"optic" poems
The sky above me, closed in as the dark, ominous yet fascinating rainclouds have driven near, gathering together in a council.
As it begins to drizzle, soft, warm and little raindrops, fall in
line, gently, carelessly hitting the earth, moistening it in their line.
Once in a while, as the rain gains its strengh, hitting the ground below with more speed and roughlessness in their action,
Rays of the purest light, sent by the sun as it shines above the darkening sky, a sensation for ones optic nerv, a sensation for the eye,
make it through and let this scene shine further more.
Graceful drops, carrried and distorted by the majestic wind,
Create a lovely melody on my window, as they one by one fly into it.
Now as the soil is fertilised, life will surely grow from the sunlight.
Alike the raindrops are carried by the wind, my mind engages with this scene, lets me fall in love with this beautiful earth.
A little rain shall not be the cause of sadness, as it truly is a reminder of the moments of love wich it makes easier to determine.
So I keep my gaze out of the window and enjoy the weather
Until then, the sky clears up and the sun shines again.
~ Umi
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”
Stephen Jay Gould
Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
Only in the best season,
The forgotten gateway opens up a field of bell flowers in two colours,
White, the colour of light and love, as pure as it sounds like,
Golden, alike the majestic rising sun in the early morning,
They never cross the road, but are seperated by it, I wonder why...
Perhaps it is the harmony, created by the untouched nature,
Or is it the order they chose to grow in, while the warm weather can be felt through body and soul, through emotions and the mind,
Only the chirping of the locusts, hopping from bell to bellflower,
The road is frankly short, leading to a near forest, yet the sensation, brought to the optic nerve and to the nose through the sweet smell,
This is what makes it something which cannot be truly conveyed in words, because, the untouched nature is art in its very own way,
Until the greed of humanity destroys its gift with their toxity,
What remains are the memories of harmony and grace.
~ Umi
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
Dread the free time
But still can't wait to have it
To seize peace and quiet
By my force of habit
And flee far away
From a central locale
Of a jobless, impoverished
Human garbage pail
Full of wasted potential
Unutilized power
Another kid lost to disease
By the hour
Devoured from inside out,
Parasitic
A malnourished mortality
Fated statistic
Accounting for little more than
A UN
Detrimental development
Index embellishment
IMF, World Bankers swooping in
Heaven-sent
Millions lent
Never spent
Back on the people
Just keep them like sheep
Marching on to the steeple
And reap what they sow
How so little they yield
Until cityscapes swallow up
Forest and field
And behind their most opulent
Optic facades
In their decadence festers
The graces of Gods
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
a lake of blood is promised
homes fill with fiber optic prophecy.
"put away your lenses children and sleep under the lamp's shade."
our purple rice growing
Vishnu mumbles and stirs in his sleep.
by the crystal pond, a poison frog sings.
decorating the sand and reeds are skeletons of the old wars.
nearly dust now.
unable to make decisions for the weak or young, the strong or the old.
four seasons yet to pass
attention given to the wolf's lonesome cry.
place your head in sand,
witness the scorpion.
she is
emperor and admonisher.
the tiger breathes in and breathes out its final breath.
lay your belly upon wheat and remove hunger.
an angel's velvet wing cools the fever,
the old sickness of Old Salem.
onions, apples & lemons are sprouting.
there, just underneath the horseman's hood.
quickly, look.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
I have tied heart strings around my neck
and hoped the blurred vision of my
somewhat self destructive nature
would take away the optic curses
that disallow me to see what I cannot heal.
Sharpened question marks
hook into the aged rings in my flesh.
Left out for too long; forgotten.
He tries not to cry as
suspended interrogatives pull at limbs
and hang body over a myriad of "who?" or "why?"
(I forget which).
I am both the antique puppet and the
incandescent hole in the puppet master's chest,
taught to love my wooden creators
and fall in love with anything
that helps me forget about the skeletons
within my bloodstream.
Pull my strings.
Watch me come undone.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
Aggression with intense force
Anger with expel
Voice elevation in optic swell
But the true aggressor who is the one that establishes tell
The idea is to control emotions in what makes you upset
Take a deep breath is a start in being your bet
Then count from 5 backwards
Never let anymore attempt to bring up your anger
Watch the words in hostility before it becomes an erosion notion
Now you see how the tongue become the poison portion connection
Anger at whom
Anger at the world
The idea of anger management to make you swirl
Anger Management is a theory to control
You will discover your own behold
It is time to calm your anger down
Bring your voice level down to a minimum of sound
Otherwise you will eat your heart out
Later you won’t be able too shout
Anger Management being a look in identity
An effort being that you personally must try
Stress should not lead to tears of cry
Your question of Anger Management should be labeled in your mind in why be angry in the first place
This is what you need to erase
Stress you must let go and just go with the flow.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.
But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.
You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;
*this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-*
and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.
You wanted a love like in the movies,
honey,
we all did.
But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
shes sat by the window
like a flower to the sun
burnt deep
paled lotus, mechanized motifs
cigarette, sweet parallel steams
lips pink, eyes deceased
silica tears, seeded
fiber optic designed !release
enter
automated dreamstate
delve
inside the beast
oscillating
pirouetting
psilocybe
serene
days gone underground
plagiarized by peace
prototyped the touch
she’ll never know
it’s me.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
I work for Jones & Co.
You are likely somewhere down below,
I have grown used to this unnatural height.
Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles,
working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference.
My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel.
We were mingling on the penthouse deck,
when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.
Jones is a superstitious man,
he has a dream-catcher above his office door.
He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor.
The one separates Jones from his company,
the other, us from below.
Five years of billing in six minute blocks,
labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs.
A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.
B.E. Twain
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
sunrise
first optic pins toe-tipping play across the meadow
wind bends the forrest fringe west away
the trees adverse to receive
priestly daylight
after all the
business
completed
during a most
competitive and predatory
night
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 9:19 PM UTC
What am I thinking about on these hot summer days
besides your cool, coy, cheerful gaze.
Oh, I'm moving forward but still pondering on
of your sparkle in the distant northwest horizon.
I'm thinking of those twinkles in your smile
that travel 1000s of fiber optic online miles.
I'm saddened to read your goodbye... and see you go
You, and your online profile... that is... this thoughtfulbeau.
I'll miss your Hi!, Hey!, Yah!, Yeah!... and your full smile
your patience for my replies... and willingness to stay online awhile.
I'll miss your attempts to banter... and our brief chats
your witty answers... and allergic opinion about cats.
Sigh. . . .
With your goodbye and turning off the dating light
I could choose to wallow in my own spite.
I feel the loss but not rejected or hurt
I'm filled with positive regard and a connective comfort.
Such as nectar turns into honey by a bee...
you sweetened my besotted feelings into endearing bounty.
So it feels right
knowing your heart
has found its light.
A local love
who hears your voice
respects your choice
and hopefully fits
like a warm glove.
So keep your lights bright
to keep each other warm
through the cool and comforting
Portland nights.
Peace out... ;o)
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
mouth syncing up digital brain,
electrically bounding the physical
with the ethereal analog bond
bound up and wrapped,
in fiber optic blankets,
secrets passing layer to layer
heard only by quadraphonic
receivers echoing out
into a singularity of conciseness,
confirmed by units of two
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
Maiden, maiden, maiden, a depilidate mobious minaret –
Holical, Eris begs an atlatl defection, the
Genuis-from-Mars technique – an erathicus lecanopteris.
Suffretex, past-perfection in pastel gloxinia,
Glowingly acidic and shiftingly glossidic, it’s cosmaltry mariala;
Ungual outmoded, holonym singing Aquilar rapax as demiurge.
Demos and Phobos weep, coruscating terrathos, killing riva.
Swell quickly, optic ophidia, lest the ira florena rise –
Rise, maiden, rise optic ophidia, ignore Irredelphine!
Strut the hematacolpa and pace-willow, but fail flow:
Deciduous telechir beckons, demanding autobogotic-hajra.
Piss-venom and picea hovea, eche verri naught echo –
Beta-decay and COBOL error, fandango with teeth
And sing praise for Eucladanic soignè solaris
Sprint quick, maiden-solidago gesparisè, to Misra pourum!
Majerns and hapax, death-knell aloud and encelia,
Enfloranè, haste! Enatic haste tichodrome, flee, anise!
Apios, harken: tryst-sans-thermobic sweeping of thresher-thrown,
Little-low else yet achroma, de-jubilance:
Fall fairly, ayah! So to be so, blanking systemic,
A thousand steps for one death.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Knock to field point
carbon fiber weave
two blue and one white fletch
core muscles engaged
Pulled back on a string
cams broken over
energy ready to be freed
peering through black peep
Fiber optic pins
glow in the sun
judge the right distance
pick the right one
Finger on the trigger
let the arrow fly
watch it home
ten ring, target, good shot
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
*I am not one of these leather wearing ******* you see on **** sites. I am real. I listen to 911 calls on repeat. Images of gore, abortions, death, and torture fill me with unbridled lust.
Humans are amazing... Their build, their skin, with billions of embedded pain receptors. Optic nerves, sending horrific images directly into their frontal lobes. I love their faces, tiny changes in their expressions with different types and increments of pain.
There is such a glorious range and variety of pain that can be inflicted upon a human. Few appreciate the sublime canvas of a humans body. Each sense can be tweaked and tormented. All of there emotions can be played like an instrument, by someone with the right skills and tools. Their screams are sublime.
There is a certain kind of scream a person lets out, the moment they realize their own mortality, but it is beyond words. It makes me see red. I lust for it. I adore it.
I am free. I am not bounded by your conceptions of morality. ****** **** and torture are simply choices. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want to whomever I want. Whether it is one death, a million, a billion, or an entire planet or the entire universe, it means less than nothing to me. I have no ideology, religion, or higher purpose. If the slab of meat and chemicals you call your mind is searching for a word to append to me, just think of me as an artist. My medium is flesh.
I walk among you. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I have studied the human body, peeled back the layers of flesh, the emotions. I see right through you. I am the nice, unassuming person you know. We share secrets. Some of you like me. Some of you love me.*
None of you know me.
I am, sadist.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 9:18 AM UTC
The electricity
vibrates
between them,
creating overloads,
surges of energy,
releasing tensions
in maximum-abundance.
O boy, fiber optic
feels really great,
it seems so brilliant,
love at our fingertips!
But what if,
what if,
I want to
wet my whistle,
taste her
daintily,
paint her
town white,
feel her
heartbeat for real?
Guess, they're the
million dollar questions
that computers
cannot answer
that make us so poor,
so frustrated in cyber-love!
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the watring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass --
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs -- the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell.
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be.
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
2.1k
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
i loved making you laugh
your clouded eyes like a thousand skies
sewn together, seamlessly
& im floating through them, aimlessly
lost inside them, namelessly
my anonymous exploration
of your pupils' dilation
i wonder how wide eye can make them...
playing with the petty words
your eyelid's optic prisoner
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
This terse verse was not
coerced or rehearsed,
the characters dispersed,
automatically, erratically,
forming statically cohering
patterns emphatically stating
my state of mind unwinding,
binding to the page,
for my pen is but a player and
this paper is its stage.
So now these thoughts have autonomy
despite their bond with me,
they're free to be a part apart from the
constraints of my mind, and now without
restraint they find their way to yours
as you perceive them.
I emit, the pen transmits,
now you receive them.
Adopt the words with
your optic nerves.
But be warned that these forms
Do not appease norms.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:41 AM UTC
We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.
We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.
We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.
We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!
We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.
We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
It's like
I haven't seen you in so long
But even that's a lie.
I've seen your past in pictures
and I've see your present
In Facebook updates.
Seen your new happy
so close to your old sad.
And even when I tear myself
from the screen,
there still remains
the imprint of your face
burned into the inside of my
eyelids, so that
Everytime I want to look at NOTHING,
I see you.
Everytime
I rub my eyes,
or wash my face,
I'm haunted by your look.
When I try to sleep,
I see you staring back.
It's like Everytime I sneeze,
my body wills me into
catching a glimpse of you.
And even when I beat myself into dead slumber,
you burrow through my optic stems, claw into my cortex,
and sink your teeth into my very dreams.
I wake up, too shaken to scream,
too weak for words, and still,
somehow, I manage to spell your name
on my back and on my sheets,
in trickling droplets of sweat.
You linger in my mind like nuclear fallout.
I tell myself,
Maybe one day
I'll brave Old Chernobyl.
I'll pass by the radioactive signs,
the wise warnings, without fear or worry.
I'll use my coward's camera to capture
preserved pockets of the past, looking,
helplessly, for the secret to having loved you,
and maybe even the secret
to forgetting you.
But even that's a lie.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
it's so beautiful
********
it's a heartless ***** that luminates the dark sky as dreamers lie to themselves
romanticizing and influencing young everywhere to love dream and hope alike, when it stalks upon the sun.
despite all this,
the red on your white pants
makes humiliation sound a lot better than the repulsion of a custodian finding a used **** pad, soaked in red
clogging up the toilet.
dear.
it's a ****** that flaunts upon it's charms
while lingers in the blue sky staring up at the sun.
the red in the sun,
burns eyes so that the neurons in the optic nerve
die and somehow gives you a miraculous squint
but it's far more better than the repulsion of the custodian finding "lady" napkins clogging the toilet hole.
dear.
someone's always got to be a custodian don't they?
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC