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Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
Ask...and you shall be given answers
seek...and you'll be told where to look
knock...say, hello?...hello? hellooow?
a voice named siri replies:
"is it me you're looking for?"
i think,
the eyes, the mind, even the heart, need
clear, goggle-like glasses, for 20/20 vision,
to grasp, to discern,  be forewarned,
not to be overwhelmed by whatever
data unfolds on the screen

they say, there are contrived solutions,
for life's every complication
search engines are accessible to all
just press specific keys, and, Voila!
surf, play...easy games, easy friends
but, can they really answer all questions?
every human question?.........like,
do elephants really cry? how did it occur
that they have excellent memories?
is Timbuktu modernized now?
are there still surviving cannibals?
will the remaining Bee Gees member,
tell us how to mend a broken heart?
do rosicrucians really possess secret wisdom?
what happened to you and me?
how do i save myself from emotional vampires?
how do i cook pad thai?
...and how do i get you out of my mind?
why does the rooster crow after midnight
how does logarithm work with poetry?
do dogs have souls?  do they visit their
masters?....i miss my dogs Misty and Tiny,
...and i miss you...what's wrong with me?
God, why do i even bother to ask?

my goggled eyes are blinded by grief
my goggled mind refuses to forget
this goggled life of mine feels empty
and it has nothing to do with technology...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    July 23, 2018
.......not just a silly love poem, my poet friends:))
...a piece that resulted from rainy days, while thinking of wearisome issues on a Monday:-]
...............
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Let Us play Yesterday—
I—the Girl at school—
You—and Eternity—the
Untold Tale—

Easing my famine
At my Lexicon—
Logarithm—had I—for Drink—
’Twas a dry Wine—

Somewhat different—must be—
Dreams tint the Sleep—
Cunning Reds of Morning
Make the Blind—leap—

Still at the Egg-life—
Chafing the Shell—
When you troubled the Ellipse—
And the Bird fell—

Manacles be dim—they say—
To the new Free—
Liberty—Commoner—
Never could—to me—

’Twas my last gratitude
When I slept—at night—
’Twas the first Miracle
Let in—with Light—

Can the Lark resume the Shell—
Easier—for the Sky—
Wouldn’t Bonds hurt more
Than Yesterday?

Wouldn’t Dungeons sorer frate
On the Man—free—
Just long enough to taste—
Then—doomed new—

God of the Manacle
As of the Free—
Take not my Liberty
Away from Me—
433

Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how

Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now—

I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show

“How to forget”!
Say—some—Philosopher!
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!

Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it—
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know—

If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don’t you know?
B Young Feb 2015
I
I am him, the man seeking solitude
I am him, the boy annoyed afraid and hates being
Alone
A flea, fleeing man traversing
fleeting moments.
Burning away oil, soaked fleece.
North Face coming home feels more and more of a disgrace
North Star
I want to follow that sweet shoulder with that
brainwashing
LOGO
LOGOS save me logo log logarithm love

My jacket pulled over her legs
freezing she says
shivering chills
Withdrawal, hence we are en route to the corner to get well.
sitting silent and innocent (comparatively with the deranged driver).
in the backseat as this driver drives lives nowhere and the only place we all want to go
everywhere
all at once
into oblivion we go sullen eyes and veins soaked with ****** and *******.
I am him  
the man looking in the mirror with disdain
I am him
The man afraid of what he sees.
Maybe dolorful colorful Colorado can save
Him.
This is my Howl
This is my Purge
save me save me
save
me
me
I fear of Art becoming dead to me
If fear of God dying to me
Dan is dead
II
The neighborhood is dim
snow falls
I smoke on the porch
5 years before
what you just read
Dan is still alive
and as I smoke on the porch
snow falls
I watch the people
commuters
college
professors
middle class
lower class
intelligent
stupid
rich
poor
white
black
doctors
trash man
*** heads
junkies
young girls
grandparents
my community
America
These people enclosed in there cars on their faces just
regret
anger
disappointment
I start to wish there was something I could offer them
but I have nothing myself
only
fog of dreams in my head
FrannyFoo Feb 2013
Bobby-pin, the anchor to the thin cloth of a once bleak school career
Pulled out like the pin of a grenade
Suddenly gone, where do I go? Do I run?
Take cover? to whom do I turn?
These constant goodbyes are the never ending logarithm, unsolvable without my bobby-pin.
dedicated to my favorite math teacher who will be leaving this next month. I will miss you Bobby Beckom.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i find the crow more eloquent,
more treacherously abiding
a fulfilment of aesthetic investigations
when walking, the crow
more beautiful than in flight,
unlike the sparrows' comic grounding,
with its epileptic quick-step twitchy
caoutchouc trot... poetically drawn
as: huh?! huh?! chirp. huh?! huh?! chirp;
really quickly.

the only way to transition back into
the humanities from learning science,
******* p... chemistry and physics,
from these two into the humanities:
because you wrote a high standard
sociology essay plagiarising trying to
beat the anti-plagiarism logarithm
imposed... and that camus' l'étranger
also written to a 1st in the degree hierarchy...
the only transition from the sciences
to humanities is with philosophy,
which is a qausi-humanism...
mind you... edinburgh is the last gothic city,
and scotland the only place
where university can be like high school,
diverse, equipping you with many choices,
you can major chemistry, but understudy
computing, french, history, sociology, etc.
so in the background you have my favourite
theorisation: friedel-craft's alkylation & acylation /
effects of substitution on the beneze ring properties:
ortho (β) / para (ν) directing goups...
meta (π) directing groups... ipso (α) directed
at dislodging the algebraic *x
already attached...
i was never going to write cute poetry...
lessons in  inductive effects of σ-bonds orientation
controlled by resonate (of) π-bonds...
the faustian myth continues without cute goethe rhyme.
not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.
Jeff Hollender Aug 2013
The complexity of my perplexity makes me feel like I got nobody next to me
Racing thoughts lead me to my insanity
Which is something nobody can see
The combustion of my thoughts are the only way not to feel lost
This mental breakdown how much will it cost?
There's got to be a algorithm to fix this crazy, or logarithm maybe?
Shruti Atri Jul 2014
Because it's the only way
to find some release...
to write down the words...

Life is simple,
but the human mind,
our heart
and our hormones (usually raging)
make it seem complex
and confusing.

And this society we have built for ourselves?
To help us progress...
It doesn't help either.
It merely adds another variable
to the logarithm called life
we're already breaking our heads on.

Writing poems,
penning down your thoughts
or even just labelling your confusion
by giving them words...
it's all writing,
it all means 'to create something'.
Depending on what one wishes to create,
they write a poem or a passage or an essay or prose,
or even a book.
It's an individual's choice.
It's that person's choice.

The words come.
Even we writers do not know where they come from,
but they do.

And when they do, we write. On paper or tissues or newspapers or any means available to us, like desperate beings, finding an outlet, we write...

People write about a lot of things,
feelings,
things they're attached to,
about people as well,
when the only way they can bear the words to flow is rhythmic,
maybe because if those intense words came out raw,
they'd devour the speaker
or the speaker would eat them up.

It's confusing even to us...why do we write?


Just remember,
if you've ever been a muse in someone's work
(be it a poem or prose or a song
or a photograph or a drawn/painted picture),
know that you've been adored and cherished
and you've touched that person's life
and left an imprint.

One he or she wants to immortalize
in the one way they know how to.

Do not take that lightly.

*Words mean something to us writers
and blank pages make us ache,
and even we don't know why that is...
Sean Hunt Mar 2016
My deep and dark subtle mind
Moves behind the scenes
Manipulating and directing every thing
Giving meaning to my every move
Now, to understand the logarithm
Keeping time, keeping rhythm
Hidden agenda, hidden theme
For my painful problematic dream

Sean   March 2016
M Mar 2015
if only there was a logarithm to solve for
how much of someone else is in you
and whether or not it's still you
when there's another there

we learn from each other, we do,
but how much is lessons and how much is
usurption? when does a soul cut into
yours, or does it just build on it?

I remember when I thought I wouldn't be whole
without someone, and I remember when
someone thought they couldn't be whole without me
so I agreed, and I left her as just a piece

who does this make me? what do I say I am
and in the eyes of God and all the angels and saints and people
whose eyes matter? which watcher can tell me?
where does it stop? When does it go?
men
(white men)
(a few women)
(white women)
- oh my -

sit atop this teetering thing
called
america
called
freedom
called
(democracy)
- oh my -

blind in their mirror
of privilege
of history
of status
(of reality)
- oh my -

they
turn no cheek and cast
an ignorant bitter stone

"they take your jobs"
"they hate our freedoms"
"they are manipulators,
lairs,
murderers,
rapists,
extremists"
(terrorists)­
- oh my -

all are equated,
summed into a
logarithm of
shallow truth

"Make America Great Again"

what of the west's,
of america's
variables to this equation?

economic hegemony?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

assassinated leaders?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

moralistic edicts of right and wrong?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

policies to extract foreign resources and wealth?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

- oh my -

was it not john
a disciple of jesus
the son of god
a god
who blesses america
who said

"If anyone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen."

was it not paul
the apostle of jesus
the son of god
a god
who blesses america
who said

"Do you suppose, O man—you who judge those who practice such things and yet do them yourself—that you will escape the judgment of God? Or do you presume on the riches of his kindness and forbearance and patience, not knowing that God's kindness is meant to lead you to repentance?"

- oh my -

hypocrisy is an acidic suicidal pill
your brother is cast in the likeness of
god

like you

a
human

a being of
fault of
merit of
sin of
good of
tribulation of
suffering of
worth

fear is an old testament to retribution
love is a new testament to reconciliation

america is the new world
(not the old)
- oh my -
Mark McIntosh Jun 2016
in storms windows need protection
glass darkness with an inadequate
deflection of weather. everything blurs
in a foggy mirror & the steam only gradually
dissipates. a sheen clean from
distractions. seeking answers

spoken in a different tongue.
the vanity displays a book of words
unfamiliar. Asian scripts.
Hieroglyphics of faded pictures.
a dog eared page with a code
a logarithm missing

essential sections
when the sun beats down
& glare changes focus
eyes turn deadly
they misread the script
a waterfall of assumptions

flows from globes as if earth dehydrated
to crack skin
seeping truth through
when it needs encrypting
the hacker battle
mistakes an error message
Working things out in my head when the bed looks more inviting and the windows are letting the light in and I'm working things out in my head, exercising mentally to keep my mental faculties on top form.

it's a bit like long division when you're sitting on a logarithm and algebra drops in for tea and a chat about this and his cat and my mind wanders off into the wilderness.

The weather doesn't help me to find that place, tranquility is just a sea up on a moon upon a long time ago.
KorbydAngyle Jan 2021
Though I may
Though I  might
There are so many other things
That I wish on this night
The tide stores splices of onerous flesh...
stashing them out
And bringing them smoothly inside-
the rucks of darkness encloses
Tall frawns taller skirting vines
of turbulent giant bladder kelp
Survival should do one more...
then plenty is each species of human that cares
Grime sedentary shimmied hurriedly amongst hidden foul dusts
Plots spoken wed cloths
damask silken treading
  lightly weeds where they don't belong
As we catch up to the cries
Senses to  fulfill seniority demure paucity
oh they  rinse and ringtones wash the dreams back out
Craft sols dented pride it's sinister
always  aiming hollow
    shat the one toothed grin
I could not be I if killed certainly jeering
at stimulant cartwheel punches
the crap lit doing wrong
  yet by being studied each wave it repeats
   a logarithm of ultimate denial
    a surface squalor assuring currents champion
Wash away polyhedron pith
the face of pestilence
Personifications attempted
Douse the material frost with fire
  from the grand stares glancing at you
Whose to realize the first and last valiant voyage
is tiding as of driest concerned philanthropically beholden logics
Satsih Verma Nov 2018
Like dogwood flowers
I spread my palms, for
you to read the fate of sun.

Nothing else I would
need to complete my logarithm.
I had always failed in numbers.

Lines don't play the
game. Dots are winning the
horse race.

The hounds know
the art of killing. I was
not ready to undress the gods.

Can you surrogate
the death of a wasp, who
flew not to bite the innocent?

The point was not clear.
Nobody understands the geometry.
Travis Green Aug 2020
Flamed. Blood-stained.  Chained. Brain-dead.
Strange hallucinations crowding my intellect,
magnifying into insane extremes, drunken divisions,
sunken subtraction minus the double negatives
multiplied by limits with no value.  Insecure,
inestimable fears flowing, floating, exploding,
eroding, crushing the sines and cosines of my design,
the broken tangents and cotangents, twisted triangles
and amber angles with no even degrees.  Everything
was unclear to me as I gazed at the restless streets
outside my scratchy and shadowed window,
the swelling trees shivering with no leaves to
console them in the cold breeze, the stoplights
flickering without pause, collapsed sideways
and conjunctions, junctions with no function,
my mind burning out the more I attempted
to unriddled the complex equation.  But everything
was zooming in my direction, crashing in fragmented
pieces, the rough-scarred buildings, the bruised
trees spinning into parked vehicles, the watercolor
scene becoming a blurred painting with no
meaning, deep hues of crimson red and blackness
filling me with sadness and madness, the passion
in my poetry splashing in tidal waves of unpleasant
depictions and dreams, diminishing fiction and
nonfiction, squeezing syllables timed out with no flight,
no light blinded by shadowed outlines of smoked love.
And I tried to hold my breath, but the burning smell
was carrying me into incomparable realities, massive,
my flesh painfully trembling, feeling electric and unsteady,
a mistaken algorithm, a lost logarithm, a dying, starving
ocean, a farsighted existence wandering in shame,
homeless, expressionless, depression driving me
into stormy depths, slapped, slipping backward,
trapped, dragged in wronged winds, pounding vibrations
flooding my vessels with wrecked literature and misspelled
letters. I was alone, rattled up, choking on negative notes,
hard and raw verbs, unrecognizable thoughts shot,
murdered moments, dizzy vision, hands slit, ripped,
chests screaming, ******, programmed, hammered
into upturned and useless paragraphs.

— The End —