"fractally" poems - Hello Poetry

It watches me, a single eye Exaggerated to near ridiculous size But its attitude is quite serious A hunger there, that knows no bounds Behind it a consciousness delirious An ill will emanates for miles around Its guts churn but it has no mouth Tendrils branch fractally out From dendrites linked and pathways kinked To squirm into the minds of men They sit on the edges of perception A vague unease cast over the soul Which then, recognized, grows deeper Madness is born, a ghastly conception The men of the desert tell tales of him They call him Lie, Ahriman. I know him well, and I know that when I die I shall once again see the Evil Eye.

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May 9, 2013

May 9, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC

kaj-parker-benson

Oculum

It watches me, a single eye Exaggerated to near ridiculous size But its attitude is quite serious A hunger there, that knows no bounds Behind it a consciousness delirious An ill will emanates for miles around Its guts churn but it has no mouth Tendrils branch fractally out From dendrites linked and pathways kinked To squirm into the minds of men They sit on the edges of perception A vague unease cast over the soul Which then, recognized, grows deeper Madness is born, a ghastly conception The men of the desert tell tales of him They call him Lie, Ahriman. I know him well, and I know that when I die I shall once again see the Evil Eye.

18

How clear is the sky on a sunlit night While we dress for the fire While you and I dissolve away And we die cell by cell And our dust drifts away with us And flows on the breath of the wind That is keeping the insects aloft. We can ride on their tiny fragile wings and they'll Show us a life full of meaning One of service to God And we'll give them our energy, unaware, Never thinking, only knowing Even as our disembodied ego kicks over mounds and punches holes in nests To see them swarm and multiply Coursing fractally across our physical plane in mighty hordes The birds swoop down and feed on their flesh And the swarm can afford the loss because these bugs give life to all the world So selflessly marching on Mechanical souls, robots of the earth Keeping all things running smooth as clockwork

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Apr 10, 2013

Apr 10, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC

owen-phillips

Robots of the Earth

How clear is the sky on a sunlit night While we dress for the fire While you and I dissolve away And we die cell by cell And our dust drifts away with us And flows on the breath of the wind That is keeping the insects aloft. We can ride on their tiny fragile wings and they'll Show us a life full of meaning One of service to God And we'll give them our energy, unaware, Never thinking, only knowing Even as our disembodied ego kicks over mounds and punches holes in nests To see them swarm and multiply Coursing fractally across our physical plane in mighty hordes The birds swoop down and feed on their flesh And the swarm can afford the loss because these bugs give life to all the world So selflessly marching on Mechanical souls, robots of the earth Keeping all things running smooth as clockwork

21

The first frost fell forcefully this morning. December’s icy tendrils are splaying themselves fractally across the grass of my front lawn its fingers are playing coyly with November’s hair. Winter is anxious to begin and December is chomping at the bit to get started with its twisted work. It would take off early if the calendar allowed it. This year, the big sleep will be deep and wide and all-consuming. Plains of crystalline water and steamy breath and frost in grass. Today marks our embarkment on the slow descent into a colossal valley, a valley that we will not emerge from for four or five months, Well into next year. I am peering down the slope of this basin, which I am fully aware is far above my powers to control, and I cannot help but feel daunted by the enormity of it. and this house! with its cracks about the windows and age-old insulation creaks and groans in the night. This shelter may just be the death of me. So batten down the hatches. We are on the brink of something destructively beautiful.

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Nov 27, 2013

Nov 27, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC

j-c-lucas

First Frost

The first frost fell forcefully this morning. December’s icy tendrils are splaying themselves fractally across the grass of my front lawn its fingers are playing coyly with November’s hair. Winter is anxious to begin and December is chomping at the bit to get started with its twisted work. It would take off early if the calendar allowed it. This year, the big sleep will be deep and wide and all-consuming. Plains of crystalline water and steamy breath and frost in grass. Today marks our embarkment on the slow descent into a colossal valley, a valley that we will not emerge from for four or five months, Well into next year. I am peering down the slope of this basin, which I am fully aware is far above my powers to control, and I cannot help but feel daunted by the enormity of it. and this house! with its cracks about the windows and age-old insulation creaks and groans in the night. This shelter may just be the death of me. So batten down the hatches. We are on the brink of something destructively beautiful.

34

I can do anything. With this brain I ponder fragile realities and valuable truths. In my heart I hold tender memories of songs and touch and visuals that only I can experience. With my hands I've spawned magic. With my voice I am song and laughter. My senses allow me to sample the world around me and record and passionately enjoy everything that passes through my sphere of existence. I am miraculous. I am scientifically astounding. I am one who heals with words and pictures and sounds. I am one who loves deeply and craves life like oxygen. My life that I lay behind me like dried flowers decorates my footprints like mosaic memories. The life I see ahead of me is like a prism - indirectly fractally rainbows and while uncertain, wonderful. What is this I hold in my hands? I am breathing in this moment and I am divinely amazingly happy just to exist. With that alone I am satisfied. I can do anything. Namaste~

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Mar 6, 2015

Mar 6, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC

blessedbylight

Phase Shift

I can do anything. With this brain I ponder fragile realities and valuable truths. In my heart I hold tender memories of songs and touch and visuals that only I can experience. With my hands I've spawned magic. With my voice I am song and laughter. My senses allow me to sample the world around me and record and passionately enjoy everything that passes through my sphere of existence. I am miraculous. I am scientifically astounding. I am one who heals with words and pictures and sounds. I am one who loves deeply and craves life like oxygen. My life that I lay behind me like dried flowers decorates my footprints like mosaic memories. The life I see ahead of me is like a prism - indirectly fractally rainbows and while uncertain, wonderful. What is this I hold in my hands? I am breathing in this moment and I am divinely amazingly happy just to exist. With that alone I am satisfied. I can do anything. Namaste~

17

a deep chthonic rumble bids me re read Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception Brave New World Apocalypse, now retold by the last of those old carp, using modern magi-tech to tap Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters, each holding certain truth servant but they mention no slaves, as we imagine all men were by right rich in time to read and speak of things read or said in writing found in hidden places, lonely, all by my self places, said to be, places in the mind, while places in the heart have others of our kind. We make up a mind, we say in thought I see the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs, though many of the idle words they left as landmarks, lost all meaning over time being folded up and put away, for future perusal with intent to improve whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum? whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best is yet to come? Not mine, in my future, your now. Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one, ignor the basest of us, the beings once mated with actual gods Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy... that thought that evolved into, lying for the good of the corps social structure, the mould… formed from thinking that thought the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone the builders rejected, get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons, genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight from one point to another, not smooth as glass, level as any still pond, still lake of your one time experience seeing the meaning of still water that remains the measure of stillness, by which all further stillness is judged. You know what I mean, by the measure you use. Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken meanings tie us to our measure. Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus, as we all bear witness everything under the sun is much older than any New World Order, on fractally every scale.

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Jul 3, 2020

Jul 3, 2020 at 4:26 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Is this not the Brave New World Apocalypse

a deep chthonic rumble bids me re read Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception Brave New World Apocalypse, now retold by the last of those old carp, using modern magi-tech to tap Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters, each holding certain truth servant but they mention no slaves, as we imagine all men were by right rich in time to read and speak of things read or said in writing found in hidden places, lonely, all by my self places, said to be, places in the mind, while places in the heart have others of our kind. We make up a mind, we say in thought I see the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs, though many of the idle words they left as landmarks, lost all meaning over time being folded up and put away, for future perusal with intent to improve whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum? whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best is yet to come? Not mine, in my future, your now. Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one, ignor the basest of us, the beings once mated with actual gods Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy... that thought that evolved into, lying for the good of the corps social structure, the mould… formed from thinking that thought the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone the builders rejected, get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons, genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight from one point to another, not smooth as glass, level as any still pond, still lake of your one time experience seeing the meaning of still water that remains the measure of stillness, by which all further stillness is judged. You know what I mean, by the measure you use. Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken meanings tie us to our measure. Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus, as we all bear witness everything under the sun is much older than any New World Order, on fractally every scale.

58

They shall say of 2020, when it's done nobody forgets a year like that one, this one, with you in it, never been one like it, fractally speaking, on this scale of perception. The demographic target of Covid 19, and I share periences from some years sortalike this, like 1961, but that isn't global, that was national, the summer, mostly, then 1963, the fall, those days got global, a bit, 1969, the autumn, 1970, the spring, and all those tied in to now by way of psychedelia, and post war blues odyssey of a sort, walking to Chicago scheduled, through the October Moratorium, burlap sack of peyote Wuwuchin season, then Earth Day 1, in San Jose, half a time, half a year in men's measure, those days were more cosmic than global...when I consider I knew the way, that far, at that time, those were strange days; then I disappeared. Now, I reappear, just to say, the way I got here, got me this far, but as Granny Cook, from the original Angelus Temple amen corner, click, she said " we all need discernment", then Job called for a referee ee ee ance refer to Voltaire - define your terms .. dis cern the terms of our agreement, reader. This map leads here. 2020 April, it is a meme forming link in the evolution of the global brain holding AI accountable for each idle word, every good nobody got, give it again, doit doit now, we missed. Hamartia, ha, try umph, and we are rolling once more right past confused Camus. 1954. These are the last old days, new ones are emerging, after all we know finishes shifiting into next before our seeing eyes.

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Apr 14, 2020

Apr 14, 2020 at 4:22 PM UTC

kenpepiton

These are the last old days, for old people, like me

They shall say of 2020, when it's done nobody forgets a year like that one, this one, with you in it, never been one like it, fractally speaking, on this scale of perception. The demographic target of Covid 19, and I share periences from some years sortalike this, like 1961, but that isn't global, that was national, the summer, mostly, then 1963, the fall, those days got global, a bit, 1969, the autumn, 1970, the spring, and all those tied in to now by way of psychedelia, and post war blues odyssey of a sort, walking to Chicago scheduled, through the October Moratorium, burlap sack of peyote Wuwuchin season, then Earth Day 1, in San Jose, half a time, half a year in men's measure, those days were more cosmic than global...when I consider I knew the way, that far, at that time, those were strange days; then I disappeared. Now, I reappear, just to say, the way I got here, got me this far, but as Granny Cook, from the original Angelus Temple amen corner, click, she said " we all need discernment", then Job called for a referee ee ee ance refer to Voltaire - define your terms .. dis cern the terms of our agreement, reader. This map leads here. 2020 April, it is a meme forming link in the evolution of the global brain holding AI accountable for each idle word, every good nobody got, give it again, doit doit now, we missed. Hamartia, ha, try umph, and we are rolling once more right past confused Camus. 1954. These are the last old days, new ones are emerging, after all we know finishes shifiting into next before our seeing eyes.

39

Proud of This?(Terrestrial Entanglement) A toss; ruminating murmurs echoically stir me from my vision, eyes pulled to a close...at once they shutter open to attain the light that flashed between my waking sight and where I found myself just before. A turn; lavish sound corrupts my perception from an active interface; to cathode radiant coincidence. Coinciding incidents, to be most literal. In crude paraphrase "I'm not going to begin to act like I understand paradox'"...an ironic character movement that summated what i saw as a whole...a fish-eye take on the constitution of your shape, peering wildly; might I add mirroring my own resolve; as real as static screen splashed across the blank canvas. That which is the void within a blink..a twitching lens advance.."what are you looking for?" The chills...electromagnetic allowance...lasting the length of the slight a second-hand travels. "why were you looking there?" One man's hell is some woman's seemingly, audio-visual hallucinatory lectern. From wherefore all is one and none are spared. An exponential singularity, turning in and out and on itself until one is many. Too many to count; see where this is going or don't..."don't go!" or "is this where the sea opens up?" No. One man's hallucination is another man's seemingly orthodox dream, teeming with deja vu, but then again tomorrow is the only time you'll know the night before. Astral apprehension... Differentiate the physical form; a fraction of true manifestation; the spirits been warned. Fractally wandering this fatal wonderment. What was I thinking? Was i waking? Was I dreaming? "why were you looking for..."

0

Apr 22, 2017

Apr 22, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC

jeremy-burmeister

Proud of This (Terrestrial Entanglement)

Proud of This?(Terrestrial Entanglement) A toss; ruminating murmurs echoically stir me from my vision, eyes pulled to a close...at once they shutter open to attain the light that flashed between my waking sight and where I found myself just before. A turn; lavish sound corrupts my perception from an active interface; to cathode radiant coincidence. Coinciding incidents, to be most literal. In crude paraphrase "I'm not going to begin to act like I understand paradox'"...an ironic character movement that summated what i saw as a whole...a fish-eye take on the constitution of your shape, peering wildly; might I add mirroring my own resolve; as real as static screen splashed across the blank canvas. That which is the void within a blink..a twitching lens advance.."what are you looking for?" The chills...electromagnetic allowance...lasting the length of the slight a second-hand travels. "why were you looking there?" One man's hell is some woman's seemingly, audio-visual hallucinatory lectern. From wherefore all is one and none are spared. An exponential singularity, turning in and out and on itself until one is many. Too many to count; see where this is going or don't..."don't go!" or "is this where the sea opens up?" No. One man's hallucination is another man's seemingly orthodox dream, teeming with deja vu, but then again tomorrow is the only time you'll know the night before. Astral apprehension... Differentiate the physical form; a fraction of true manifestation; the spirits been warned. Fractally wandering this fatal wonderment. What was I thinking? Was i waking? Was I dreaming? "why were you looking for..."

4