"notations" poems
Where is the patriotism?
Nowadays everyone is diving in the ocean of imagination
Regardless of what is happening to the nation
The majority of educated people who never stood in poll lines to give votes
Can now be seen in Bank and ATM lines collecting pink notes
Everyone tries to show patriotism in their famous poem and notations
But when it comes to reality everyone they are pretending that they had just went into depression
On the night of 8 November the poor felt that they had become wealthier than the rich
But now the politicians have started commenting that their situation is not less than the homeless *****
On the same night all the corrupt started rifling their old currency notes
Few were found in the pillow covers and few in the Tommy's dusty coats
The next morning the scrap of old notes were found some in the dustbin, some on the river Ganges and even on the boats...
Now I have just a simple question, is this the patriotism they had all the time showed?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
How shall I discover, uncover, and re+cover you?
the goal?
to make you mine, a follower. a fan, an intimate, a lover of'
each others (words?)
My options?
offered thee three to me!
A~Z,
or
your successes by
Popularity!
then of course,
read each crafted in order
of appearance,
but even that,
can be forward and back,
latest to last~est,
oldest to the knowing~est?
value your insightsfuls,
oh! on how to get best
into your insides but through
your
insights...
do I detect a tiny tremble,
in your finger writing tips?
random < in no particular order order> helter skelter?
you mean, be keen, like falling in loving,
discovering, the nuances,
old and new, prior and au courant,
just jump in, and let the au current
take me//
mmm
do admit, like a bit,
being big fandom of random,
which feels a tad like falling in love...
when the little surprises,
come best unexpectedly
tonight,
I will stuff myself with carbohydrates of additional sugar,
me love me sweets,
love me my bittersweet chocolate of triste,
which in english, has multiple levels of
most interesting con-
notations....
so down the hole,
who knows what will be
discovered
unveiled,
recovered,
hidden weaknesses,
historic strengths,
you asked...
and I shall be
the uncoverer
of the little tidbits,
that satisfy so much more
than just poetic simplistic curiosity
it is no wonder to me
that prolific and profile,
are rooted from the same
rivered source...
until later, then
sad eyed lady of the lowland (see note)
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 5:08 PM UTC
traveling through a large plane
an opalescent sky
wide, encompassing embrace
soft lavender-gray clouds float on a string
hovering like distant islands of heaven
a land promised
tender gradient pink to gray
mile-long notations drift
isolated in blue and soft gold
in shifting rays
your voice is holding me aloft
burnished and blending
drawing me
filling my movement
rounding my heart
the rising moon
the sweet aching fullness
the deepening
twinkling colored night
is to you
I'm drawn
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
The doctor of Geneva stamped the sand
That lay impounding the Pacific swell,
Patted his stove-pipe hat and tugged his shawl.
Lacustrine man had never been assailed
By such long-rolling opulent cataracts,
Unless Racine or Bossuet held the like.
He did not quail. A man who used to plumb
The multifarious heavens felt no awe
Before these visible, voluble delugings,
Which yet found means to set his simmering mind
Spinning and hissing with oracular
Notations of the wild, the ruinous waste,
Until the steeples of his city clanked and sprang
In an unburgherly apocalypse.
The doctor used his handkerchief and sighed.
3k
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs-
This is April's way: a woman:
"O yes, I'm here again and your heart
knows I was coming."
2White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
"Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God's sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday."
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
3The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child's legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down-and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.
1.6k
The strings were pulled of a bitter signal
Erratically hateful in their draw
Commencing the judgment of her mental state
As a bloodthirsty crowd looked on in awe
All her pleading notations were met with objection
By all their unfeeling eyes
Who merely wished to bear witness to the surrender
Of sanity and to see its quiet demise
Suddenly without warning an onrush of light
Blinded the probing eyes of the crowd
A curve of great decision was suspended in space
As they began to read her crimes aloud
Guilty as charged a voice rang out from the light
For moving against the grain
For not following behind the shadow of others
She is guilty, she must be insane
Completely unnatural, no control of her faculties
She cannot possibly be competent, the voice loudly rang
Daring to be optimistic in the face of grievous pain
She holds no resentment, she must be insane
Her sentence was pronounced for the entire crowd to hear
Claiming her incompetent and unfit
All the eyes in the crowd remain blinded by the light
Yet she doesn’t mind at all as she smiles and sits
She smiles into the faces of the blinded crowd
Knowing she has not changed a bit
****** she may be to the unfeeling eyes of the blind
However, they can never take her own happiness
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 6:13 AM UTC
Footsteps chasing after overly-small ones.
Little gaps of space between their lips & hearts;
flitting in between are voices like little notations on crumpled maps.
Carelessly inked shortcuts to a
dainty dabble of
yellow on
ones soul.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…
every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living
nope
the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony
so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
and
my identity?
***I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.***
Saturday Nov 4
8:01am
nyc
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
*for all of us
non-mathematicians
this for our grasp..
there are structures
which are discovered
not invented..
those notations
1 + 1 = 2
these are inventions..
behind these garments
math reality lies
which includes all
especially you..!
the math guy says
Reality = Relationship
all around
up and down...*
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
On the phone and in a row boat...
It was there for the taking and they took it. Love lust and warm em-brace.
Faces in the dark whispers joy intellect speaking miles upon miles- they were the ******
To change a generation and build upon past memoirs notations poetry prose literature - swindling no one. In the deep they did swim
In the deep they did swim to find each other
In the deep they did swim breaking into paper huts and liquor bottles
In the deep they did swim
INVENT- INVENT -INVENT!
In the deep they did swim casting away the structures that were built for them- but not by them
In the deep they did swim live wires of truth justice perseverance principles
In the deep they did swim
What of Whitman! What of Geoffrey Chaucer!
What of social demand!
In the deep they did swim with no thirst for consequence
In the deep they did swim for life's love eroticism passion of words
In the deep they did swim
...for the beat generation
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
To: Patty m. and Steve,
cc: Q
Re: what’s a mediocre man to do,
(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(
so he can perchance, begin again,
(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
*(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)*
You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,
(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ass-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)
oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,
(and i am appointed and disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)
in the uni(as in sole, one)verse
universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:50 AM UTC
Don't think about dating a boy
who cares about compliments and approval
from other people on the internet,
even if he is just joking around.
He isn't really.
Don't think about dating a boy
who was recently in a long running relationship
or who has had a history of an on and off one
You will end up writing about being
the in-between girl
who's never enough.
He will likely get back with her
or find someone other then you.
Don't think about dating a boy
who smokes a lot of **** you don't honey.
You will end up hating him
because of who he is
and you shouldn't
he chooses to live differently than you
that does not make him or you wrong.
He will not change nor will you.
Don't think about dating a boy
who gets onto you for not believing in certain things.
If he makes you feel inferior,
do not take that.
You are your own person
there is no right way to live one's life.
The right way is the way you choose
and that which makes you happy.
Don't think about dating a boy
until you have learned to love
every imperfection society tells you
your body contains.
Until you turn the scars on your wrists
into musical notations
writing a symphony of joy and pain.
Don't think about dating a boy
if he isn't enough of what you need
and you aren't yet happy.
The boy can wait, so can you.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
The endless pondering of Fridays,
Spills into the late night.
Precious time lost,
Losing light.
While the city is in love,
People on the street corners,
Friends, lovers and everything in between.
Here I am on my work week,
Waiting for the 8th day.
Stay with me but no,
Things I wish were said comes back to me.
A burst of tears and laughter,
Trying to douse the loud sirens in my head.
Lost on me,
Todays society.
Unending conversations,
Quotes and notations,
A web of scattered nullity,
Clouds all over my senses.
Here lies.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 10:47 PM UTC
the section in question is as mentioned in rachmaninoff’s
vocalise (op. 34 no. 14), first some symbology of numbers
in relation to kant’s thesis:
in a sequence
(end) (beginning)
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
upon reaching 1 and
subsequently 0,
i find this to be unsatisfactory in terms of the kantian
equation 0 = negation,
unless there be an affirmation of non-negation, the use
of zero would have to take the form of coordinates,
thus the sequence would be as above but it would end
thus: (0, 0, 0) - given that the above sequence can be
seen a linear, given that it might reflect the essence time,
ending the sequence with 0 would only provide
“the end of time,” hence the need to change the whole
sequence ending with the other essence, space - and thus
the loss of negation, given from the beginning (0, 0, 0)
the following sequences are provide:
(1, 1, 1), (2, 2, 2), (3, 3, 3) (x, y, z), etc., which is the affirmation
i was looking for - movement in a three dimensional space,
the only other affirmative possibility is by ending the
sequence with ∞, which is transcendental positivism
aligned with ending the sequence with (0, 0, 0),
and not transcendental negativism of merely using 0;
nonetheless, this is my introductory fascination
as on offshoot of what is about to be translated
(i can't read philosophy in english, hence this translation
comes from a translation of german translated
into polish and now translated into english) -
antonyms of pure reason
the third conflict between transcendental ideas
thesis antithesis
causality in agreement with the freedom does not exist, yet
laws of nature isn't the only everything in the world happens
causality, from which all only according to the laws of
phenomena can be explained nature.
in the world. for explaining them
it is also necessary to accept the
(self-accomplishing) causality
through freedom.
proof proof
let us accept, that there is no other accept, that freedom exists in a
causality other than the one in transcendental understanding of
agreement with the laws of nature; the word as a particular type of
thus everything, that is happening causality, according to which
appropriates a preceding state, after events in the world could take
which its next successive state is place, namely the ability to begin
not sheltered from a certain rule. in a way that's absolute of a
certain state, and also in the
same way, its series of successive
implications.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Ye Royal Flush
I had been honored by a perfect queen
to be chosen with intent as her lover
her majesty treated me like a king
my desires celebrated under sheet and cover
the dark green meadow filled by leaping lords
ladies in waiting for the ace of obligations
henceforth summoned by the jack of hearts
10 times on old Big Ben making his notations
her lady tired of internal stress and strain
I now was asked to go quietly with a hush
as all the cards had now been gathered up
I was subjected to Ye Royal Flush
Gomer LePoet ....
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
⁛
i
am a
sentimental
physicist.
observing
the gravity
of emotion.
noting the
subtle lensing
of light,
as it
filters
passed you
and
distorts my
star weary
eyes.
i must
crunch the
equations &
check them
twice
before
i don
aluminum,
endure
your
endless
cold,
& shoot
for your
moon.•
○.
⁂⁖
.
the
mass
effect
of you
consumes.
hypothesis:
your
spirit’s
path is
visible
light,
racing
towards
a cosmic
wall; to
decorate
galactic sky
as microwave
impressionism.
•°.
.
to
make
sense of
your dark,
i spend
my nights
measuring
boundless
black
matter that
surrounds us.
enraptured
by the
scented skyline
prophesying:
jet propulsion,
serenaded, and
lemonade rainfall;
Armageddon
upon another
acid planet.
your pain
upon the
reaches
still unpinned
by travelled
telescopes;
dying
technologies
making me
jealous of
all the
places where
the universe
sees the
parts
of you
i am
physically
incapable
of being. °
•.
⁖⁕
.
as love
moves
in ellipticals
it eclipses
my heart,
eventually.
always,
the awe
never ceases
to inspire me.
invokes my
muse.
devote my
life to
translating
the beauty of
its euphoria
into the
English
vernacular.
ceaselessly.
to release
the burden of
it’s memory
like the sun
burned into
my retinas.
i compose &
compute each
intangible
equation.
nuance
comprises
itself onto
endless notations.
converting numbers,
filtered through
my limbic system,
into colloquial
prose.
closest words
to illustration,
as my
cerebellum
can
surmise. •
. •°.
•.
code the
sentences
unto
my poems;
my theories
of everything.
presenting
my poetry
to everyone
as my
thesis.
phantoms
obsessing
my mind
my only
tangible
evidence.
am i
still the
only
person
who can
see
how
perfect
we
are?
the
only
person
who
sees
our
future
written
in the
stars?
-six pm
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 3:44 PM UTC
.
The vessel was empty. It was always empty.
The vessel was a body. A Nobody.
Too young to fend for itself yet abandoned to face
the onslaught of a life unprepared for.
It was a satellite, a burden, an unwanted encumbrance
upon the lives of those that spawned it.
Those that should guide, educate, encourage and love.
The emptiness had begun early
and grown into a void of isolated disfunction.
The ship of emotion sailing into a dark sunset
and the cold loneliness of night seeps easy
into the vessel already devoid and senseless.
There had been early years but forgotten
were the vessels memories and experiences.
An era of ancient history with no notations,
undocumented and lost in the ether.
No sense of belonging or conformity
were instilled by those meant to teach.
Instead the blind vessel gropes dangerously
around a world unfamiliar.
To make sense of existence.
To justify its worth.
But worth is subjective.
Of no worth to its peers it protects itself
absorbing the cloak of the worthless.
A litany harshly reinforced by cruelty
dealt out by the tongues of resentful tormentors.
And so left to its own devices
attachment becomes an arbitrary concept.
The revolving door of brief and useless association.
Meaningful liaisons few and far between
as its walls provide protection from feeling hurt.
So the vessel was a body. A Nobody.
And the vessel was empty. It was always empty.
Always... always... empty.
© Pagan Paul (Aug 2020)
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 3:23 PM UTC
We are all marking the moments
Of our thoughts, feelings, and emotions
In notations
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 7:38 AM UTC
That one word. I never was--no, not me. Not popular in school--was just trying to survive, trying to dodge the bullies and ********
I was never the life of the party, the friend everyone wanted. I was too shy, had too little confidence--much too nerdy. No, not popular, and I'm too old to care like I once did. Yet it isn't just kids and teens who crave to fit in.
I just observed the popular button on this website. I like to check it for notations and updates. I've plenty to say, and sometimes I hit the jackpot on my writing. Sometimes, I don't.
But I''ll say this: If you write only to get the accolades you write for the wrong reason. Whether your stuff is popular or not, write because it is a passion that you must do. If just for the sake of the art--write. Even if one or two enjoy it, you have accomplished something well-- if you gave it your all.
You write because you have something to offer.
You write because your words and thoughts matter.
That's my two cents, for what it's worth.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
I don't need to know why I love you
Or even how
I love you beyond words or a shadow of a doubt
I don't need a formula to help me understand
I know what I feel at the touch of your hands
I don't need scientist to test a theory
I don't need a hypothesis confirmed
I know my feelings for you are affirmed
There's no need for scientific notations
Because I know the solution to the problem
I don't need an equation I don't need calculated theories
Because I know how good it feels when you are here with me
I don't need someone to tell me how I feel
Or why love does or doesn't exist
I'm not flummoxed when it comes to me and you
I don't need it to rhyme
or make perfect sense
I just want to keep this feeling of bliss
I don't need numbers and figures
To know that my heart beats for only you
I like nomatic science
but I don't need it to prove my love for you
I am a thinker and a reasonable human being
But there is something about our love that is so freeing
There's no need for a nuclear scientist to try and figure this
out for me
Because I know what love is
So you see...
I don't need scientific reason why my love for you will always be.
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
Rainbows hugged me.
imprinted violet hues
stained heart vessels purple,
floral and diamond bits.
encrusted notations
flamed into gossamer
of hope and nonviolence,
smoothing inner vibes.
chrysanthemums mumbled
exposing petals to helium
emanating from expanding
cosmic gyrations.
sunflowers smiled
churning ocean blues.
crystallizing emotions
into mesmerizing moths.
my coppers gleam
erasing accumulated verdigris.
nibocumulus clouds
drifted along muttering.
syllables of poetry
conjugated into a floral
tribute, perfumed by
magnolias white as snow.
bumble bees whispering,
nuptial flight at dawn.
queen painted with pollen yellows
and nectar sweetened lips.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
With a glit of hope
And a Faith of life
Once I visited, a holy Place
Within notime, I get my name
Case 2, Bed 7
I was coined,
New Identity of mine,
Get introduced
Scientific notations
With Inhuman sense
Next to me, I asked, “who are you?”
White Gowned Interrupted, saying,” Case 3”
Technical birth, after me
Calculated values of our life
My Heart raced High
They termed, “Palpitation”
My Head turned round
“Dizziness”, they sound
After a small chat,
Silence of Unknown was there
The Big Man said,” This is not my Case.”
I was left restless
Then, Referred
In search of Hope
Referral Continues………….
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
Of higher learning
We place a loose leash of knowing about slender throats
Caught hard in hollows, a not knowing breath
whose taste slipped into my words learned by rote
I wrote them all down then disregarded the terms
to a rattling gasp of old honour under contract
to self interest; a mid-career master of the dead
passing zombie bus stops still chasing the wind
past car parks come too late to a recording of record
bare baited notations pass status updates into the wind
Faith hung from some devils bargain by the late fee
What value has learning when you can’t find a teacher
Willing to work for the purpose of knowledge alone
Better choke it for the economics of high yield returned
To the word caught in this throat, it churns like cinders, last smoking
weft from the building we built just to watch it burn
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
I don't believe in soul mates but
I will fall for the man
who can read my poetry aloud
translate it properly, from page to voice
without compromising rhythm, or sound, or rhyme,
With a gentle poet's brogue.
The man who sees the notes of my soul
I tucked between the lines,
and finds he made the same notations
in the margins of his own.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC