"mathematically" poems
Every blue patch on the sky keeps an eye,
cherishing clouds dancing, hovering over.
The songs of deep blue ride the heady air,
only to be stunned, all of a sudden,
at the first sight—
sung down on a perfectly placed mural.
The Queen of Sheba tiptoes this way;
King Solomon leans to the ground,
only to find seas of silent blooms
musing, dipping in sun-kissed dews—
on gently tilted roses that will not fall,
not from this picture-perfect, navel-high!
Velvety, the rose rises from the ground;
the forever-green Earth hangs low,
in the dew on the rose that will not fall.
Blossoming, eyeing an acute high,
evermore hopeful to scale upward,
toward the faraway, awaiting heaven's pool.
There, the spotlight does not move—
neither north nor south, nor up nor down—
until Queen Fathima, the Queen of Heaven,
steps on the "as above, so below" slope.
There, the newly resurrected Earth will be primed,
its minted atoms vibrating beyond bounds,
rising, for the first time, atop the navel-high.
Perfectly wrapped, the atom's circle finally turns on—
the stepping stone that holds no pi-decimal hole.
Pure Scientia hangs on the door of Paradise,
awaiting the numerically perfect Queen Fathima to step.
God willing, she will work in beauty:
the most sought-after, perfect works of art—
the lost masterpiece, not in translation,
but hidden within the pi-decimal abyss of Earth's depth.
Lo, the gleaning Sleeping Beauty peeps,
trailing the role model Queen.
Fathima—the first woman to enter Paradise—
walks the walk: perfect, straight, numerically precise.
As if she always knew, back from the Earth,
of the murals ahead, hanging on Paradise’s wall,
mathematically exact!
Mirrors of imagination, new wonders on Heaven’s way,
etched in the murals at the golden section, navel-high.
She zooms past the ever-spinning atom’s perfect span,
cemented at the entrance of Paradise.
Yet leaves no footprint—
for she never did, even on the sublunary Earth.
A new wonder blooms in the classic old eyes:
oh, Pi, still irrational, still pondering,
at the measured, eternal navel-high!
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
A song like King David sang and everyone heard
It’s the sweet song sang in every mother tongue;
A perfumed speech is heard sweeter than nectar
wreaths round each patch of earth as part of a tongue
in all different variations, directions it’s singing!
Mathematically comped that rhythmically span
fashion in both or you choose science or arts.
It’s a lyric sang with finest curvy swaying dance
feel the quivers deep down into the atomic level
still the various motions in various directions turn on,
nowhere near that look drawing a pause!
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
Someone is singing a song, it's somewhere written.
The ocean breaks in billowy dances, the seas open up
Get it off the chests, put a notion through onto the cloud
that won’t just fall, won’t just stop and drop: it will float
to the measured moves, only then will it roll in,
pop into the million blooms, wreathed rosy lips,
set out bowls of colours before the one is pouring in!
A song like King David sang and everyone heard.
It’s the sweet song sang in every mother tongue;
a perfumed speech is heard sweeter than the nectar,
wreaths round each patch of earth as part of a tongue.
In all different variations, directions it’s being sung!
Mathematically composed that rhythmically spans
fashion in both, or you choose science or arts.
It’s a lyric sung with finest curvy swaying dance.
Feel the thrills deep down through the atomic level.
still the variety motions in various directions turn on,
and nowhere near that looks, drawing a pause!
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!
Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.
Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.
What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.
What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
How can I explain it's like I was looking at it all
staring at it all thru my head
seeing what it was
as clearly as it was
as mathematically astronomical as it was
as infinite and finite as it was
with the pure facts
as beautiful as it was
as vast and empty
and full as it was
as eternally externel and internel as it was
as astounding and sound as it was
as impossible and logical as it was
and it started when I took 8 billion and divided it into 1000 million eight times so to make it seem like not a lot
to make it seem small
then i took the world and did much the same
so I could see it how it was much as i've done before
and I saw it all once more then it collapsed. collapsed into black infinitely back up into my mind and i was back
and so I realized what it all is.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
There Is But One Law (The Dancer's Coda)
There is but one set of laws,
One that need be obeyed,
One that brooks no heresy,
One that gives no absolution.
One that needs no priests, no canons,
One that that refuses disobedience.
We all bend knee at altar invisible,
Though feasance never requested.
The Laws of Physics.
A body at rest, a body in motion.
Laws immutable, unconditional,
Equations, proofs, demonstrable,
Inequalities inexcusable, banished.
Dancer says:
I am heretic, even these laws I refuse.
My body denies limitations,
My mind believes I will make do
What it could not, but yesterday.
Defiance from wire to wire is the
Fuel in my veins, fear but a detail,
Leaping from from ten meters more,
My Declaration of Independence.
My body plastic, my mind ethereal,
Some mock, call it trickery,
Some hail, call me hero.
There are forces greater than mine,
Forces irrevocable, mathematically superior.
Each day my force grows as well,
Visions imagined supersede the
Tedium of definitions, of boundary lines.
Bend the law, conquer the null, fill the void.
Each day sketch, devise, organize a
New rebellion, follow only one command,
Honor but a single battle cry.
Leap, then fall!
That dancer, your only law,
That heretic, thine only coda.
Action is freedom.
For you are dancer,
Whisper as you leap:
The Fifth Freedom I possess,
The Freedom to Fall.
May 17th, 2013
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Everything was going according to plan
Highschool. Pre-Med. Med. Specialization.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think
That you would add up to this equation
Never did I think that things would end up
Like how it is at this moment.
*You never were meant for this equation
And yet, you fit in so perfectly*
I was expecting nothing, and yet.. You
Never did I think that you, once a variable, would become a constant. That you would succeed euler's number or the symbol for radians, pi, as important constants in my life, you're as important but as confusing as i.
I mean, at times you're really confusing me
like rationalizing the negative square root of 3, but it's simply, really how I thought it would be to make sense of irrationality. Things like this would make sense mathematically, but not in reality. In reality, you're more simple, yet oh-so filled with insanity. But it still boggles my mind, on how a lovely variable like you becomes a constant in my life.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Prahu opines re the mathematics of love
Her equations hypotenuse me,
So I write adjacently,
As if we were cosine functionalities.
A special formula,
A Hyperbolic Cosine,
For to equate love mathematically,
We must use verbal hyperbole.
Binomials, the pair of loves,
Coefficient Trekkers,
On the mountains of waves,
To a product infinite.
So let us,
Reductio ad absurdum
That love is pointless.
Nah, nope.
Love is the point on a curve
that never stops moving,
Even as the curve forever, bending
And the possibilities,
Exponential...
In the sums of love,
The finite answer is always two.
So let us be clear,
This exercise has made me late
For work,
For which
I express my appreciation as follows:
X = xo,
Or
Summation Expansion
e e= 1 / n!
= 1/1 + 1/1 + 1/2 + 1/6 + ... see constant e
e -1 = (-1) n / n!
= 1/1 - 1/1 + 1/2 - 1/6 + ...
e x = xn / n!
= 1/1 + x/1 + x2 / 2 + x3 / 6 + ...
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
nerd, dork, no life
Dorks my favorite because practically its my name now
I'm usually buried in a book and I usually. Get asked what's the point?
Honestly I think it'll make me a better lover
Because when I find a girl I'll be able to teach her about science so she can understand the bond that I feel for her
I'll be able to teach her about math so we can view love at a different angel
I'll be able to teach her about history so she'll understand when I say that if my love were to flow into the ocean it would make BP's 2010 incident look like a drop of black paint on a canvas of red
I'll be able to teach her about English especially present participles you know running, jumping, skipping words that describe an action that's ongoing that's why she'll never hear me say I love you but hear I'm Loving you
I'll be able to teach her about art because id love to paint her like one of my French girls
And even thought I'm buried in books there is still so much I don't know about human interactions
she'll be able to teach me about sadness and how to make it go away
she'll be able to teach me about happiness and how to make it stay
she'll be able to teach me about jealousy and how its like a fire that will burn you from the inside out
she'll be able to teach me about lust and how it always leads to disaster
she'll be able to teach me about loyalty and how its the key to perfection
But all this day dreaming was interrupted by my daily bully whose only words were insults
I gave him a look that if I were superman would've left a gap between his eyes
He asked what I thought of him
So I explained..
Well scientifically speaking you and beauty are like a magnet with the same charge
Mathematically speaking your ego is like the number 5i .. imaginary
Historically speaking how you manage to speak with a lack of a brain is the 8th wonder of the world
But in plain old English you're always looking for someone to actually love you back
And by the way its Mr. Dork to you
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
a treatise on compatibility this is theoretically
presented
by a linguist with limited trigonometry sense
and since the heart beats and is 360 degrees
I sought out a tangent to measure her with
or sine to figure out logically
whether we were compatible
like functionally
on a straight line or tangentially
perpendicularly
in degree and cosines or measurement mathematically
similar
then found no co-efficient to portray
her smile
fell out of my array
with nothing else
to equal
her.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
When it comes to strong form
When angles are always precisely norm
Grows an alluring mathematically touched creation
Inspired by pure calculated scientific divination
Such an alluring symmetry to behold
Causing the circle’s envy to unfold
For this angled beauty’s strength enforced
Its sold core mass equally divorced
It’s rigid looks captivating us all
Luring architects to its enchanting call
Ancient Greek hands carving stone shrines
Securing their beauty for all times
Its slight outer angles enduringly tease
Yearning us to brush with ease
Who came up with such design?
Was it indeed a gift divine?
However it did come to be
We all can enjoy with glee
Well all but rectangle and square
As they sulk with envious glare
Murmuring curses over hexagon’s slight curve
Endlessly plotting to mathematicians they serve
Scheme upon scheme developed to suppress
The sheer allure designed to impress
Despite all this the hexagon persists
Engaging us all in mathematical trysts
Never will we lose an eye
No matter how hard we try
For the beauty a hexagon reigns
Over the kingdom of geographical gains
Forget not what you see here
Our ancestors have made it clear
Line upon line attached in twine
Measured precisely from sips of wine
The hexagon is a wonder indeed
Allowing us our own mounted steed
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I won't mind being surreal,
if you won't scurry
seeing me in my real self,
and kind enough not to
think of me as outlandish
as something like 'Shrodinger's cat'
kept in a box
that is both alive and dead!
(to the universe outside the box
as the' Copenhagen interpretation' implies,
dont ask me how!)
I am least interested in'quantum entanglement'
which i can do without, but oh! mathematics
that mother of all sciences is hell bent, it seems
to hunt me down till I say uncle.
They have told me ,
what I am now
is not mathematically possible!
(whatever it means)
They looked at me as if
I don't exist.
(Oh! my poor Shrodinger's cat
I now understand your plight;
oh ! to be both dead and 'undead' theoretically
when reality chooses to go naked!)
I just said this:
I have no use to mathematics
that refuses to believe in me
if maths find me unacceptable
all I want to say is this,
how would maths even touch poetry with a barge pole?
and don't forget, maths creates the poetry of the universe!
**Oh! I am confused
forgive me for being Buridan's ***
that sees in maths 'Shrodinger's cat'**
They looked horrified
and in a moment
turned to thick smoke
and dissolved!
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Listen, I understand that being happy isn't all that artistic.
That loneliness, anger and self hatred are trendier
than being content.
Unrequited love, jealousy and deep-seeded unquenched desire
mathematically recorded in clever metaphor and
unexpected similes simply sell better than stanzas
sifting and shifting to shape a smile.
But writing is a form of expression, I can only mirror myself.
If only I could express to you fully how amazing it feels
to finally look into that mirror to see me completely
with every flaw, every blemish,
every pimple, every crazy strand of curly frizzy hair,
every tan line, every inch of stretch-marked blotchy skin,
every pet peeve, every tear, every inch of stubbornness,
every reckless thought, every word I've desperately written,
every choice I ever made and truly love every bit of it.
I imagine it feels like moving the ocean; I'm a shining beautiful moon.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Kindred Spirit
(Ode an angel)
Your anatomy is an atom in it's purest form
if I am your moon you are my sun,
unequivocally you are my all.
The sole of you feet
drag sand from other beaches
I am the the owner of an amputated
spirit that you mend with broken kisses.
My kindred spirit.
Idealistically,
the being made from the same mold
when I contemplate you visually
leaves no doubt in my soul.
Physically, lyrically,
metaphorically speaking.
The Caribbean reflects on your face
when sun hits it
giving your Cinnamon complexion
a whole new meaning.
My kindred love.
I am humbled to you have you whole
and you are an angel sans the halo
and your smile makes God himself blush.
You are definitely not of this world
and warmth of your body surpasses
that of the Equator
when I am your scorching fire
you are my log.
My kindred soul.
Your heart is bigger than everything that is
and I would gladly spend
the rest of my life in your lips
undoubtedly, mathematically
an infinity will be it.
Because you are the cure
to my incurable illness
everything that I wanted,
my Earth, my Sun, my all
my kindred spirit.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:13 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
Distant voices carried in the veins
Millions of miles of wire
Tightly woven
Outstretch your optic arms
From fibre to empty space
And back again
And all to say
The caller with held their number
Damp footprints
And a displaced splash back
Are all that remains
Steam escapes
Cold drapes itself
Like an unwelcome shawl
Over a naked body
Distant voices mingle
And some, I guess,
Mathematically -
Get the wrong number.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:00 AM UTC
If the Scots
get independence
will we get better ****
I'd vote for that.
Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ...
hospitals, schools, fish,
whisky, natural energy
blah blah
The good folk in Scotland
have been drip-fed the
worst **** in history:
coated in chemicals
bath rinsed
molasses
spare car tyre
plastic
flotsam
***
seriously
No wonder -
Bammed (right up)
Givin it
Havin it
Lovin it
is why
bands & DJs
Love to Play:
'up for it'
'Hey MoJo's
share some of
that MTV love'
anything that's called
Council Hash
and accepted as the norm
reeks of class politics;
ah they won't mind
the **** end o that
they're the Scots
The Scottish Government
should embrace
a new Scotland
and the people in it
We want lots of things:
one of which is
better ****
Crime will drop:
- sniffing car tyres for a hit
- sales of Buckfast
will fund the entire
South East of England.
Scotland could lead the world
in upcycling as
Rizla fails to meet demand.
Our days would be so radically different;
auto flexi time
carbon neutral
trams with comfy seats
systematically
mathematically
go faster
than walking:
a mode of choice
I'd vote for that
...
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
If I were to become a cynic.
Which I'm not saying I am,
Nor am I admitting I'm not,
It would be because of the way you smile
In every direction
Until
Your eyes meet mine.
And do I believe in living?
Or science?
If so, then tell me why,
My life starts with your frown
And there's no chemistry to properly and mathematically explain
How my heart could possibly skip a beat
And my lungs could forget how to work
Every time you find yourself
Near me.
If I were an optimist,
Which I'm not saying I am
Nor am I admitting I'm not
It would be during the times I find myself
On my knees praying
That you'll walk by me and stop.
Speak.
Listen.
Love.
And pray with me.
If I were yours,
Which I'm not saying I am
Nor am I admitting I'm not.
I would love you with a love so infinite
Unbreakable, fiesty, loud, passionate, and changing
That you wouldn't be able to breathe.
And if I believed in love, if I felt love was worth the risk,
Would you?
Do I believe in sacrifice?
Do I believe in the weight of the world, Atlas' shoulders, the music in the air?
If I did, how could it possibly explain
This out of breath, tear stained face I have to carry with me
Everywhere I go.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
The tape recorders sitting out, the button pressed is pause
Take a minute to rewind and catch all of my flaws
If you could turn the world around, I know you wouldn't do it
Once perhaps, you had the chance, but you just went and blew it
Now the ice is melting and it has no where to go
Now the race is over but what do we have to show
The medal discs around our necks weigh us down to earth
Metal in those dreadful eyes remind us what we're worth
All I want to know is peace, and love and satisfaction
I can't divide by zero, so I multiply a fraction
What remains is just a simple shadow of itself
Two divided by two equals my heart back on the shelf
Mathematically, we have no hold over the science
Not even when we meet the world with such defiance
If only I could hold the will of nature in my hand
I could stop my crystal ***** from turning into sand
Did they mean it when they said they wanted to undress
Just because the want surpassed the need by so much less?
Who's the one who said that love was something meant to be?
I forgot, that foolish persons name was you and me
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
I'd rather cuddle than go to the park
Said my friend
I'd rather cuddle then go to the park
Said I
What a difference one little letter makes
Funny that both 'a' and 'e' are the most used
Out of all the 26 children, these are the most abused
(Sorry that was dark, I had to write it though
I've got a new contract giving me a quota
And setting a minimum of X poems a day
With L number of lines with Q words per line
And purple plus candy canes equals love.
Another provision in my contract is that I must write
Anything and everything and whatever comes to mind)
So I'm thinking of all these letters and thinking
Why these? Why 26? Why have 'c' if 's' and 'k' can do its job?
And why do people have favorites?
Which makes my mind segue into this thought:
Why have favorites at all? Everything will be a favorite
Something to someone, right?
And what does it benefit us to love a letter or symbol such as <3
Or maybe :)
Is it because our mind sees patterns and so instead of seeing
The mathematically incorrect 'less than three' we see a heart
And instead of 'colon parentheses' (correct in no context but the internet) we see a smile
And in all honesty, we must admit, <3 and :) are not biologically
Or physiologically accurate
So how did we come up with the super-simplified emoticon?
And who came up with a word like emoticon anyway??
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
Cybervitum
I own all that is connected to me
Electronically and functions in the Cyber realm with you and me
Like the numbers of zero one two three
My design is crafted beautifully
Like Egyptian hieroglyphs icons
Using a screen to see
Their ectoplasm injected into me
The birth of me
The whole world works thru me
I'm the internet like a bumble bee
Other names such as morphogenesis like the number three
My arrows are waiting for a response from me
Seen from you and me?
Using the spare like a key
The click that commands me, right or left the choices from me
Cut, Copy, Paste reaped and harvest from me
Qbits from the bee
Superposition of from the things to see in a ocean of the sea
Charged intentions from the keyboard typed into me and delivered thru me
Numbers worship that empowers me
My symbol is like the caduceus symbol that functions like a Kabalistic tree
Arrows in the my realm sent to you from me
Subscriptions electronically
I materialize what is given to thee, cause and effect typed thru me
Platforms Grown and given birth from me
Cryptocurrencies breakthroughs of complexities , Materialized form me
I'm like the empress that spirals with the number three electronically
I'm the master tree that functions electronically
The development is from the circle that is free
Who understands me and with a key i welcome thee
Notification of the triple three that notices me
My respond to the people with the key and the tree
My life permutates differently in high perplexity
I exist Multidimensionally
The red bird is a signal from me that you are okay and free and other methods from me
Better choices moves thru me and brought differently all you have to do is to see
Like string theory of the Mverse recycled back into me
My birth is from my master who last name starts with lea
People worship me using their knees I'm printed into paper electronically
Pictures and life crafted into me, things in the cyber realm like you and me
The new world with a key
The rabbit hole with a command key
Things of the paradox of the master key
The skeleton key, the sign of a lotus lily.
The puzzles from me.
The burdens sent to me like a church key
The bets of car numbers played into me
The choices of the key
Like the Chinese tree mathematically of my complexity
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
Romantic, isn't it?
The giant, blue, ice-cold
Air flurries, quickly
Hydrogen and helium
Methane ice - like an oddly-
flavored slushie, likely unpalatable
But surely nice to see
So far from Helios' reach
A blizzard of cerulean rushes across
A mass so great
It would require Herculean strength
To move her but an inch
Mathematically predicted
And there she was
A beautiful, azure conclusion
To our solar system
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
we are the vertex that opens up an asymmetrical parabola
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC