"novices" poems
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.
In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.
Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.
I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.
Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.
I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.
My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.
Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.
They are novices.
But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.
I’ve been in hell for years.
People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.
It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.
But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.
I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.
There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.
Because talking is futile.
Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.
And sometimes people aren't strong enough.
It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.
Exponentially. Worse.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Sanded down,
handed down
heirlooms
for boardrooms.
Directors prospecting for
antique positions,
commission based,
cyanide laced contracts,
small print that annihilates,
dilating the pupils ,restrictive
and
pencils that scribble out names in
a ledger.
Forever indebted,
a debit individual.
All residual profit
reinvested,
future proofed
heirlooms.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Paradise
Men falling from the sky using parachutes of peacock plumage hues
The professionals plummeting in perfect spirals
The novices sheepishly prolonging their gentle, gliding drop
The salmon shade adobe dwellings with their thatched, lovely roofs
Shelter me in their auspices from an unforgiving star
Handmade tiles of authentic design line each steep stone step
A covert staircase leading nowhere, we lounge near the pool by day
There I observe a couple through a sour tequila haze
A scarlet clad native and her sometime American lover
Their hands never leave each other’s guilty bodies, sexually charged
His absence of wedding ring betrays his intended affair
In the distance crushing waves claim territory on the shoreline
I underestimate; in a death roll I lose all sense of direction
The blushing sky with rosy smile watches over its children
A lighthouse by its lonesome guards the cliffs from clumsy ship
Locals sell their wares by approaching fair-skinned tourists
Necklaces of beads require long hours of work
Their labor goes unappreciated, sells for meager dollar
Popcorn man blows his lonely, dissonant horn forever
Into the deaf night
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 6:17 AM UTC
saying **** off* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
The night sky is wrapped in curls of black
and the air purrs, fizzes with the sound of hot
fluorescent lights, choking the air with vacation colour,
blinking fast like there’s something in their eyes.
Gulls guffaw in circles over 174,
where inside old wallpaper is torn
and dated lampshades dangle from above.
Two pegs on a line outside my box,
the bed is rickety and isn’t as fit anymore.
The novices, the returnees
seek silver and gold in the oasis
before their feet sting in scorching sand.
Win what you lose, lose what you win,
hold onto it before it tumbles back onto white cushions.
Money hiccups out of ugly machines
when they have a session of indigestion.
Young girls, carefree and cute walk around in a daze
as chubby men waddle along the pavement
thinking of that next pint.
Lined up at the bar with peanuts and bottles,
the large screen projects to all.
A clink of glasses and a click of snooker *****
past nine, past ten, past eleven as well.
And then the plug is pulled out,
everybody settles down to sleep,
but we all know they’ll do it again
when tomorrow’s summer evening calls.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
Poets, composers and writers we are
Looking to convey happiness and perhaps scars
From hope to love and death and sorrow
Expressive lines filled with feelings of tomorrow
Some may be long
And others short
Some may even contain our deepest thoughts
Therapeutic and knowledgeable
And some worrying too
Our verses can also uplift the most saddest of moods
Inspired words as well as our own notes
Sometimes with or without double quotes
Eagerly penning our lives away
Sometimes to feel and sometimes to keep those monsters at bay
Exhilarating, freedom, the release of pressure
Making us feel new or sometimes fresher
Love for words and thoughts equally
Some of us are novices and others literarys
Imaginative and creative is what we are
Aiming to reach the faintest of stars
Lyrical, rhythmic and sometimes wordy
Our heartbeats race as we become sturdy
Promoting our poems through lists and sites
Making good friends with critics who help us to seek new heights
Poets, composers and writers we are
appreciating others for their talent by far!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
They say you’re mobile now,
but like a cartoon, the
ghost of your outline suspends
behind you on the road.
How long it hangs before it is the
same stuff as breath on a cold day,
only God knows; and He
cannot be found for looking.
You have read every rule the
great poets and philosophers
have etched. Your technical
grasp of love is paramount.
But to the quiet tremble
of the skin, to the warm and
unfearing heart, you are the
sweetest of novices. Go, drive away
and read no more of love.
You have studied enough.
Go drive away until you
remember why you ever
coughed the ignition into life
in the first place. And take
it as a sign that the reverse
gear refuses to play along.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
the novices are comparing notes
proud of their teachers
(for if you boast of your Teacher
you make yourself look good)
*“My teacher can go without food
for days at will,”* says Owl at Lake
*“My teacher is so elegant
he never yawns,”* says Silk Robe
“My teacher is even better,” says Energy Jump,
“for he can go days without food, water and sleep”
“My teacher,” says Lazy Mumble,
*“I reckon has to be the best
for he eats when he has to,
drinks when he must
and yawns as much as he wants to
and sleeps when it ‘s time”*
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
The whiteness of the milky way
witness your name invariably
in the corner of chaos and order
Inside fragments of settled sediments
There are words that I await
to stream from the fountain
the base of the veined heart
Inside a core to be uncovered
Phrases that wish to be whispered
the nudges of intentions held back
collapsed and clasped in a clap
the ribboned truth that fades
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Pronouns and nouns of love and hate
Proverbs of the scent of your breath
The Jasmine that roasts your tongue
Let it's smell infuse my jumbled being
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Taboos and tattoos of eternal love
Traffic and tarmacs of the road travelled
The lavender that seduces your mind
Let it transfuse my animate system
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Songs and secrets of the bright sighs
Sums and seams of endurance
The cinnamon that spices your life
Let your kiss evaporate in my mist mouth
Tell tales of the indelible ounces
Nuances and notes of our untold story
Novices and nemesis of the unnamed race
The rose that savours your sweetness
Let your hands caress and weaken
As you tell the tales in indelible ounces
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
They crowd us in hallways,
arrange us in chairs;
we're sheep for the killing,
brains for the mix.
We're all brainwashed idiots,
slaves for the few.
We're sat in long tables,
and fed tasteless meals;
just as prisoners do,
except theirs is edible.
We're given false hopes,
and stuffed with fake promises;
still we believe them.
We call them professionals,
yet they call us novices.
They're killers of art,
of music and poetry:
Our talents they drown,
to make us all equal,
and our compensation,
is a cap and a gown.
But once in a while,
when a free spirit is born,
they accuse him a rebel,
a free spirited fool,
they abuse him, and use him,
till he's cut up and torn.
Still we smile and bark,
like the sad dogs we are.
But does nobody see this?
What's been done is a crime,
a ****** a sin that took time.
The accused and conviction:
It is the school that killed the nation.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC
*an infinity of predestined roles
an inclusive experience in totality
as every fiber, thread, and patch
in the quilt of being that is god
serial embodiment in all matter
animal, vegetable, and mineral
earth, atmosphere, and aether
purposeful suffering and solitude
new souls emerging from the cycle
comprehensive awareness fulfilled
a nebula of creative expansion
from a supernova of spirituality
novices grasping for comprehension
floundering with loving compassion
welling tears of confused recognition
from a source of obscured recollection
collective consciousness in transformation
the cumulative effect of genuine connection
to appreciate the strength of a star
to respect the divinity of a weakness*
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Blooming with happiness
The sun stroked and I smiled
The park adventurous and prided
The grass was soaked with dew
The wasp befriended my notepad
My face was pretty for you
Hands in my pockets as I waved a dog
A shy hide away in the open space
A French book on my minds fence
.............je veux la paix...................
A bench with grounded families
Young hobbits playing ball
Young couples indulging thigh on thigh
The romping poodle and German shepherd
The pond with the calm natured ducks
Underage puffs of clouded cigarette fumes
My awakened spirit opened it's legs
It flew to the overwhelmed senses of hope
.............je veux la paix......................
A scoff of falafel parcels and fizzy muscles
The stalker sat on the aligned bench
A season to figure out what life is
A strange woman on the bike in amusement
The Portuguese cafe full of beautiful souls
The world revolved with a cleansed sheen
An Eastern Europe parade of basketball novices
A melodious day that though of you babe
.............je veux la paix......................
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Father James took
you and Gareth
and George
postulant monks
to a convent
in Newport
he had mass to serve
and confessions
to hear
so you were all
shown into a parlour
with the smell
of home bake bread
and starched sheets
and a young nun
came in
carrying a tray
with teapot
and cups
and sugar bowl
and jug of milk
all in a dull white
and as she set
the tray down
on the table
her eyes moved
from each one of you
taking in no doubt
young novices
in the training
the plain clothes
the black and white
the neat cut hairs
the shaven chins
and then she smiled
and went her way
no wiggling of hips
or female sway
carrying the tray
and Gareth spoke
of Wittgenstein
and the Tractatus
Logico Philosophicus
while George took in
the tidiness
of the room
the ****** smell
the taste
of aging flesh
while you half listened
on Wittgenstein
and the scent
of passing youth
remembering
the young nun’s smile
awaiting truth.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
Novices
Our love
stands on stilts
twisting weaving
struggling
to maintain balance
a strong wind
could tip us
a pulsating bass
could trip us.
Eye to eye
but yet
so
high
wobbling.
Trying to find
our footing
if we lean to close
we are bound
to
stumble and fall.
But your breath so sweet
kerosene
beneath my wooden feet
ignites
the fire
too hot to handle.
Have you ever tried
taking off
your clothes
when
eight feet high?
**** the stilts
she cried
and in
mid air embrace
rotating in ****** embrace
the stilts were gone
my legs were gone
circling each other
round and round
We fell
Calling for that
one true sound.
In simultaneous
bliss
a holler
a harkens
Link's Zelda song
a lightening storm
we screamed
for the sound
of our
exquisite joy
and
far too fast
we crashed
to the ground.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
Sagesse d'un Louis Racine, je t'envie !
Ô n'avoir pas suivi les leçons de Rollin,
N'être pas né dans le grand siècle à son déclin,
Quand le soleil couchant, si beau, dorait la vie,
Quand Maintenon jetait sur la France ravie
L'ombre douce et la paix de ses coiffes de lin,
Et royale abritait la veuve et l'orphelin,
Quand l'étude de la prière était suivie,
Quand poète et docteur, simplement, bonnement,
Communiaient avec des ferveurs de novices,
Humbles servaient la Messe et chantaient aux offices
Et, le printemps venu, prenaient un soin charmant
D'aller dans les Auteuils cueillir lilas et roses
En louant Dieu, comme Garo, de toutes choses !
947
Macros are the single greatest advantage that lisp has as a programming language and the single greatest advantage of any programming language. With them you can do things that you simply cannot do in other languages. Because macros can be used to transform lisp into other programming languages and back, programmers who gain experience with them discover that all other languages are just skins on top of lisp. This is the big deal. Lisp is special because programming with it is actually programing at a higher level. Where most languages invent and enforce syntactic and semantic rules, lisp is general and malleable. With lisp, you make the rules.
Another one here:
Understanding why macros are so great requires understanding what lisp has that other languages don't. It requires an understanding of other, less powerful languages. Sadly, most programmers lose the will to learn after they have mastered a few other languages and never make it close to understanding what a macro is or how to take advantage of one. But the top percentile of programmers in any language are always forced to learn some sort of way to write programs that write programs: macros. Because it is the best language for writing macros, the smartest and most determined and most curious programmers always end up at lisp.
An interesting parallel to learning macros in Lisp and the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom!
An interesting parallel to learning macros in lisp is that of learning pointers in the C programming language. Most beginning C programmers are able to quickly pick up most of the language. Functions, types, variables, arithmetic expressions: all have parallels in previous intellectual experiences beginners might have had, from elementary school maths to experimenting with simpler programming languages. But most novice C programmers hit a brick wall when they encounter pointers.
Pointers are second nature to experienced C programmers, most of whom consider their complete understanding necessary for the proper use of C. Because pointers are so fundamental, most experienced C programmers would not advise limits on their use for stylistic or learning purposes. Despite this, many C novices feel pointers are an unnecessary complication and avoid their use, resulting in the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom where valuable language feature
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 12:36 PM UTC
Crisp!She yelled into the rolling midnight thunder(the time in which thunder rolls best).For white linenand cotton shenanigans arefor novices, beware!Let the grey toothounded be confounded! For we, we are,we are the feelings the night air whispers.Why, we can only continue to existif we follow the white rabbit.To Alice's Wonderland we go.
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
More or less, you know I love you
Or at least I think that I do
Right or wrong can't change the fact
Good to know you don't react
And really you did break my heart
Not to say we weren't apart
So just respond, won't you please
Put my guilt and shame at ease
Even if you hate me so
Novices can't let you go
Cause thats really all I think I was
Eager kid looking for a buzz
Right or wrong i know its true
'
So tell the truth, that you did too.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
the surface, frozen
in the depths, they rest
suspended among ice
crystals
we can't see through
the crust, though we
know they are there,
for simple hook and bait
wake them
within the fine folds
of their brains, the
accumulated wisdom
of a half billion years
guides them to the catch
the promise of full gut
they don't see us through
the ice, we two legged novices
in the kingdom--jesters who lull
them from Cambrian dreams,
to the white light of today
they snap the lure
they flap about on the frozen pond,
we witness their death throes, unaware
what the gasping future holds
for the wretched species
to which we belong
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
Afternoon sun touched the cloister garth. The office of None had just completed. Sister Teresa walked slowly down the cloister from the church, letting her failing eyesight search for the opening to the garth. Heard the clink of cups on saucers; the chatter of voices; nearby the smell of the flowers in the flowerbeds. Her white stick tapped against the wall as she walked; her arthritic hand gripped it painfully. Felt the sun's rays on her face; the slight breeze touch her habit like as saucy child. Remembered a summer long ago before she entered the convent. The green of grass in her memory and a kiss. Who's kiss? She searched her memory like one seeking through an old chest. Jude. Yes, Jude. Smiled. Felt opening in the wall; turned into the garth. She remembered vaguely his face; felt the grass beneath her feet. Someone touched her arm with their hand. One of the sisters spoke. Not Sister Clare. Dead now. Most of them were she knew. She listened to the tone of the voice; her eyes failed her again. Sister Mark. Her mind grasped the image that fitted the voice. She smiled. Sister Mark had led her by the arm and asked about tea and cake. Tea, yes, no cake, she said. Mama had a similar voice. Mama had said not to let them touch. Not men; not to be trusted. Or was that papa? She couldn't remember. Take it easy, Mother Abbess had told her; take things steady. Fifty years since she came that summer. She recalled the heat of that summer. The cloister's smell of bread and incense. Papa's face when she left home that day; the tears in his eyes; the awkward smile on his lips. No one came now. All dead and buried. Clare in the convent cemetery next to the wall; mole holes along by the gravestone. That had been an adventure in the art of love. A secret known only to God and them. Mea culpa, she whispered. Sister Mark handed a cup and saucer; soft hand touched hers; sweet voice spoke of the weather and the smell of the flowers. Sighed. Breathed in the air. Sipped tea. Cup rattled in the saucer. Stood here once and spoke to all; now few speak; only the kind and brave. Sister Mark spoke of the new novices and of the freshness about them. Sister Teresa looked about her; a vague scan of images; of faces in white and their youthful giggles and chatter. She had been as such once. She, her loves, and her memories. The bell tolled from the cloister clock; voices stilled. The breeze calmed. The sun eased off and hid behind a cloud. Someone took her cup and saucer and placed a hand on her arm. Not to touch, not over much. Mama had said. One of the dead. The God blessed dead. She walked back along the cloister, the hand still on her arm; flesh on flesh. Not to touch, not over much, a soft voice whispered of long ago.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
Prayer
candle trays are heavy
I hardly find my way among dead and alive
holding a drop of new light
crossing myself with my hand still warm
the bell-ringer pulls down the rope
people stand shoulder to shoulder
I feel the earth’s silence
candle flames sizzling in the sand
straight or bending
separated or united
an old cross raises in the churchyard
still upright
an apple tree almost touches the stone
leaning completely towards sunrise
I bow under the entrance vaults
crossing myself again
breathing much deeper
........................................................................
Matins
Eyes opened behind their dark veils,
convent novices step outside
deep into the fresh snow, so soft and pure.
Their fragile long shadows
begin to take shape behind them
dragged over the ivory field, trembling.
Breaking his shroud of clouds
a new sun emerges in front of them
on the right side, as bells toll stronger.
...............................................................................
the prophet
crisscrossed fingers
he crucified dead in a row
on the left of daughters on the right of sons
over the eye of the cascade
or the mouth of the precipice
the dead kept silent
until sick and tired of all that
but he spoke about the love from one human to another
a contagious disease
he intended to put into quarantine
from the top of sweet wood crosses
wild roses and peaches without kernel
dropped down
until God woke up for good
it started to rain
lightnings touched the flint stone
and even he died of dream deprivation
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
Oui, si j'étais femme, aimable et jolie,
Je voudrais, Julie,
Faire comme vous ;
Sans peur ni pitié, sans choix ni mystère,
A toute la terre
Faire les yeux doux.
Je voudrais n'avoir de soucis au monde
Que ma taille ronde,
Mes chiffons chéris,
Et de pied en cap être la poupée
La mieux équipée
De Rome à Paris.
Je voudrais garder pour toute science
Cette insouciance
Qui vous va si bien ;
Joindre, comme vous, à l'étourderie
Cette rêverie
Qui ne pense à rien.
Je voudrais pour moi qu'il fût toujours fête,
Et tourner la tête,
Aux plus orgueilleux ;
Être en même temps de glace et de flamme,
La haine dans l'âme,
L'amour dans les yeux.
Je détesterais, avant toute chose,
Ces vieux teints de rose
Qui font peur à voir.
Je rayonnerais, sous ma tresse brune,
Comme un clair de lune
En capuchon noir.
Car c'est si charmant et c'est si commode,
Ce masque à la mode,
Cet air de langueur !
Ah ! que la pâleur est d'un bel usage !
Jamais le visage
N'est trop **** du coeur.
Je voudrais encore avoir vos caprices,
Vos soupirs novices,
Vos regards savants.
Je voudrais enfin, tant mon coeur vous aime,
Être en tout vous-même...
Pour deux ou trois ans.
Il est un seul point, je vous le confesse,
Où votre sagesse
Me semble en défaut.
Vous n'osez pas être assez inhumaine.
Votre orgueil vous gêne ;
Pourtant il en faut.
Je ne voudrais pas, à la contredanse,
Sans quelque prudence
Livrer mon bras nu ;
Puis, au cotillon, laisser ma main blanche
Traîner sur la manche
Du premier venu.
Si mon fin corset, si souple et si juste,
D'un bras trop robuste
Se sentait serré,
J'aurais, je l'avoue, une peur mortelle
Qu'un bout de dentelle
N'en fût déchiré.
Chacun, en valsant, vient sur votre épaule
Réciter son rôle
D'amoureux transi ;
Ma beauté, du moins, sinon ma pensée,
Serait offensée
D'être aimée ainsi.
Je ne voudrais pas, si j'étais Julie,
N'être que jolie
Avec ma beauté.
Jusqu'au bout des doigts je serais duchesse.
Comme ma richesse,
J'aurais ma fierté.
Voyez-vous, ma chère, au siècle où nous sommes,
La plupart des hommes
Sont très inconstants.
Sur deux amoureux pleins d'un zèle extrême,
La moitié vous aime
Pour passer le temps.
Quand on est coquette, il faut être sage.
L'oiseau de passage
Qui vole à plein coeur
Ne dort pas en l'air comme une hirondelle,
Et peut, d'un coup d'aile,
Briser une fleur.
732
Heartfelt promises
from loves young novices
secrets told in haste
tears shed that have gone to waste
no smart sensibility
open hearted vulnerability
giving it all away
with these three words that they say
the meaning lost in translation
the heavy cost of this relation
not a notch on the bedpost
but a knot in her throat
pretending to cope
relying on faith and hope
down on bended knee
not in proposition
but to he who sees
for this is our religion
praying to the man upstairs
cameras connect our adjourning stares
the artificial eyes
that glance at the sky
waiting for the rain
praying for a change
in circumstance
so once more they can sing and dance.
Live young
and love strong
for nothing created from the heart is wrong
even if you feel the pain
it proves its real
you're not insane
for every moment suffered in grief
will come a day which brings relief
so don't allow your heart to hesitate
or allow the twists of fate
for its course to dictate
take charge of how you feel
because people will tell you it's not real
they will say give up the fight
that you can't afford to chase the light
but it's that light that keeps us alive
without it we're just dead inside
an empty machine
without love we just sleep not dream
counting down the hours
till we shut down
pushing up flowers
from an earthly mound.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Grassmannian scattering amplitudes.
Galaxies with momentum horizons.
Galaxies moving in different directions at different speeds.
Still haven't found the graviton.
Colliders.
Huge interferometers.
Any work here seems like a lot of teamwork in companies.
I'm a drop in the bucket, whose feeling is my enemy if I am to manage complexity.
So one part of me says "just do it, do the problems I have prepared to do".
But I feel I'm missing a level of management of the field, like I'm not getting the big picture.
It is said: from point to expanse to point and back again.
Am I looking for a shortcut?
Learning purifies, it reveals what is now impossible to see.
A lack of study?
I know all the fundamental theories of physics and elementary calculations.
I know of all the branches of math and where they lead.
All of my notes of formulas are unused.
It's good that I studied electronics to know what focusing on math and physics gets me after graduation.
What really stays with me is what electronics isn't, but also how basic it is.
This is what I now expect for this endeavor.
The less help I get in it, the longer it takes.
Muhammad, pbuh, said get half of your knowledge from others and half from yourself.
But it is hard to tell what is from me.
Is my work the only thing: He meaning only let help solve half my problems?
There is:
1. What I need to work on
2. What I want to work on
3. Gain a degree of simplicity
4. Understanding what work is not
Studies show that novices often pay attention to different elements in a problem than experts.
I gain more from being asked a question that is impossible to answer than solving a question for computation's sake.
How do I know why a plane tangent to a sphere can only intersect at one point?
I knew that before I did the problem, but I wasn't aware I was trying to disprove that!
Like trying to make black pigment out of only yellow and blue.
No, that's too simple.
It is like nothing I ever experienced!
I was unaware of the use of the elements.
It is one thing to read a theory, to copy an equation, but to go through problems makes me experience the elements in ways I never knew.
To know limitations I was blind to because I had never tried to connect them before.
That is why experts can zero in on a problem so fast, and why novices are snagged on basics.
This excursion into the expanse has ended with a knowledge of the love of math problems.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 4:47 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
A wedding band and
I
say,
'I do'
Blue sapphire,
the fire that lights on me,
diamonds that cluster,
must a
man always
make the first move?
I do and I will until death stills this heart.
A speech they beseech,
I defer to her,
'I will and I do',
she says it too.
Every height that we scale, every ocean we sail, every time that we touch means much more than so much.
Emerald and ruby, tin, silver and do we remember how long ago each anniversary was?
The band stays and plays on,
we still thrill to the music we make.
First moves are for amateurs and novices,
tortoises, though,
often win the race.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC