"probabilities" poems
Coffee , cake and tea
Where are all the Jonquills
March has come late
Without a yellow promise
Without a breath of warm air
The sea is shallow
Without shells
Just goes on and on
Not even up to my knees
And she talks of heresy
Conjectures , probabilities
On and on and
On and on
Fools make mistakes
Wise men err
To one man the sun sets
Another rises to the occasion
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Like a coin with heads but no tails,
Chasing after possibilities, probabilities.
After signs.
After delusions, dreams, destinies.
There is no value in something that is incomplete.
There is no love in a one-sided relationship.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
Life is nothing more than madness.
Probably there is no karma, no right, no wrong.
It's all a bunch of mechanic or random probabilities fighting against emotions, which are simply chemical reactions happening in our brain. Often good people get bad things, bad people get good things.
Simple: no meaning, no reasons.
We have these curious habits to give life some meaning just because we want some sort of reward for our efforts.
We put effort in things because inside and deeper each one of us is a dreamer, even the most skeptical man on earth.
But we should go through madness first, to get rid of our inner-fake-dreamer, to unlearn the ********* we have been told from birth and to re-learn how to dream properly, with the help of a less magic but different truth.
If we decide to go through madness we need to know we may not come out sane from it, and sometime we will have left just that little bit to keep going and survive. If we succeed we will understand that there is nothing to win, nothing to lose, that is all about perception and everything is a cyclic succession of experiences to use wisely.
- Manuela Camporaso
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
A body and soul stretched to extremes
Yin and yang
The most and least of both worlds
Opposite sides of the coin
Cleansing and pure
Tainting and pitch
Light and dark
Of the purest white
And the most tainted black
Earth and air and fire and water and aether
Sun and rain
The brightest and hottest fires of sun
Beating and firing heat from the bottomless flames of hell
Breaking into a cold sweat without cease
The flaming evil of health
Rain and sun
The darkest and iciest rain of clouds
Pouring and drenching from the endless pools of heaven
Chilling into a cleansing soak never long enough
The freezing good of pain
The contradictions, the back and forth
The intelligent confusion
The stupid direction
The leather and biker tough guy
The shy and bookish sweet girl
The false realities and true lies
Love in strangers and indifference in close friends
Hope in troubled times and loss in peaceful
Banding together the unlikelies
Separating the probabilities
Pain in love and happiness
Contentment in fear and despair
The sound of one hand clapping.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
Communion of Soft Fingertips
speak, modern world
we are sketched in languages of digital bits,
parity shading certainty with probabilities of truth
giving us form and existence across distance,
distilled to series of warm, invisible numbers
frequencies divided step-wise, as Fourier found them
in noise amalgamated as information heterodyned,
left to be separated out, reordered
by advanced statistical protocols
that trace our borders with delicate, unseen fingertips
a description of new beings, relationships between them
uncertain at first in the short trails
of data they create
but there eventually - by the law of large numbers
or acts of successive approximation
we'll find them
revealed, like a pointilist painting
or seemingly random collection of string
whose elements are alone meaningless
unless we step back to see an entirety of mass
which we recognize immediately
as true love and intimacy
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 8:57 AM UTC
Shuffled deck; fetch me three of Seventy-Eight cards.
First:
Queen of Swords
"This fine Sword of honest metal
is a more true an Ally
than many of Flesh indeed prove to be."
*Much like Athena,
The Queen of Swords
is symbolic of progress;
always keen on new ideas;
though she is not One to leave herself defenseless,
her faithful Sword stands
always by her side.*
Second of the three,
of the still Seventy-Seven:
Two of Swords
"Distracted by conflict
'twixt Heart and Mind,
I hold two Swords and bide my Time."
*Two of Swords
stands between Moon and Water;
the Shadow and the Subconscious
the darkness and the unknown.
The Two of Swords
is blindfolded
and in her blissful ignorance
maintains her precarious balance,
for now.*
The third of three random cards;
leaving Seventy-Five unturned:
Knight of Swords
"Feast your eyes upon this, my plan;
I wager thou hath, in all thy wretched days,
ne'er so beauteous a thing beheld!"
*The Knight of Swords
is a keen poet and a fine musician;
though perhaps not romantically.
She dabbles for the sake of the intellect,
and seeks that those things be playthings thereof.
She is symbolic of progress through new ideas
and of the eloquence of a well-laid plan.
Being of the House of Swords,
she revels in the stimulation of intellect
and the effective use of wisdom.
She usually yields only to herself
and marches to the beat of her own convictions,
all the while
keeping her eyes
on the prize.*
-
All of these Cards
are of the House of Swords.
There's about a 1 in 166 chance
of getting 3 of the 14 Swords
out of a random deck of 78 cards.
I got the Queen of Swords as my third card last time
and the first card this time;
There's 1 in approximately 676 chance
of getting the same card
in two consecutive sets of three cards
from a random 78 card deck.
(im)Probabilities aside:
The Suit of Swords is generally associated with:
one's ways of thinking, systems, ideas, and communication.
It has much to do with
what we chose to do with our Minds
and it also is symbolic of the power of
the stories we tell ourselves and each other.
The Swords are indeed double-edged in Tarot.
It has to do with the power of information
and with that comes delusion,
and, inexorably,
paradox.
Patterns do exist, however.
Upon these patterns
foundations may be built,
the same is true within myself;
I can choose to use all these Swords
to cut through this cage of Shadow
and set free the Light once more
rather than allowing myself
to myself fall victim to the Swords
through inaction or misuse
though only if I tread lightly
and thoughtfully
and proceed with tact;
that much is clear.
Sword is the sign of Air;
perhaps the message here is simply
"Remember to breathe."
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
∑ nPk, ∝ ≫ x! π f (x) ∞ x ≡ φ 3√a N(μ,σ2) <:)
In English:
The sum of the probabilities that your poem will trend is proportional, but greater than the factorial of the constant pi, when the function of x is leminscate (infinity), and when the value of the x variable is identical to the golden ratio constant, or when the cubed root of the normal distribution of love.
Finally,
finally
finds
you well.
It is the word you supply,
when asked
100 times a day
How are you?
How ya doing?
Answer:
Well,
I am well.
for my life, my poetry,
me, all of us,
are trending,
now that I have found,
found and solved,
the formula for
my-piece of the
Normal Distribution
of love
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
darling, how are you today?
i'm months into my first heartbreak
and i wonder if you're the same.
mayhaps our souls haven't crossed yet
and your eyes haven't experienced
the first touch of color
if we look at each other,
or how the red string of fate
grows shorter and shorter
as we wade into a thousand years
brought about by
our constant reincarnations.
i would wait a hundred lifetimes,
swim through a sea of heartbreaks
(like now),
go through a life where
you don't exist,
or you drive a knife to my chest,
if it means there exists such a thing—
where there is even just a single timeline
where i get to touch your lips with my fingers
and hold you in my arms as you sleep soundly,
as our hearts beat closer and closer.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 6:52 AM UTC
say something or just
keep on makin' ghost-patterned, intervening silences,
singing
or half-murmuring
verses, those ones from slow songs under low light,
the same refrain that runs between all the others,
through the passage of weeks, stained tobacco sweet by eleven-thirty iterations;
* [post-meridian or particulate matters only,
of course,
it's hard to wake before noon anymore.]*
with the way these rhythms keep us down
and out,
counting the methods-
the summations of potential miseries,
and the probabilities that all would or could turn around, before the end of the week.
or the next one.
and,
outside the door, the one after that,
over the acres of concrete and pale shade,
streetlit likenesses hushing air through melting neighbourhoods,
I make imaginary footprints,
wondering which, of the field of household starlit comforts,
is the blade of grass you cast seeds from
to inadvertently germinate and sprout a well of aspiration, the wind in a stranger's ribcage,
continually growing, hiccoughing leaf litter,
with every last breath.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Let me whisper you a world spread in open-palm
and lay you wide-pictures etched in cobble-stone
till your feet find their way in the wake of alt-time
Let me grow you orchards on margins of probabilities
and capture breezy-smiles to place upon your sleeve
till illumined-steps of afternoon crumble before angels
Let me turn the planets on fingertip high upon wheel-rim
and show you matte mirror-lakes of superb-chances
till the evening-sky feels the shy-tiptoe of moon-kiss
please… let me….?
S T - 4 dec 13
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
As evolution jumped from eon to eon,
the foundational hunger to remain
surpassed all bounds this great celestial
has ever witnessed in its cosmic disturbance.
How must Mars and Jupiter, these stars in the sky
view the deep blue that flooded the desolate,
a clump of collected debris basking in the ultraviolet,
unable to resist the presence of life, ever-so unwanted
and needless to exist? For our neighbors in the sky,
glancing our way in their soulless façade,
they gossip to their peers about the news over here,
the autumnal shift from emerald to bronze,
willows who wept in the heat of summer days,
dandelions dotting the ridges of a rolling hillside,
at times dipping their toes in the whispering waters
of a backyard creek caressing the moss
atop smooth and shimmering stones.
From nothing you surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything you share your entities,
the very body you call your own, the breath
you maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
you find yourself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.
How fortunate we are to find ourselves here
in a sea of tumultuous chaos, conscious and
ever-so present in the discovery of knowledge.
To look to the past through a tubular lens
and remain unknowing of time’s present state,
the physical probabilities of potentials unforeseen
bending the rays of time to juxtapose new and old;
reality remains a pervasive illusion
evading the grasps of human cognition. Our
consciousness supersedes the premise of us all,
but our curiosity quivers in the breath of the
meaningless; how could something so rare
and inconceivable surmount to nothing more
than the imminent emergence of an empty abyss?
We must never misjudge the reign of the cosmos,
lose all hope that nothing awaits --
this I will not believe.
From nothing I surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything I share my entities,
the very body I call my own, the breath
I maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
I find myself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.
Mar 6, 2024
Mar 6, 2024 at 3:22 AM UTC
Perception has always been people's reality,
What we see is what we mainly look for.
We leave good probabilities for an ideal possibility,
Putting an 'open' sign in front of a closed door.
Today, the social voices are louder,
Where the old rich are still deities and privileged trends are gods,
We fall prey to what they cater,
Wishfully hoping that we're favored by the odds.
Addicted to the momentary high of a 'match',
Eyes glued to a notification of a new tap.
Everyone believes they are a catch,
Idols deserving of all the world's slow clap.
The now is defined by open button downs,
Pushed back hair and pumped up arms.
Jeans are tight, matched with shoes that are brown,
Anything out of place will trigger an alarm.
How can the average hopeless romantic fight,
When wit and wisdom sums up his might?
He sips his wine during the night,
Closing his eyes halfheartedly wishing to see a new light.
He has many reasons to be happy,
Yet he's looking for something that can make him smile.
It may sound really petty,
But for this, he's ready to walk another mile.
We are tired of not dying, of merely existing,
Looking for perceived purpose and minute meaning.
One wonders when one can start living genuinely free,
One hopes to learn how it feels to be.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
یقینوں کی سرحد، سوالوں سے آگے
گمانوں سے اوپر، خیالوں سے آگے
حقیقت کی پہچان باطن سے جاگے
دلیلوں سے بالا، حوالوں سے آگے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
جلایت سماوی، تپش منتہیٰ ہے
ذرائع ، وسیلے، نشاں, استعارے
قدم دو قدم ساتھ چلتے سہارے
سبھی راستوں پر توکل زمینیں
سبھی گردشوں میں مقابل جبینیں
ہجومِ سلاسل میں قلبِ مجرد
جہاں نہ رسائی ہو ایسی وہ خلوت
وہاں کوئی نفسی، خودی، نہ انا ہے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
وہاں پر خدا ہے، وہاں بھی خدا ہے
ع
۱۰۔۳۔۱۷
The dominion of faith is beyond the line of questions
Above the strata of probabilities
Ahead of the limits of imaginations
Recognition of truth arises from within
Independent of reasoning and evidence
Unaffected by references and certifications.
Where is the boundary of my awareness?
Heavenly light, infinite candescence
Resources, means, symbolisms, provenance
Temporary camaraderies and companionships...
On all paths, the ground is made of tawakul
In all circumvolutions, brows are directed centrally
In the swarm of connectivity, the core remains vacant
Where nothing can reach, such is the solitude there
Where there is no person, no self, no ego
Where there is the boundary of my awareness
There is God! There, too, is God.
A
10.3.17
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
I think I need to be more understanding to others intentions,
and not my own inserted perception of what I think others are intending.
Me and my over active imagination like to play to much with hypothesis, theories, and probabilities.
When often,
truth can be spoken without being tested.
I swear sometimes I break things down so much,
when it comes to putting it back together,
I find I've built a monster to fear and seek to destroy.
If you look at it right,
you'll see I'll only destroy myself in the end.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
i never ran out of words.
i'd see the night sky and i could describe it in a hundred ways --
i could say it was the ocean reflecting the twinkling lights above;
or maybe a moonlit path now visible through the waves.
i'd feel the wind brushing my cheek
and write about how it tousled my hair into messy tendrils--
how it plays with the leaves one moment
and the next leaves them astray under warmly-lit streetlamps.
oh i could write for endless hours
about disasters, impossibilities, probabilities
and i never ran out of words.
there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet and they never failed me.
but then i saw you.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
Vexed by the dots that are strewn above the clouds.
My intense gaze fixed upon the moon
and the mystery it shrouds.
As my observance leaves home freedom is found.
Invigorating.
Beats of a cosmic drum,
binding strength to my essence,
keep my flight in animation.
The beads of cosmic spring,
trickle the length of my lips
and I dance across the space between each star.
Laughing and crying
and learning the truth of it all,
and seeing the probabilities.
This was my lasting message
as I couldn’t fly forever,
be at one with your planet
for the bounty of nature
is endless,
and our lasting possibilities
simply rely on that.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
This clade of “tree”
if you can believe that
! That this is what the
... silversword alliance technically are.
It's closely related tarweed...
The first **** wasn’t lonely for long and had
multiple terrains to colonize.
& tall tales take solidified liquid form
from the something
making water like fire
or air we can’t see floating like ice.
Pushed in a away a tsunami
seem small as they cross over the ocean.
Only they roar
louder then anything heard, but a drip
silenced lost lost
to deaf ears
empty troughs of the dunes
soft sand triumphing over the oceans.
The four subclades within the crossing times
sowed their alliance,
silversword are the tall tales
detail of long ago seemingly insignificant kept
life form, form life , forms
forms life
we know because it’s indistinguishable from the rest.
probabilities estimates Vertical
no horizontal or dashed lines.
Bound by the ' it was', see.
we are to the way we
were. Read the possible
probability of a tale, A tale
of a tall tale. Told.
Origination, will, times. They tell,
seconds per island
complex (from left-to-right:
Kaua‘i, O‘ahu, Maui Nui, Hawai‘i).
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
White Buffalo
So intense,
she is,
with her visions of saving the world,
she is,
a White Buffalo…
so when she expresses her lofty aspirations,
and she regrets her past oppressions,
she tells me that when she tells them,
her visions of saving the world,
they tell her she can’t fulfill them,
I tell her she can,
I tell her she can do anything she wishes,
because there is a significant difference,
between possibilities and probabilities,
and just because something is improbable it is not impossible,
honestly if she has visions to save the world,
she should pursue such honorable pursuits,
honestly,
don’t ever let anyone,
tell you you can’t do anything,
give no energy to the lethargic cynics,
don’t let other people’s broken dreams,
fracture the magical dreams you have,
you are,
a White Buffalo,
you are,
a medicine women,
you represent,
divine feminine energy,
you are a healer,
you with all your attributes,
are in a prefect position,
to overcome all oppressions,
please help,
help heal this planet,
help heal humanity,
from all the harm that Man has caused,
we need the healing power of Woman,
Man,
has done so much damage,
but not too much damage,
to not be able to reverse this curse,
let her heal this humanity that hurts,
holy Goddess,
hold me honest,
rest me upon your *****
this world’s in trouble,
let’s make love platonic,
let’s create what they said we couldn’t,
wouldn’t,
it be great,
if we could,
take down the wooden stake,
that’s been used to crucify our Lord,
Lord,
this is,
all getting,
too intense,
to be ignored,
we need,
a woman leader,
because woman is the true healer,
and every man should bow before her,
I am ready to surrender my ego for sure,
no cure,
can come from the poison,
masculinity,
has been too intrusive,
with it’s ways that’ve been forced in,
without consent,
He’s impregnated hatred in this matrix,
created the meanest fetus,
then made her birth it no abortion,
consent,
is not meant to mean yes when it’s said through coercion,
stop ****** the world,
consent is not meant to mean yes when it’s said through coercion,
intensions,
bent,
we all want to find Hope,
we’re just not sure where Hope went,
this is all so incredibly intense,
So intense,
she is,
with her visions of saving the world,
she is,
a White Buffalo…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
from '777' available worldwide
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
and wonder where all my poems go,
the value they impose -- only there's implosion and not so much sense
so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle of a pilsner
as i hear one of the patrons call out
my solitude like a ********** on all fours;
one afternoon pursues a following.
i have wasted my time writing and stopping
to watch stray hounds pant and
**** on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the papers retch at tyrannies.
hands for mechanisms configured to
a heady bias of probabilities.
the house next to me is being
overhauled and i imagine the incredulity
of things not their own meanings.
a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread, a decrepit bed for making love
or passing time or wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone is reading my poems and weeping at the cadence.
most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things not mine to commandeer.
the sound of stone masons hammering
boulders double the melancholia.
the deliberate sieving of sand and stone
felt like sandpaper air.
the matutinal sky split into dire condition
much like mine: becoming and unbecoming.
all the ******** are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
and mobiles covered with dust,
the captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
of the departed.
i look up and see my face in the sky:
if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.
more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
somewhere in Padre Faura.
madness hurries like a lover and hands me
a picture of the moon.
i've got something and that's good enough
as the police leave the grime of times
and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
as the priests step into the showers, naked
and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
as the cat that was hit
by a bicycle
goes back to the dark
licking the salt off the wound,
bone fractured, still alive on the hot roof.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
Parents love you
They do what they can to help you
They mean well, but they don't know
The way I think or react
Thinking why and how, that's a fact
I'm always over...
over the top
over-thinking
over-analyzing
anything to say I think too much
I feel too much
I see too much
I do too much
Since when was that a problem?
Because you think I am a problem
Parents love you
But they don't understand you
You try to fix me feeling
but you do more harm than healing
They don't see what you see
They see their kid overthinking
But they think of possibilities
along with other probabilities
I'm not a person anymore, I'm a problem
Your thinking is my problem
I'll never be enough for you
I'll never have enough to impress you
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 11:54 PM UTC
you take a chance
and you say man
here my digits,
now shared,
here is my Rx,
call me as needed
weeks months later
a phone rings
at 2:30am
and one poet says it's me,
I am the living soul
of words you have appreciated
and the other says,
I'm glad you called brother,
how did you know I'd be awake?
and he laughs and says
I read your stuff,
you write best tween
midnite and dawn,
so the probabilities were favorable
that I would find you awake and capable
and you walk and talk and roam
roads and oaths that black and write
screen letters
can't full convey,
till one says **** man look at the time
and both laugh,
knowing a poem
had just been writ in
true voices
shared
and that kids,
is the chance some make,
when first your words you take
and the poetry you proffer
is product of genuine flesh,
beyond mere in vitro digitally fertilized
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC