"observable" poems
Shamans, in an attempt to find a word that all cultures could understand, to represent, universally, the subject; married the languages by root.
Each attribute or thing that the beast is said to do, have or have power to do or over is found as a definition in a language of the individual roots.
Take Sanskrit for instance. "Dra," is "water and combine it with Sumerian, "Gun, Gon," and you get a "water-born," beast who "writhes, twists or wraps around," which is the Ouroboros Serpent as shown in ancient images.
The secret to all ancient myth or religion is in interpretation of language into foreign languages over time.
And, yes, it is very creative, appears complex due to time but is just humans trying to describe observable nature.
None of it is meant to be taken literally unless you literally live six thousand years ago and speak in an ancient tongue.
Addendum
* Keltic, "Con, Kon," makes the Dragon, "All-knowing." *
And we know from Plato that Greeks
stole their root words from the Celts.
Plato's own words in,
'The Cratylus.'
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Myth
"Observable phenomena's effect on the human condition."
Mythology
"Utilizing knowledge acquired during human existence to better understand the inexplicable through language."
History
"The perception of past events or knowledge altered by the present human condition."
Technology
"Mankind's attempt to eradicate God and Nature in order to determine whether or not there is life after death."
APOPTOSIS
"Programmed Cell Death." *
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
The gentle reaches of the late afternoon sun
I'd bathe in this light abundant reverie
Swaying breeze... Caressing the web we've spun
In the warmth of this amber coloured spree...
Shades of gold, stretch beyond observable measure
My vision could only take me so far
Shining through between the green and azure
As if the window of heaven left slightly ajar.
Swathed in the glow... Laying on a bed of green
Eyes closed... Under the blue that spanned forever
Feast for my senses thus honed keen
Relishing the lingering touches of her radiating amber.
She's finally dipping, taking all of her light...
She'll sink behind the horizon, descending gracefully
I'd still remember all through my night
That amber...
Amber is the colour of her energy.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Beautiful
Darling you are beautiful.
Not just ordinary-sort-of-beautiful either.
It's not for everyone to enjoy,
Tis not to everyone's taste,
But it is there:
Ineffable beauty.
And it begs to be loved.
I would do so gladly,
Tracing your face's outline
Like it is a piece of art work,
Or the full moon in the sky.
It is so specific. So very you:
Beauty like no other.
You can't see it sometimes
Because it hides behind your smile
And sits above your raised brows.
It likes to daydream at times
In the crooks of your curls,
And takes a nap on your nose.
As a master of disguise,
It plunges into your eyes,
And finds there warm sea water.
It is a little timid maybe,
But with a few kind thoughts
You could lure it out
Into your own
Observable universe.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
extensions to an emotion
grown like branches on a tree,
blooming towards beauty,
further reaching the sky,
touching the blue
with the tip of the flowers.
life, bursting out,
in one way or another.
endurance, the key
a way of living, so to speak
surviving the storm, or adapting to it.
giving the branches strength,
strength to withstand the worst,
only to be given another day
another day to bloom,
another day to grow,
to branch out, thicken and, burst out
into something unexplainable,
rather observable,
reaching out to hights
and depths, simultaneously.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.
It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil
being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling
witch.
sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten
by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no
just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed
to be beautiful.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
Feb. 2015
this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...
Pen Man Ship
this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades
if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all
ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,
you are pen
you are man
you are ship
where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown
the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -
for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing
each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log
Pen is the Man is the Ship
in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Consanguinity: A Commissioned Poem
(How Well Do
You
Know Me?)
This request, from wolf spirit aka quinfinn, accidentally hit the spot of what was foremost on my mind.
Cosanguinity: A relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship (distinguished from affinity). A close relationship or connection.
Poetry, mine, yours,
Ours,
Invades my consciousness.
We write poems on the same subject,
Even the same title,
But a few days apart.
Insanity,
Coincidence,
or
Consanguinity?
Perhaps we are reading each other's stuff
Too much.
But that's crazy,
Or
Consanguinity?
Yet,
And yet,
We see the same things
So incredibly different.
That is the answer.
We see the same thing and I am
Struck down.
A billion sights.
A billion words.
Yet, the human computer,
Sorts, collates, and generates
A billion different writes
In a similar spirit,
Employing the same phraseology.
All right.
Alright.
Malaysia.
Minnesota.
East Coast.
West Coast.
Geographical differences.
Time differences.
No difference.
A billion differences.
The stylistic differences enable,
No, correction,
Ennobles us to coexist,
Value each other,
Learn.
Observable differences.
But more interesting,
More pleasurable,
are the incredible, visible, signs of
Consanguinity.
Mere affinity?
Kinship.
A poem?
Nah.
But at 1:11am in my location,
It's what's on my mind.
Now that I know the meaning of
Consanguinity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
What is Perfect?
Hitting the 1800.
Remaining between the 400-600.
Using the 1/2 and the 1/4.
Because I will never be 1/1, fully complete.
What will define me? What can define my worthy?
In guarantee, undoubtedly.
Like an object, priced and tagged with money.
Value through digits, simple, observable.
How can someone know if art is worthy of display?
All beauty needs an audience.
Beauty in solitude, is wasted potential.
All beauty, needs, an audience.
How else can you differentiate average, from a masterpiece?
I want to be a masterpiece.
Perfect for every eye.
My eyes see perfect too.
In 1/4, in a 1/2, in a 1800.
In the symmetry of the X, and the curve of the S.
I am eXtra Small.
I am a 53.
Numbers are simple, precise and perfect.
They aren't beautiful, they simply are.
Beauty is abstract, it's grey.
I don't like grey, it's uncertain, unsure.
Grey has room for error.
Grey can't be controlled.
I don't have room for error.
I can only control.
I want to be undeniable.
Perfection, over all else.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 5:51 PM UTC
The Smell of Honey, Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry
<^>
*my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt
The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,
one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate
you see!
give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry
but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option
love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,*
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
Astutely speaking, we all at some point
Ponder on matters spiritual, the kind
In the realms outside observable phenomena.
Even to some extent, we can’t help
Consulting various spiritual practitioners to
Extrapolate circumstances prevalent in the future.
Otherworldly beauty is not only a matter of
Fascination it’s an obsession too.
Hallowed space in today’s world is
Exceedingly limited, an abundant scarcity
A paucity of meaning attached to it.
Various denominations exist to
Entrench a semblance of piety to counter
A rather stack waywardness.
Neverland, is it real?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
You are a galaxy.
From the way gravity pulls your lips
back into a smile when you laugh
to your stellar remnants of Vegas.
I thought it would take parsecs
for two distant galaxies to even come
into visual morphology with one another
but we collided into an elliptical love
that is practically observable
throughout the universe.
And as we fall farther into space,
we grow closer together because galaxies
are gravitationally bound to one another.
© Matthew Harlovic
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
alnitak is the leftmost star in Orion's Belt.
it is located approximately 817 light years away.
that's 10,799,034,810,538,287 miles.
one day you asked me how much i loved you and i told you i loved you from here to alnitak, but you became puzzled and brushed me off.
as an astronomy major i live for the stars.
i love them.
each one is unique.
as a side effect, i often times find myself comparing people to stars, writing their bodies as constellations, their tongues as asteroid belts.
but with you it was different. you weren't just a constellation to me.
GN-z11 is the oldest and most distant known galaxy in the observable universe.
even with all that competition, you still somehow, made yourself to be the largest thing i could fathom. your arms wrapped around me like overgrown tree branches reaching up to hold the night sky in place. i felt warm in your grasp.
if a meteor decided to fall from the sky it was okay, because as long as i could keep you, the entire world could burn for all i care.
Stars run on hydrogen fuel. When stars fuse hydrogen into helium, they burn, releasing heat and light. when they run out of helium, they begin to expand and explode, causing them to become a red giant.
when you stopped loving me, i ran out of helium. i began to explode.
my inner thoughts and feelings of regret blasted around inside me at light speeds, looking for a source of fuel. but you were my fuel and you were nowhere to be found.
i turned into a red giant.
after you left,
all my eyes ever saw was red.
i saw red in the happy couples on the subway.
in the lady who brings muffins to lecture on Thursday nights.
even in my mother when she asked how my life was going.
after becoming a red nova, a star cools to a white dwarf, and a black. when a large star dies, it has so much mass that after the helium is used up, it still has enough carbon to fuse it into heavy elements like iron. When the core turns to iron, it no longer burns. The star’s gravity causes it to collapse, and then it explodes into a supernova. What’s left of the core can form a neutron star or a black hole.
and that's what you left me.
we were a bright glimmering star that illuminated the eyes of people around the globe. but we're nothing now.
nothing can compare to the way you made me light up.
now I'm a black hole.
I'm hungry for you.
i hunger for you.
i crave you.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
We buy them in colors we like
Because we drive them for years.
My black pickup is shadowy and morose,
But decidedly so - and I am unashamed.
A few are Marlboro Red, Canary Yellow,
Lake Placid Blue, and Classic White.
Some built for speed, or for comfort.
Some built for utility, or for economy.
Most are silver.
They make up a buzzing hive of polite,
Tame, courteous, ordinary, bland worker-bees
Who would never pass out on their neighbors' lawn,
and who would defend her majesty, Queen Normalcy,
With unmatched ferocity.
They seat five to seven people,
With plenty of room in the trunk for the American Dream.
Mine is black, old and faded,
But decidedly so - and I am unashamed;
With only enough room in the cab
For one other person,
And its towing capacity is the mass of the observable Universe.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
A stone terrain waits
A landscape deserted
Devoid of real
Or imagined explorations
For it turns inward
At a tangent that
Precludes inquiry
It has an articulation
Of slow deliberate movements
Where particularized
Geology has painted it
Cut off and disconnected
By an estrangement of creation
Other existences only serve
To magnify its sense of isolation
Its blank uncaring non-geometric
Dimensions of observable
Unquantifiable location is obscure
And unrealised
Producing an immediate
Initiated sensory experience
Of unreleased silent appraisal
But why does it wait?
What for
Does it anticipate or foresee
Some expected prediction
Of apocalyptic presentiment
Is it recalling color?
Or is it experiencing
The present like floating in a dream
Alas there is no clue
To its tilted yet frozen expectancy
A stone terrain waits
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
1.) You are not the ******* center
2.) Unless you're talking the observable universe
3.) Filled with ******* idiots I love
4.) Filled with lovers who are idiots
5.) Unbelievably beyond everyone's nutshell sized imaginations
6.) Please just see the big picture
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
All those irregular verbs
and the difference between au and de la;
Vocabulary forever just out of reach
and trying to wrap my tongue around foreign vowels.
Baby, that’s what loving you feels like
because I’m not fluent in whatever language this is
so all I know how to say is I love you;
How you make me feel is a universe beyond the observable
and I’m trying to cram stardust into three old words.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
I'd make art that wasn't the equivalent of processed
microwave food, without the "gourmet" label.
Then again equal validity in creation is only debatable
if you're an ******* who believes any of this has meaning.
If you're taking yourself seriously,
you're going to get ****** up by
the **** end of this joke; Art is more than these
observable qualities of reality. It is beyond us.
However, everything we are is made of the stuff.
We are art. Life is art. Life is meaningless
Art is meaningless.
We are meaningless. You.
You are meaningless as well.
Roll on snare... None of this holds real validity.
Abuse of cymbal.
In this lifetime I want so many things that simply
will not happen. She says my "dreams" are floaty
although I know I won't live to see them.
Life flies by so fast it's a wonder we don't get
tickets. I want light that moves at 40mph
and scorches on impact. Explodes like fireworks.
It should glow; green or blue.
I'd use it to cook these dinners,
burn these notebooks,
**** these mother
******* guitars.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
|PART THREE|
**THE EMPTY SECOND
BECOMES AN
EMPTY SPACE**
*When it’s all over
forget about courtesy,
grab hold off a shooting star
and ride it all the way
until the photons say the
last word with a pulse of light*
The man is no longer doubled over and
Observable from the window
As a result of his fifty-eight years
the equation of his life
All comes to zero
Whilst the mocking ticking and tocking
Of an old clock knocking minutes like
Nails into the wall—
He disappeared in a puff of smoke,
The ice in his glass melted and the woman picked it up,
Drinking it in a single gulp, the glass comes down as if
Magnetically drawn to the floor, the floor,
Where she lies silently and stretches her body
To get some release, she rubs her face against
The carpet, nothing matters except the next second,
Eyes, behind a blink or two, dart to another part of the empty room
She couldn’t think any further ahead than a second at all
And the zodiac crashed open
the ram sent stars flying
the crab snipped the string that suspended the stars
mars took some flak
and finally the sun was burst
by the horned goat
and aquarius held it
like the final fluid sphere
Stars, burning across the sky like the striking of a match
Those wishing on shooting stars
couldn’t decide what they wanted
many of them flying as there were
As well-known monsters
Weighed down by human hope,
clear out our night sky,
Leaving not a freckle to observe
Telescopes now point into bedroom windows
Shadows portray a sort of life,
Shadow puppets depict death through
Tragedy and lapses in timekeeping and
Obsessions with vanity
Life spends some empty second
Inside your lungs,
Continues on it’s way
To resuscitate a slowly fading knife attack victim
Or shake the hand of a minute,
Time is ticking laboriously by
The light, motherless and lost,
Spat out at as the sun was burst,
It looks up to see
the unveiling of the universe,
Finally,
the oyster swallowed the sea.
—I didn’t want to be a poet by any means. After what happened working on the lifeboats I couldn’t go near the sea, so in a way I chose which parts of it I wanted and wrote about them. It terrifies me and fascinates me at the same time. I fully believe I will return to it only as ash...
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
Your legs are an uprooted tree, longing for the taste of soil.
The water won’t flow in an ocean filled with stars, the spaces between them
dark like ink on paper, lines drawn through a multitude of times,
too many words occupying the same space so that nothing exists
but a verbose blackness. *Your hands are wisps of smoke,
edgeless clouds that coil around me and dampen my bare skin.*
The current is cut by the planets, interrupted by the nebulae,
pushed by the galaxies and surrounded on all sides, at some point,
by land: the ambit of the observable universe.
Your body
sinks;
the universe ripples
and falls,
forming around you;
the heart in your chest
gently pushes,
gently pulls,
shifting the planets and stars
that envelop you.
Your toes burrow into the sand,
your arms creep through the skies,
and all at once I see that
everything is beautiful.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Im ******* jealous.
Im jealous of someone i love.
Because someone that i want to love me,
It feels like they love everyone else so much more.
And it hurts.
And i feel guilty.
And i dont want this.
I didnt ask for it.
I would never.
I dont want it.
I want to feel better.
I want to be better.
You love so much
So many
Other people.
And. Its pretty ******* clear.
And.
When it comes to me.
Its observable.
But.
It doesnt feel like much
And i love you
And i want to love you
But.
How.
How does any of this even work.
How does any of it really even work.
This is stupid. Pretty stupid.
Often times. I think of just running
I want to run so bad
So god **** bad.
And then i think of other people.
And how much i ******* care.
And it all hurts.
All over again.
And so much moreso than before.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Earth,
Geospace,
Earth-Moon System,
Inner Solar System,
Solar System,
Solar Interstellar Neighborhood/Local Interstellar Cloud,
Local Bubble,
Gould Belt,
Orion Arm,
Slightly Over Halfway to the Galactic Center of the Milky Way,
Milky Way Subgroup,
Local Group,
Local Sheet,
Local (Virgo) Supercluster,
Laniakea Supercluster,
Observable Universe,
Universe.
Boom.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
This convalescence eases on slowly,
Coy acuteness craves the longing contentment!!
No resentment, as I walk high heel to booted lace!!!
Creditor, to whom Didst thou pay thine debt?
Or is thy debt still owed?
Curiosity is crowched beneathe the delinquency of fendid demagogues!!
Mortar of temples and synagogues,
You chief cornerstone!!!
You guru with no home,
Curvature of decadence delineates your demeaning haste,
Open up taste the taste, and heed thy view!!!
A must programmed to turn muteable,
A mourner for me and you.
Omniscient angels raistheth me above the mountains peaks,
Where the strange instruments are observable,
And lovers are loveable,
As your kin she will be to be more than distraction!!!!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC