"greenhorns" poems - Hello Poetry

Do you like this painting by Friedrich? YES or NO, A binary one or zero answer please, true or false. I like recognized neural solutions posed to logistically regressed ideas. Do you like the color BLUE or YELLOW? YES, I did like GREEN, so slender and bright faced in her youth. We were adolescents with too many connections And maybe not enough pruning. Or maybe we were just mixed and mash-up, media saturated? What do you think? Did you lust for GREEN too? YES or NO, true or false. And now, are we adults or autistic kids? We withdraw, refuse to recognize faces, limit human touch because it's all too overwhelming-- reduced to visual cats, difficult to herd by old Hands and cooperative Rules. We wanderer above the Cloud seeing answers from a Fog of Random data. Old world romantics, Greenhorns in the brave new world of hard logic and emotional detachment. If we randomly assign BLUE = false, YELLOW = true, and GREEN = lust; logic tells us false AND true must equal false. A novel recognition that sometimes when BLUE mixes with YELLOW, we are again BLUE! By sheer force of color faith and romantic human sensibility, we mix falsehood with truth to arrive at what we desire. In our blue hearts, and yellow skin we still green after romance.

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Aug 25, 2014

Aug 25, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC

jojo-nguyen

Mercury Rising

Do you like this painting by Friedrich? YES or NO, A binary one or zero answer please, true or false. I like recognized neural solutions posed to logistically regressed ideas. Do you like the color BLUE or YELLOW? YES, I did like GREEN, so slender and bright faced in her youth. We were adolescents with too many connections And maybe not enough pruning. Or maybe we were just mixed and mash-up, media saturated? What do you think? Did you lust for GREEN too? YES or NO, true or false. And now, are we adults or autistic kids? We withdraw, refuse to recognize faces, limit human touch because it's all too overwhelming-- reduced to visual cats, difficult to herd by old Hands and cooperative Rules. We wanderer above the Cloud seeing answers from a Fog of Random data. Old world romantics, Greenhorns in the brave new world of hard logic and emotional detachment. If we randomly assign BLUE = false, YELLOW = true, and GREEN = lust; logic tells us false AND true must equal false. A novel recognition that sometimes when BLUE mixes with YELLOW, we are again BLUE! By sheer force of color faith and romantic human sensibility, we mix falsehood with truth to arrive at what we desire. In our blue hearts, and yellow skin we still green after romance.

40

For you the days starts early The sun rises fast Hydrate hydrate hydrate You need to last Got to Get that asphalt melting You Grab your mop It Smells like money Now Your slinging hot Your roofing now Its not for the weak You must be tough Almost a freak As the day goes by You are really moving now Backs begin to ache You persevere somehow **** the break The greenhorns quickly learn We’re not going to stop We still got hot to burn You respect the danger You know its real There is beauty on the roof Only a real roofer can feel As the sun sets low You start to wind it down You put in real work You never frowned Be proud Hold your head high Your a god dam Roofer You live in the sky!!!!

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Mar 9, 2021

Mar 9, 2021 at 7:34 PM UTC

TornHeart1

Roofer

For you the days starts early The sun rises fast Hydrate hydrate hydrate You need to last Got to Get that asphalt melting You Grab your mop It Smells like money Now Your slinging hot Your roofing now Its not for the weak You must be tough Almost a freak As the day goes by You are really moving now Backs begin to ache You persevere somehow **** the break The greenhorns quickly learn We’re not going to stop We still got hot to burn You respect the danger You know its real There is beauty on the roof Only a real roofer can feel As the sun sets low You start to wind it down You put in real work You never frowned Be proud Hold your head high Your a god dam Roofer You live in the sky!!!!

32

Rebels root for fortitude in jest The kind that sorrowful mermaids hold too tightly Where all the tick-tocks hold patience place Crossing over bridges of perpetual reiteration There is nothing to see in brightly lit halls Though, darkness creeps in all spaces Waves knock boards like greenhorns knees Forever giving an ocean to the sea Something lost in a dream never dreamt Waking only to remember that you forget Jesters never placed in flocking meadows, but Where maniacal mentalities reign in the shadows Time is laced with life yet waiting for the count Where we may yet feel the heat of a flame As this broken boat sails the freest sea On the passages northwest of insanity

0

Feb 18, 2014

Feb 18, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC

Docstrange

Passages Northwest of Insanity

Rebels root for fortitude in jest The kind that sorrowful mermaids hold too tightly Where all the tick-tocks hold patience place Crossing over bridges of perpetual reiteration There is nothing to see in brightly lit halls Though, darkness creeps in all spaces Waves knock boards like greenhorns knees Forever giving an ocean to the sea Something lost in a dream never dreamt Waking only to remember that you forget Jesters never placed in flocking meadows, but Where maniacal mentalities reign in the shadows Time is laced with life yet waiting for the count Where we may yet feel the heat of a flame As this broken boat sails the freest sea On the passages northwest of insanity

16

Before it occurred to me to break things— Before, when purity was paramount to *** and Words and duty and the drink— Before, when academics wagged from ivory Thrones to never mime the masters— To be content with being only me— To sit in wood and ruminate upon the thoughts of White men, drunk and dead— To raise revision for our mankind In merely muted measures— To be right-handed rogue, forever plying “please”— Why then—then— I was Halfman in a wholeman’s body, A fish without its gills— A flapping Fop of scaling incongruities With gurgled protestations seldom bubbled up— A wily Portraiter, blinded since his birth— An agnostic Abbott soaking up a season’s sins Outside of habit and the church— A boisterous Beat, a bouncing drum, and gongs With two left feet— A Farmer without a *** or seed or farm Or Nature much in mind. But, my curious greenhorns on the other Side of life, don’t heed that—no! no! You’re free; the world is completely broken now.

0

Jun 8, 2019

Jun 8, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC

neophytejws1981

Before it occurred to me to break things

Before it occurred to me to break things— Before, when purity was paramount to *** and Words and duty and the drink— Before, when academics wagged from ivory Thrones to never mime the masters— To be content with being only me— To sit in wood and ruminate upon the thoughts of White men, drunk and dead— To raise revision for our mankind In merely muted measures— To be right-handed rogue, forever plying “please”— Why then—then— I was Halfman in a wholeman’s body, A fish without its gills— A flapping Fop of scaling incongruities With gurgled protestations seldom bubbled up— A wily Portraiter, blinded since his birth— An agnostic Abbott soaking up a season’s sins Outside of habit and the church— A boisterous Beat, a bouncing drum, and gongs With two left feet— A Farmer without a *** or seed or farm Or Nature much in mind. But, my curious greenhorns on the other Side of life, don’t heed that—no! no! You’re free; the world is completely broken now.

26