is bewitching
and there’s a twinkle in her eye
I kiss her very softly
as she lays upon the bed
I try to weigh my options
but the wines gone to my head
The room begins revolving
around all the things she said
But concentrations fading
and reasoning is dead
I wake up when it’s over
and wish it hadn’t been
I curse the empty bottle
and swear it off again
I fumble for my wrist watch
and it’s a quarter after ten
And I hate myself for wanting her
While I’m wanting her again.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:32 AM UTC
You can be
You can be the whim
The lucky guess I take that leads to the right path
You can be the drive
The force that pushes me to finish the task
You can be the will
The magnet in me that attracts to your needs
You can be the goodness
The flavor and taste of the sweets on which I feed
You can be the seed
The inception from which I sprout my dreams
You can bet he muse
The plume that moves and expresses my moods
You can be the splint
The brace that mends my concentrations break
You can be the shore
The wave of ****** that leaves me drowned in your wake
You can be the home
The Four walls and roof that shelter
You can be the fabric
The hemmed time that holds the space we share together
You can be the earth
The ground that is firms that steady my pace
You can be just you
The all of the above that took my breath away.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Former Presidential Candidate Adlai E. Stevenson II (Democrat--circa 1950s) was spotted reincarnated as a young trappist Buddhist monk in a monastery in Saint Croix, U.S. ****** Islands. In the early evening hours he can be seen enjoying himself swinging in a hammock in the monastery's garden while making 12-mile inhalations on a marijuana cigarette and meditating on the possible dire encumbrances due the 2016 election year, though the balmy tinctured breezes thick with naughty **** often dissipate such fustian concentrations.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Feeling up your aspirations
Nibbling at your concentrations
Noticing that gleam you hold
Feeling cold
Our love is old
Striking eyes and soft goodbyes
Looking back at all the lies
Redened eyes and smallish sighs
I don't want to fight you anymore
Red cheeks and bitten lips
Couldn't help a softer kiss
Squinting through the daylight hours
Pouring over love turned sour
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
"Why does this matter?"
What? What do you mean....
"Why would people be interested in this?
What use would it have in real life?"
I'm not sure
But why should that matter?
Was Einstein thinking of who would care
When he thought up E=MC2
No. He wasn't.
I can tell you for a fact
That when he came up
With his relative theory
He was staring out of his window
And wondering
"What would happen if a man fell down
Inside a rapidly falling elevator?"
OK, but I get that you're trying to emphasize
Why people should care about science
So that the slackers in the class
Might become interested
In the project
So I won't catalog plant species
By concentrations
In different areas
"How will you control this?"
What? What do you mean?
I literally wrote out the variables.
"If you can't make the conditions
Exactly the same,
If you can't make sure
That someone could do exactly as you did,
The experiment isn't viable."
So, you're telling me
That even though
Comparing the air qualities
In different places
To see if any one place has inherently better air quality
Is not a viable experiment
Because if the wether
Is so much as one degree different
When someone else
Tries to test it
It will skew the results
So severely
That no one can
Make heads or tails of it?
Ok, I guess I'll just test stain removers on ink
Because I need a midterm grade
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
You seem like a thing of the past,
Like a book I've read years ago
And forgotten most of the plot to.
Though a vague structure of the events
Remains cemented forever in
The corners of my mind
More dark and unkempt,
The details that once made it hurt
Have withered into dust,
Now only scattered
In small concentrations
Across the ledges of my days
That I forgot once carried the weight
Of my adoration for you.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
The love on the vein of my leaf// it lets me go but never leaves// each branch of tree, has it's own way of bleed// that stream of the century was thought to flow with the mermaids// with the ocean being the moons mirror, I sit between the crease and reflect my tears// ...an outcast willing to cast out// a straight line to the stars... An energy letting me surrender my love for the focus and concentrations of many// to the plenty who watch from above, I'm at the edge of the moon holding roses for offering// a truths to many wonderings// you could smell the forest from here, actually you could touch the end of the redwoods// earths figure once pure, she still stays loyal// community of rocks, the clay welcomes my feet// I took the shaman with me//
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
Where dreams are gold of thought
Where cloud are silvers of hope
Where future husband the street
Where ghost don't crack bones of human.
This colour of African night depict water
A formless form of laughter tickling home
If this history be made of Kinta Kunte,
I will lit this weekend with a strange tune
Which will end up holding the image of forever.
May we meet again where **** are debris
of footsteps on the oceans of mysteries.
We might giggle with a different tale on
We may pitch our voices to the cold hands
of daring heart of thunderous elipsis...
We may trace home giants of illusions
We may not see the darkness in eve hush
noise, not through this armpit zipper of
services rendered in a torn lips of lost humanity.
May we meet again where we make muse
a knight with a name & face & identity
We'll send forth our song to many places
where our mind have raced without a print
May we meet again where love crossed path
and time lose concentrations in the camp of
attraction of what we have finally become
May we might again as a pilgrims in prayer,
Our hands a home bringing tomorrow' peace.
May we meet again and embrace wetness
Wetness of love and hope for another' emotion
At the sight of the emptiness in the hallway,
We will stand to erase every ooze of doubt
Hold on between us death and life to conquer
this deafening silence may echo beyond shrunk
Nights of our skins before the sun unmask
May we meet again and again and again
Where we part no more with legs of departure.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_frustrations.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
My body forces me to sit,I talk a little less,I try to think of tomorrow NOT what I coulda,woulda,shoulda done.
Even when restless I remain focused,maybe today possibly tomorrow,always getting it right ,no slouch never a doubt,possibilities are endless when always moving forward.
Brighter lights need more energy the fuel is often from the soul, concentrations of calculations often leave me lacking, the simpler rhythms an easier goal,there can be no detection show no rejection. IT'S FOR THE CHILD. R.C.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
My body forces me to sit,I talk a little less,I try to think of tomorrow NOT what I coulda,woulda,shoulda done,even when restless I remain focused,maybe today possibly tomorrow,always getting it right ,no slouch never a doubt,possibilities are endless when always moving forward,brighter lights need more energy the fuel is often from the soul, concentrations of calculations often leave me lacking the simpler rhythms an easier goal,there can be no detection show no rejection. IT'S FOR THE CHILD
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC