"cruncher" poems
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
We weren't merely talking business;
her eyes said something else,
I strained my ears.Listened.
Soliloquy.Whispers.Fluttering eyes.
("Need to bring her around and sign the contract")
She is silent, eyes on papers
"wind on the waters..................
rustle of the leaves" mind sings,
I got it now, no doubt, we are attracted!
i am now a man with a heart that sizzles,
"she is of course a cut above the rest,
a fine mind, amazing number cruncher,
not to forget that pert posterior,
she makes me melt, I cannot be a hard nut"
my thought train stops to her whistle,
a lovely smile, as if to say
"Things would start to move
between us, when this is over"
A man and a woman,
both, business intentions, in mind's focus,
when together such a long time could
decide upon a course of action,
but i hear a buzz in my ears--
we seem to sway in a charged atmosphere
all i could think is this; "our business
doesn't reach anywhere.."
When--
every obstacle fell and crashed,
relaxing **** sniffing each other, like dogs,
in the cozy confines, of her hotel suite,
she said, the reason for the obstacles,
was pretension-
she had the need to feel in total control,
(till attraction, made the difference)
"Man and woman role reversal"
"I understand" I said.Executive privilege;
she is the senior and she deserved to feel good!
decorum in business deals must be kept.
We reversed roles
and felt more elated (we thought)
too little to do
when you properly decide, to divide responsibilities
(even in bed)
The deal was done,
she put her seal,
and outside the protocol,
a parting kiss and an invite:
Is it to be Venice?
( or Brazil?)
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Should your poem contain a lot of formulas?
Should you know how to multiply, divide, subtract and add?
Should you know the derivative of this and the derivative of that?
Should you memorize the multiplication table from one to a thousand?
Will your words sound jargon?
Will your rhyming seems out of tune?
Will your metaphor be unseen like a blue moon?
Will your piece land on the trash can very soon?
Should you discuss the ratio of your words and love?
Should you round off the message your poem have?
Should you pinpoint what is lesser than or above?
Should you define the poem’s slope and its aftermath?
Will that number cruncher be able to read between the lines?
Will the verses relate up until the genius’ heart’s vines?
Will the logical and emotional hemisphere be able to bind?
Will the sonnet be able to convey it’s meaning through its sign?
If you are a poet and you love a mathematician
Those things are probably running on your mind
The difference in forte, will it ban
A blossoming attraction between two different kinds
Sum it all up, all your feelings inside
Write it all down, like how you calculate in a scratch
Don’t forget any, like a whole number without a dot
Double check it, you wouldn’t want misunderstanding right?
Don’t be irrational, like some numbers are
Don’t measure and compare, like graphs’ bar
Be precise as possible, but you don’t have to hit the bull’s eye
Still do some cliffhanging, and let the person analyze
They say opposites do attract
Everyone differs so why worry about those questions above?
Just express what you feel, write what you want
I’m sorry I’m a poet; I wanted this piece to be long enough
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
There is nobody there for you, and now, there never will be. I don’t have a goodbye for you. I tried to find one, I searched really hard, but shifting through the **** made me sick. I’m well again now. I don’t have anything for you. Once I had everything. All my words were wonders and they leapt out of the sun, smiling, but you shot them down with a blood-encrusted gun. They flopped around mewling, trying to hide behind injured wings, as you sought them out and stepped on them, laughing. Dream-cruncher, word-waster, selling your sad, sick song. You specialize in nasty tastes, brutal boy, and you won’t care. Narcissist. Ego King. I don’t think you have ever loved. You would love this poem.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
My swing was still tied to
the arm of the
tree when they
put it through the cruncher that
made mulch.
It fell because it
was dead
for a long time, like
dad said
whenever he thought so.
I asked mom if Spot
got scared and
ran away and
she cried
and at night
told me everything dies,
but she was wrong
because I went to sleep
and dreamt he was alive.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
The years have passed
I thought they mattered
In sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Hip leading foot
Perpetually faster
Downhill
The fads have passed
I thought they would end
Well,
in sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Kicking up trash
Plastered in faces
Pretty in package
Marketable mouths
Dripping lips
Told what to say before
they understand a thing.
The years have passed
I thought they mattered
In sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Hip leading foot
Perpetually faster
Downhill
Your best friend sells sugar for pennies
and you say it's dirt cheap when you
know full well that you can find
sweetness herself in leaves.
In the near distance fires light
the violent sky, violet-black
in the orange-red we see
when we shut our
open eyes.
We always saw this coming
as our masters asked it
from us, but the
master never
was there
when
we
c
r
i
e
d
Take my money take my soul
give me level ups lest I
cry again.
.number crunch.
.number cruncher.
.number crunch.
The new human condition
took weakness as a sign.
We are marked better dead
than alive
by
The World Above
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
In the end,
it's just a lottery
and that's when life
reached out and
got at me.
If you run
you can't hide
if you hide
you can't
run,
that is known as
the lottery
conundrum.
And so we take a stab at it
make a mad grab for it,
hold on to its treasure
for what?
pain and pleasure?
not in my lexicon.
Then we're gone
before we know it and
with nothing we have to
show for it and yet
we all reach out to grab
for it.
Sometimes it clings to you
at odd times it sings to you
mostly it brings to you
peace at the end, but
that's part of the
lottery too.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
Crunching on a lollipop
Sends shivers down my spine
”To enhance the flavour” you say
Whatever helps ease your mind
Enjoying the sweets
Emitting a pleasant scent
While pondering of these feelings
Beating around my chest
Holding on tight
Fingers entwined
Knowing well I am his
And that lollipop cruncher is mine
But just like those hard candies
He crushes between his teeth
I wonder...
*Will my heart be just like those
Strawberry flavoured sweets?*
~
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
Just when you think that you've figured it out
the numbers change again.
My brain leaks integers as I watch in the interval
and the numbers change as I've said,
due to
no doubt
the loneliness of a lifetime
of unhappiness.
So
I alter the cruncher
punch in an alternate number
and watch as my eyes start to spin
which is not so easy on a stable platform
as a human
being born about a century ago.
It's an ocean and it always roars
numbers
numbers
keeping scores
and doors too because it's always
always doors
I went through my first and the second and
through each door to another, through one more
and another and each door became one more
until
the one with a sign on it
that read,
'go through it'
and I went through it and found it
was the first door I had gone through
and now
what's left but
numbers
and they'll always be there
it is good to know
that numbers care
which numbers count the most though?
is that
something else I have to know
or just premature
enumeration?
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC