"hypotheses" poems
A catalyst is a chemical that speeds up reactions.
At least that’s what I learned in chemistry class.
Catalysts sometimes are the major factors in a reactions and without them,
The reaction could never happen.
Catalyst can be lab chemicals,
alcohol,
drugs,
coffee even,
or a person.
While lounging around one afternoon you were talking physics
And I turned it on your head and spoke of chemistry,
Knowing full well that I was speaking of our personal chemistries.
You were right, the physics of a relationship gives us the laws,
But CHEMISTRY can predict the outcome.
If you do the math and follow the directions,
you can determine the product without even doing the experiment.
Unless the reaction you are creating has never been attempted before by the scientists preforming the experiment.
They can flip through the books,
Read the essays,
Study the theorems,
Even attempt the calculations,
But if they don’t do the actual experiment,
They will never find their outcome.
Some things need a push,
A catalyst,
For them to form a bond,
React,
And combine into a stable combination.
Hypotheses must be TESTED, ACCEPTED, and RATIFIED
Before becoming a law.
No matter how based in logic your hypothesis might be,
You need the universe and its fundamental laws to back it up.
There are still surprises left in the universe.
Maybe you and I can be one of them.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
Her life was run on the oil of synchronicity
planted in the seduction of abstract hypotheses.
The moons and ebbs of tides
Swoop in like thunderclaps
on wing'ed lightning bolts,
Capturing synergy
Wiping out energy
Till she huddles in a pile of her own failure
Tucking up her toes to avoid the floods
Admiring and condemning
The rain soaked
Howling at her gate.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
I am standing
at the mirror
loving every scarred
unruly thread unraveling
in this breathing tapestry
it wasn’t my fault
what happened to me
my patterns were scored
long before I knifed them in
over and over again
picking people and paths
to validate my false hypotheses
unworthy kept me from
letting you love every one
of these holy spastic molecules
until I loosed grip
on erroneous
self-loathing
and I am so sorry
I really needed you
but I couldn’t let you
be there for me
because I wasn’t
and now,
here I am…
scoping silver under glass
making silly faces for me
blowing kisses at myself
and giving a little wink
over my shoulder
as I walk out
able to embrace
the wild unknowns
that await me
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
there are no limits
on speed,
no bumps to impede
that singular rush of inspiration,
that surging wave we ride
to euphoric highs
defying doubt and disbelief
within and throughout
these paths least-travelled
where rhythmic beats
of compulsion
thrill the air
way beyond the mean,
and we glide
over ambiguous bell
curves
dispelling conspicuous myths
and null hypotheses
with relative ease
where iambic warriors
and wordsmiths,
high on lyrical amphetamines,
wage epic battles
of verse and rhyme
and the blood of creativity
is spilled onto
finite scrolls and screens
where the thoughts and dreams
of poets, peasants and pimps
reign
eternal
~ P ( Pablo)
(8/2/2013)
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.
"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.
"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.
"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
Sub-atomic particles
the atoms they form
molecules, cell organelles
cells, machinery of life
organs, organisms
communities and ecosystems
planets, solar systems, galaxies
galactic clusters and their inverse
black holes the doors to other
universes, a contradiction
in terms.
For language and its shadow
consciousness must hold matter
the material world snugly inside concepts
theories and hypotheses to be
experimentally verified using vision
and the other senses, collecting data
and interpreting the known facts
accumulated over time.
Can matter
exist without a consciousness to behold it?
Believing in
our mortality (the species)
we have created God
(a supreme being)
probably not carbon-based
to encompass every universe
but is God
inside or outside
consciousness? Can God
tell us what to do
or must we tell God
alone
what to do?
Here is ego
projecting personality, exerting force
on community, asserting the existence
and predominance of component DNA.
An already hackneyed theory that DNA
survival drives
procreation, personality, savings bonds
everything but poetry (most poems included).
Mustache, cowboy hat
horse whisperer, gulag master
Odysseus, King Lear
salvation in the details.
Yes, these personalities individual and interesting
as opossum, bear
oak and ash
beech nut, pine cone
Grand Canyon sandstone, Green Mountain granite.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
When an illusion becomes a reality
The whole idea of existence is shrouded
In the mysterious clues we are given
Unearthed from the remains ancient
Many hypotheses which float around
Mystic lands which once existed
So many exposed to the light of day
Many more still cradled within the layers
Many interpretations, ancient chronicles
Dates back to time immemorial
Many sources and many more tales
The soul of the scripts lost long ago
None will come to know the real sentiments
Mired in the deepest secrets of yesteryear
Historians’ favorite child, philosophers guide
We can only come up with our understanding
Spend a lifetime deciphering between the lines
Many centuries of hidden anecdotes
We can only reconstruct what we decipher
We may not be close to the real meaning
The custodians have whisked away the heart
And soul of the entire episodes
Leaving us between the vagueness
Papyrus holds the words, without the meanings
Not sure of the real feelings and emotions
Maybe a rendezvous with the chroniclers
If we can travel back in time
And enter the ethereal world of these histories
Can reveal the truth and exact sentiments
Till that time, we have to live with our inferences
Maybe we are way off the mark
In a different trajectory, away from the core
An illusion we may have created form our cognizance
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
Weary hobbling men,
of stature far from social statutory,
embody brief hypotheses of me.
Weary hobbling men,
managed by bronzed and tall
strong handsome men,
embody sick hypocrisy.
Blind old beggars,
who sit on broken concrete
and breathe through broken lungs,
speak clearly of what resides in not what eyes speak,
but of what love and trust sing.
They see more than we,
for they, both blind and whis’pring,
are contented just to breathe.
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 1:40 PM UTC
Each mind is situated on the spectrum of belief and reality.
Both ends suffer in their search for the truth.
The man who spends his life navigating the spiritual realm.
He attempts to find the greater purpose for everything.
Every blade of grass, each eroded stone a symbol of something bigger.
The nuances of life analysed and expanded upon to their very limit.
Given meaning in the name of God or the foreshadowing omen of an individual.
The man who traverses reality, grounded in science and logistics.
His mind filled with hypotheses.
Observing outcomes to explain the inexplicable.
He fits his grass and stones into the puzzle of a greater system.
In doing so he is God and the purpose for all things he assigns.
Both men strive to be the voice heard by the masses.
Their findings recorded, read, believed.
In the end does it truly matter.
Two lives spent.
Kneeling, yearning for some kind of affirmation that their time was spent correctly.
That they added anything to the greater scheme.
Pages upon pages filled with every detail in a grain of sand.
The end comes, the ink runs, the pages wither to dust, knowledge lost, purpose forgotten.
The world keeps turning.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
It’s the hollow sound of a toast to fill the silence of unaddressed questions,
the celebratory clanging of glass on glass
ringing from assumptions based on past experiences and theories
from synapses of protagonists or all
that is mystical; a god or a God
for the rhetoric of bad days; the precatory shoulda, woulda, coulda’s
you can count with all digits and the humdrums,
the lalala’s to songs with lines you can never remember.
It is to fill in, with pencil, the
blanks of unclear intentions, capricious endings,
the what comes after the highest number, tentative now, for it is a trick question,
the true stories of Bermuda Triangles and Altantises,
for the ones Amelia kissed goodbye and all that is brief,
promises neither broken nor kept;
some, hypotheses for what happens after waiting.
It is the makeshift certainty ascertained the day he left
all these unfinished, unanswered, incomplete… things. The sure of it
invented by staking everything in a nebulous something,
a nebulous anything that will have to do, like cotton patches
on satin dresses or saints for hopeless causes.
It was the invention to quench the constant
need to know, to fill the in-between start to end
for all that we can not stop. A made-up map by pirates below ten
for every time we must set destinations beyond unchartered unknowns;
a make-believe place holder to hold us to the relief
we get from closure when
the universe gives us none.
It is the lemniscate, the amen,
the St. Jude we assign to our altars
until we find actual satin or the aviatrix herself,
or surrender everything in the spirit of faith
or believe
that not all things unfound are lost.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
We live in a world of noise,
of parallel and asymmetric movement,
where nonchalance has become the norm.
Sweet, melodious and pleasing
is our phony makeup.
We are animals that reject our animalness.
We dread nuclear, secular, red lights, cockroaches, love,
threats and non-threats alike.
Fear has taken us on its morning stroll,
and predictably we bark.
(The sun is almost up)
We are turned on and turned off
by oil-, wind- and hydro-powered switches
that respond to clapping.
There are beige, mauve and burgundy
curtains to choose from,
and supersized french-fries, pots, and cars.
We have lost ourselves in a mess of options,
and strive incessantly to complicate.
We fly in formation
and flow through carefully placed
and beautifully colored rocks made from Styrofoam,
down an improbable slope
of over-romanticized hypotheses.
We are ******** ego-centric and nepotistic,
and asexually multiply.
Thought and all other wasted rationality
keeps the axes of our unsustainable and fanatical wheels
from breaking loose (into free space and true autonomy).
We create meaning where there is no meaning,
and scientifically and thoroughly flout
god and the truth,
whilst we absorb, photosynthesize, bear fruits and grow leaves
(we are still, essentially, vegetable).
With every step we go deeper, and faster and better,
and farther from our selves.
Hence, we barely feel.
We are deaf and blind and mute
and approximately frozen;
and dance, swirl, sing and scream
in our vague, whimsical life,
till we fall.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
A lyricist,
Siphoning dew drop hypotheses
From my mouth agape.
This is an investment
In the muscular legs
Pressing against the moon's core.
These are cumbersome times;
where have you been?
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
Consider poetry
& all of its complicated forms.
Then strip it
of all rules and restrictions.
Now, consider the subject matter.
Free verse
would not be free enough
for the words I would choose
to describe
what I would like to do to you.
Maybe these types of instincts
weren't meant to be cheapened
with velvety phrasing
& sumptuous language.
You see,
I have this hypothesis
that poetry
would be just as effective
translated into raw action.
*(They really should have
shipped me off
to the nunnery
when they had the chance.)*
But they sent me to college instead—
where I learned
how to properly test
my hypotheses.
**Hot **** do I love research.**
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
On the floor, on the door
On the library's padded chair
Why are these things moist?
What did I just step in
Why is my sock wet now
Where did that spot come from?
These are things that actually
I don't care to speculate about.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Dream-walking I can explore opportunities
Collaborating and engaging in the process
Creating a synergy of thoughts and images
That may or may not stand the test
In the light of day
There’s comfort in dreaming of possibilities
Unblemished notions
Untried hypotheses
Perfect in their synthesis
My secret desires
They fill a need
Until the need is filled.
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
I.
In physics, _action at a distance_
is the concept that an object can be moved,
changed, or otherwise affected
without being physically touched
as in mechanical contact by another object.
That is, it is the nonlocal interaction
of objects separated in space;
II.
The term was used in the context
of early theories of gravity and
electromagnetism to describe how
an object responds to the influence
of distant objects. For example,
the early Coulomb's law and the law
of universal gravitation;
III.
More generally "action at a distance" describes
the failure of early atomistic and mechanistic theories
to reduce all physical interaction to collisions
[thus truly ending the Stone Age]; The exploration
and resolution of this problematic phenomenon
leading to significant developments in modern physics;
from the concept of a _field_, to descriptions
of _quantum entanglement_ & the mediator _particles_
of the _Standard Model_
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
Tears dripping down my chin
Water collecting in deep lines
Beginning to feel insecure again
Painted mind should see silken signs
Circular thoughts of sadness and shame
Pool into large puddles of self-loathing
Pondered epiphanies spill out of my head
You stand by, watch them stain clothing
I am on my hands and aching knees
Sorrow outweighing endurance and bliss
My existence is heavier
Each moment feel less and less
Golden guesses and hypotheses are yours
The ambition is gone from my soul
Expand the horizons of written thoughts
After self-acceptance so I can be whole
Sit there fumbling for the right words to say
Your freshly worried face in my sight
Self-hatred forcing us to drift further from happiness
You win with passion, fight with kisses every night
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
Something about gunfire.
Somebody says religion.
It’s an opportunity for the TV
to screen the same scenes,
the blinking blue and reds
of a bevy of cop cars
and the spooling headline
that assumes, then confirms
the worst.
And so strangers from all corners
spew their pennies’ worth
like bees fumbling for honey,
thousands of hypotheses
replete with exclamation marks,
the name of a Floridian city
swelling as a violet bruise
in the aftershock,
plunged into uninvited limelight.
The chief claims a ‘lone-wolf’ attack,
a man who loathed rainbows
then wiped his own life.
Talk swiftly turns to guns,
the increasing frequency
of wicked bloodshed,
the how, the why, the ‘this day and age’
and ‘the world isn’t safe’
and the nothing, still nothing is done.
Just one night before,
another tragedy,
a young singer shot
while signing their name,
fans left to clasp
the musical remnants
of a life snatched away,
the acerbic word ******
in a nonsensical second.
Something so horrid
became something so common.
How many more gunshots
must shatter a night?
How many more families
must crumple like newspapers
peppered with headlines of the recently lost?
They are asking for answers.
We wait for them to come.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
a moment ago:
I was born,
gasped my first
lungful of air.
a moment ago:
I took my first steps,
uttered my first words.
a moment ago:
I realised I could
disagree
with what I was told to know.
a moment ago:
I began to doubt
my own hypotheses.
a moment ago:
I loved you
with every sense
and every emotion.
a moment ago:
you rejected that love,
casting me to despair.
a moment ago:
I realised I could never trust
those who feigned to care.
a moment ago:
I left this life
to its bitter devices.
a moment ago:
you expressed regret.
now the moment has passed ...
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
Hypotheses abound, regarding the extinction
of the reptilian hordes, those base or of distinction.
Some aver, and others vow, things must have gone this way
and when I hear such lofty speech, I clear my throat and say:
“It seems to me that when we speak with such calm certitude
we miss the possibility of death by attitude.
For when I look upon these bones of prehistoric herds
I catch a glimpse of simpler times, and then I see the “birds”
For while the stegosaurus trod with stoic steps so slow
I perceive he may have been arraigned as one below
the wild heights of soaring things, with pointed, cackling heads
who mocked him at his every turn (which stegosauri dread)
And so as this terrestrial life was bound to suffer so
The pterodactyls found great fun to drive them all to woe
They drove them off, by day and night, until they were defunct,
the primal victims of a craft; the first to e’er be punk’d”
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Oscillating between
The known and unknown
More unknown we have
Speculations and hypotheses
Trying to make it believable
Greater part of reality
Cloaked in anonymity
Wonder, when truth shall
Reveal it all
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
[ as the knot finds the noose, the night ]
full of dead Aprils and lilac fumes, marjoram rhinestones and the ****** cinders of delight
over charmed by lightning, nocturnal passions of a dire hope suspended in hopeless plight
ornate cups as fragile as a poisonous thought made of human love
sworn enemies sipping tea from intangible ceramics, their black silk gloves
gleaming in the twilight apocalypse of surrender, at war with wisdom
in mad gardens of eden,
two dragons horde stars enough to confound astronomy
and arguments
that hold for every possible lie, sustaining the hypotheses of heaven
in orbit of a void
a lush velvet, gaping maw at the center of faith
and our kites, tethered to the follicle of our I
[ as the knot finds the noose, the night ]
surrounding the red apples of forbidden things, clinging to a fork, branching off from the center
of non local truth... a tremor in the force that sings the Universe into question,
but never into being
our magnificence, savoring sweet Life, smitten by meaningless miracles, as befit a fools indifference
to Reality... our long wings on specks of dust
amuse the blizzard of unknown laws, and yet we persist in beauty and susurrus
the rustle of angels on fishhooks
as we reel in the big
One. [ Divided ]
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
In the mythology we will one day weave of our lives, every night is either fable or cautionary tale
We trade stories of war across tables separated only by black coffee and the depth of understanding,
In a Waffle House in Florence, or in Clifton, or off the last exit we can bear to see because we can no longer take the motion and need a moment to rest, to breathe,
We talk, as if we are each others children, starry eyed and open mouthed to let all the possibilities sit on our tongues, wait, and then dissolve into dreams,
We all have different definitions of what it means to fight, but we appreciate others scars once they are made visible,
Like the night they took Jake to the psych ward, his heart a scientist burning hypotheses in the street while Jess wiped tears and ashes from her face and resolved to battle this thing to the death,
Or the early morning we drove Sierra to Indianapolis, and we turned the radio in the old jeep up as loud as the one blown speaker would allow and tried to sing our way out from under the burden we carried to that dying city,
Or the night Jennifer's brother put a dent in my car and I drove my fist into a wall, again and again, trying to beat an answer out of it for why the summer had gone and left us ghosts in the dawn,
I am as of yet unsure what this tapestry will look like when it is completed,
I promise a great deal, but I wouldn't dare bet on destiny
All I can be sure of, is that at the end of any highway,
There is a Waffle House,
And there will always be those,
With poet souls and hungry mouths waiting,
To turn something ordinary in to legend
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC