"photonic" poems
It is early.
and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,
An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.
Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre
Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth
Good Day, Sweet mother earth.
Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.
And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
Twist ye not the tendrils of time
frame dragging by any other name
black holes ergosphere sublimes
pulls spacetime to its slow down game
Those clocks and our clocks not the same
Time's vector smeared along its timeline
speeds along its X axis game
Remains longer on its own line rhyme
Then around and around she goes
For this clock so smitten runs so slow
And where the hands stop nobody knows
Spacetime's drill bit twisted so
This black silken dress of spacetime
Wrapped around this gravity vortex
Twisted infinity sublimes
on the singularities’ cortex
Redshifts starlight to infinity
Photons below values of C
Their orange trails of light I see
These curved, stretched, these twisted banshees
Frozen in space these tendrils of time
My heart beats on ever so slow
This time signature of space aligns
reality to its queer clocks of woe
In front of me coasting along
a singular photon it’s brilliance
flitting like a firefly’s lonely song
wave-like in its own resilience
This photonic duplicity
particle now and a wave the next
surrenders its reciprocity
to this block of spacetime so vexed
Such are the tendrils of time here
to the black holes seductive embrace
These time signatures skewed so queer
From the Dark Mother’s fingers trace
As she smiles at me saying:
“Oh my beautiful child of wonder”
“Blessed be your love and curiosity”
“Of all my spells that you fall under”
“To you all of my precocity”
“So I bless thee and thy lady “Star”
“Your undaunting love of Michele
“Shines on in O Class from thee so far”
“I release thee from this spacetime spell”
These tendrils of time wound round
These whirlpools in space
These wonders of space found
In Michele’s beautiful face.
Dave Proffitt
9/10/2016
3:01 PM
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
It begins the same way it ends.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals,
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
These are my lights.
Gripping tightly to is base, holding it steady,
Peer through its open lense.
Record each and every moment.
This is my camera, so let it commence.
Take 1.
A mother wails as her baby rolls out.
Physicians stagger in, along with nurses.
NICU is now home to the baby girl who
Came 2 months before she was due.
02/01/1995 - the unforgettable date that
I changed my family’s lives.
Take 2.
Fast forward to when everyone else’s
Nightmare’s become my reality.
The thoughts took over my anatomy,
Constricting blood vessels in my brain
And with every heartbeat those enlarged
Vessels collided with my skull – throbbing.
A rainbow of pasty pills dissolved on my tongue,
Releasing their chemicals into my ocean-like blood stream.
Take 3.
Every waking day had not only become a
Physical struggle but in fact a psychological endeavor.
The thoughts hindered my perception of reality,
Just as cumulous clouds darken the suns light.
Back seat riding with my negativity leading
Me through a tunnel of self-destruction.
Take 4.
Addicted.
To the bottle, the drugs, and the razor blade.
Addicted.
The dullness of the liquor,
The euphoric journey the drugs took me on and,
The intoxicating aroma the blood gave off
As it poured down my wrist
Shaped my addictions to that of self-annihilation.
Those were my Actions.
It ends the same way it began.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
Now this is the end.
If my life was a Motion Picture;
I would go back and film it again,
But this time validating true happiness.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Frisked at customs...sphere-d Muzak...
upped and away...rife, with non address.
Photonic personification...perceptible, yet...
imperceptible gestures Godspeed-ed--
sheer forgetfulness...the genius of remembrance--
Expiration Dates.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
Shifting gears
Revolutions near
Red line absorption
In blue sky spectrums
Characterizing wave~particle
Photonic duality
Designating principals
Using dark features
Coinciding emissions
With elemental missions
Broad strokes
Masking narrow bands
Of water lilies
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
*Spectral & Whites,
She shoots liquid kryptonite,
Forming civil twilights,
Lighting up satellites,
Effusive she moves in crowds,
Vetting the loud,
Entombing in her vortex clouds,
Fiction stitched exclusive to her shroud,
Translucent transcendence,
Sinking in ascendance,
Obscured abundance,
Her celestial dependence,
Mutating sacraments,
Dissolving electrolytic laments,
Decaying she resents,
Her serene blood stains,
Choking reckless intents,
Torrential far cry,
Of her desecrated lullabies,
Edging serrated highs,
Triggering sulphur lies,
Profanity in her transmits,
Photonic duality she emits,
Fluttering in trance,
Her psychopathic stance,
Initiating empathetic dance,
Seductive incandescence,
Buffering her schizophrenic vehemence,
Veiling the era of repentance,
By unveiling spiritual severance,
And pseudo sacrosanct irreverence,
The future’s here,
Nuclear souvenir,
She past my prime,
When the evidence realigned,
Confiscating her downtime,
She committed my crime,
Make amends… We are designed to be outlived….
03:22AM*
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
None of clothes are right and so I am not human. Only cold winds and crazed neon. I sometimes shine a flashlight under my fingers to remind myself of my bones. But they're as breathlike and photonic as the plastic tears I will never be given the right to have.
*We know that **** ain't real.*
How brittle a (we) can be. What sound is my voice allowed to have other than the violent dance of glass on concrete? My happiness always hangs from the end of a baseball bat.
And that's the way things are.
Of course, my mantras are just idolatry or faggotry. Systems of oppressive heat and chemical equations either pat me on the back or slap me across the face and I can never quite seem to catch my breath or feel an embrace, not really.
My forehead burned, but I closed my eyes.
How heavy must my skin and eyelashes and all the things that encase me, engender me, hang about me before I can finally count myself beloved? The question is as impossible as my own humanity, and my existence is not so self-evident that kiwis taste like queer fruits. So until smiles lose their tartness and I can breathe at last, **** you.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
I some times think
That love is electronic
Like matter-wave
Elusive to capture in time or space
Yet travels at the speed of light
Capable of transmitting energy
Yet unable to completely fathom its form
Impossible to hold or capture
But without which, life is incomplete
Like Heisenberg's uncertainty principle
I cannot understand it, while i am in it
I would rather be absorbed like a photon
Gets absorbed in an atom
You be my atom, I shall be the photon
May you and I merge and reach a higher state
Of fulfilment.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 1:28 AM UTC
City lines illuminated by animated street lights reflect off of your skin.
Images of infant filled houses
and hospitals with new born fetal babies, juxtaposed fatal mothers,
emit off your body
in black and white stop motion,
slicked by this canvas of fluid blanket
And you, victim of lifelessness
lie cold and waterlogged
inhaling liquid, the new source of oxygen,
your eyes fogged and inverted submissively.
What was sung to sleep by hymnal chants
of incredulous mourning moans now lies
Dead
on a forgetful Sunday Evening.
The street lights give no respect
as they ponderously encroach,
Leaning in to hear your fleeting birdsong.
These lamp poles, tender and limber,
flex to form prayer circles, forgetting their rightful footings.
And with each inch bound tighter,
the circle emulates a power emitted through photonic light beams
bending irresponsibly to get closer to truth.
They then see it, and so does woman
Stopping by this wooded mausoleum.
She stands with inquisitive mittens, palms open and receiving.
Flecks of skin lift off your sinking vessel as what was you leaves into better places.
They drift, forming a clouded colony
crawling up webbing left to lead them correctly.
Each inch spreads more purity,
each meter strengthens recent weaknesses.
Woman notices a cloud gather above you,
and each particle refracts the whole galaxy with increasing detail and accuracy.
As your body turns to skeletal structure
you seep faster into the silt-heavy waters below,
your bones creating playgrounds and Eiffel Towers, hospital white in hue,
so clean it hurts.
The cloud moistens with rain,
it becomes heavy and starts to drift,
rocking,
in futile attempt to birth again.
And each fleck takes woman.
She spreads eagle and takes flight.
Toes lift individually and with lessened pressure,
she stretches each appendage as your flesh meshes with woman’s in unconventional ways,
every crevice and crack blanketed by you, what was.
The street lights pulsate as they observe in amazement
your transformation.
All is forgiven while the lamps induct you into purity
and absolve woman for witnessing this connection to God.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
With embered wings, I pierce the blackest night,
A solar mass morphing into a black hole.
Each atom in my blood prepares to ignite,
Reflecting the true divine shape of my soul.
In the corridors of my own thought, the senses drown.
The mind painting prisms bleeding photonic rain.
No boundary here to hold me. In moments, I'm crowned.
In this kingdom of chaos, sculpting solace from pain.
I stand before the mirror of my own trembling soul.
A sovereign spark lives, who dares to hope it can heal.
A voice screams, that " One who has shattered his mold,
Transcends the one; fragments of being, each their own whole."
Pulses turn to diamonds, forming as the words on my tongue.
Minutes stretch — now endless lifetimes yet to be discovered.
I taste each shard of feeling that my heart has overcome.
My sorrow and my joy open, remaining uncovered.
My dreams, my faulted mind, like ones we called under-wrought.
Their eyes, constellations, like the ones we used to trust.
Chemicals react, dispersing waves, like songs we forgot.
Solitude and isolation bleed with each melodic gust.
And in the hush of afterglow, I wield my clean knife,
Open up my wounds till they reveal my true hidden name.
And from this crucible of pain, is born a new life.
My infinite flame burns as both the wild and the tame.
Following voices of shadows, divine potential’s own choir.
Their hymns — the portal to my soul yet to be embraced.
Chains bind me to perceptions, but for now, I'm more like fire.
Forging quantum bound waves, binding purpose to my fate.
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 3:44 PM UTC
Males of Dynastes bear two long horns, one on the head, and the other on the pronotum, forming a "plier"; the pronotal horn has reddish setae on its underside. This pronotal horn is absent in females.[3] Some species have an iridescent colouration to their elytra.[4] Certain species of the genus Dynastes also have the ability to change colour.[5] Specific species have been noted to occur with either black or yellowish to khaki green elytra.[5] This variation in colour is due to a spongy layer below the transparent cuticle;[5] this spongy layer is a network of filamentous strands made up of three-dimensional photonic crystals lying parallel to the cuticle surface.[6] When the cuticle is filled with gas this layer can show through, presenting the yellow to khaki green colour, but when filled with fluid the cuticle appears black.[5] This is due to the change in refraction index allowing us to see the difference in colours.[6] This system is known as a hygrochromic effect.[4] Female beetles can change colour but not as completely as males, which is not yet explained as the mechanisms for the colour change is still not completely understood.[5] What is known is that changes in humidity affect the levels of moisture in the cuticle which leads to a change in colour in most cases.[5] Since the change is due to humidity it is a reversible process, however, it has been observed that after multiple colour changes or high stress the beetles will maintain some dark spots on their cuticle.[4] Some hypotheses for why this colour change occurs at all are the ability to blend with surroundings depending on the time of day (black for nighttime and yellow for daytime) to best avoid their main predator, the tropical screech owl (Megascops choliba).[5] Another theory has to do with thermoregulation in the sense that a black beetle heats up faster than yellow and then once they have warmed up theoretically there will be less moisture in the cuticle which leads to changing to a colour which does not heat as quickly so they won't overheat.[5]
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
As she lifts her nose from her notes
I wonder down which stream she floats.
Does she fancy pastel summer sunsets
whose calmly colored clouds conceal
a simple lapis blue beyond?
Does she set her sights further, forever far away --
are there glimmering galaxies gushing light and gravitation
while solar systems spin and dance in divine inebriation?
Perhaps her discretion is more discerning
and towards all minutiae her mind is turning.
Are cells pulsing gradients, chemically communicating
with energetic electric magic undulating?
Maybe those electrons evoke enticing excitations
and her shining silhouette's mere photonic emanations.
Atoms flicker, fidgeting 'tween fleeting forces:
Protons, quarks, gluons, and other shifting sources.
Ah, but, now I find myself gently pondering:
because I know exactly where she is
I've no idea where she's wandering! (To an arbitrary precision.)
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Photonic resonance?
Is this the most material description
Of the mental processes of the mind
By that of the ***** the brain?
Thought & the like?
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 3:36 PM UTC