"topological" poems - Hello Poetry

There are roses. A sniff of that— turns the trees into sharp thorns. Sit still. Secured. Guarded. Then there is a Tree, meticulously crafted, big-footing from the deepest deep— not only skin deep but the beauty is on— deep-bone skeleton. The pixels on the upper layer stay clear, and perfect balance holds below, through every layer. A day fades from the rose, dimmed—even at soothing eve. Not quite. It walks in chiaroscuro, through shades of tangerine, slipping into the thick of night— never growing thin— until it catches the set sun hiding, eyeing the new moon’s skin. It stands, ready for bold conversation, as the stars emerge, whispering through the seven skies. Wide-eyed death— inevitable— rushes in on beauty’s stake. But how long did it last? Before the blink of an eye, the tree was back in bloom. In watching galaxies—top of mind— it grows again, quietly, on the sublunary Earth. Math of the matter couldn’t be closer, nor farther—yet it is, as surely as cumulative math, with countless truths under the skin, unfound until the equation fits. It can appear with precision, or stay hidden from sight— under the sun, or the moon, alike. Sharpest sharp cuts: linear. Deepest deep, yet curves— smoothest golden spirals. The solid full-stop dot in Ma spaces springs the sweetest— a panache showcase that conquers height and endures time. A sniff of it stirs the water— boundless, no sea, no ocean, no river, just flow, forever. It bumps into paradise above— roots stretching, never ceasing. Deep down, it rocks the pearls, up high melts the clouds, rains soft on the glass— which breaks into pieces of a star. Breaks open wide—yet no angle. Deep down, it never fractures. Every line, on every lane, curves inward to its digital bedrock: non-linear, vibrating numbers. Day in, day out— no ending at the end. A topological fold opens and rewraps. There is a tree: overhead and on the ground. Keep an open eye— it keeps up!

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Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 8:38 PM UTC

shofi-ahmed

No End: A Tree on the Line

There are roses. A sniff of that— turns the trees into sharp thorns. Sit still. Secured. Guarded. Then there is a Tree, meticulously crafted, big-footing from the deepest deep— not only skin deep but the beauty is on— deep-bone skeleton. The pixels on the upper layer stay clear, and perfect balance holds below, through every layer. A day fades from the rose, dimmed—even at soothing eve. Not quite. It walks in chiaroscuro, through shades of tangerine, slipping into the thick of night— never growing thin— until it catches the set sun hiding, eyeing the new moon’s skin. It stands, ready for bold conversation, as the stars emerge, whispering through the seven skies. Wide-eyed death— inevitable— rushes in on beauty’s stake. But how long did it last? Before the blink of an eye, the tree was back in bloom. In watching galaxies—top of mind— it grows again, quietly, on the sublunary Earth. Math of the matter couldn’t be closer, nor farther—yet it is, as surely as cumulative math, with countless truths under the skin, unfound until the equation fits. It can appear with precision, or stay hidden from sight— under the sun, or the moon, alike. Sharpest sharp cuts: linear. Deepest deep, yet curves— smoothest golden spirals. The solid full-stop dot in Ma spaces springs the sweetest— a panache showcase that conquers height and endures time. A sniff of it stirs the water— boundless, no sea, no ocean, no river, just flow, forever. It bumps into paradise above— roots stretching, never ceasing. Deep down, it rocks the pearls, up high melts the clouds, rains soft on the glass— which breaks into pieces of a star. Breaks open wide—yet no angle. Deep down, it never fractures. Every line, on every lane, curves inward to its digital bedrock: non-linear, vibrating numbers. Day in, day out— no ending at the end. A topological fold opens and rewraps. There is a tree: overhead and on the ground. Keep an open eye— it keeps up!

82

San frontieres, a twig of poetree, topological, roots and wings, once more to the breach, dancing betwixt ears, ungestured, bays, I'd be as a mayfly, only alive a day, rather than as long as an eagle flies, not whying. Fathoming delves ley lines realizing increasing wingspan, height of flight, intensity of sunlight.

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Nov 12, 2019

Nov 12, 2019 at 7:58 AM UTC

reality

not just plumb, aplomb, true, heartening, you

San frontieres, a twig of poetree, topological, roots and wings, once more to the breach, dancing betwixt ears, ungestured, bays, I'd be as a mayfly, only alive a day, rather than as long as an eagle flies, not whying. Fathoming delves ley lines realizing increasing wingspan, height of flight, intensity of sunlight.

8

See me, this one says, see me, look you in the eye, eh, thinking, spring, the season, the greening of the playa's ancient shore, east of me, east of my evergreen valley, barely any bare gray wintery bushes and trees, flash of magnificence once manifested, on the shoulders of the priest-kings, infectious proud flesh pomp and circumstance, watch the war god-man made glorious in storied, seen once, not invisioned, imaged from tiny feathers, adhering to a topological fabricated RED FLAG FLASH humming bird head feathered serpent cape, on a bright day signaled by the hummer - see, I have returned, - this is like heaven to me. the one from now, same code, same init see me, look, see, once this was the most vibrant, slow mode, inspiring light imaged, portrayed, cloaking the priest-king god-rep more lustrous than any high summer cathedral rood crossing patterns, in undeniable beauty and artistical luc-if-ity windborn grammarless, musical, meanings, mid point, saddle points between waves that reflect from hummingbird feathers, indicating fair weather weathered the storms, fretted not a second on the journey, yep when I get to Pep's porch, there'll be sugar in the feeder, two minutes later. After I remind a mind is a many splendored thing, but none more splendored in prophesy than making sacred hopes formed from the fi NAND gated mythos, whither men and hummingbirds mind meld, tune in, to imagine the effort required, to tilt your head, just right, to flash my muse. Let time pass.

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Feb 18, 2024

Feb 18, 2024 at 3:39 PM UTC

kenpepiton

A Hummingbird Prophecy

See me, this one says, see me, look you in the eye, eh, thinking, spring, the season, the greening of the playa's ancient shore, east of me, east of my evergreen valley, barely any bare gray wintery bushes and trees, flash of magnificence once manifested, on the shoulders of the priest-kings, infectious proud flesh pomp and circumstance, watch the war god-man made glorious in storied, seen once, not invisioned, imaged from tiny feathers, adhering to a topological fabricated RED FLAG FLASH humming bird head feathered serpent cape, on a bright day signaled by the hummer - see, I have returned, - this is like heaven to me. the one from now, same code, same init see me, look, see, once this was the most vibrant, slow mode, inspiring light imaged, portrayed, cloaking the priest-king god-rep more lustrous than any high summer cathedral rood crossing patterns, in undeniable beauty and artistical luc-if-ity windborn grammarless, musical, meanings, mid point, saddle points between waves that reflect from hummingbird feathers, indicating fair weather weathered the storms, fretted not a second on the journey, yep when I get to Pep's porch, there'll be sugar in the feeder, two minutes later. After I remind a mind is a many splendored thing, but none more splendored in prophesy than making sacred hopes formed from the fi NAND gated mythos, whither men and hummingbirds mind meld, tune in, to imagine the effort required, to tilt your head, just right, to flash my muse. Let time pass.

41

The soul is Calabi-Yau every quality of topological string theory correlates to the workings of my consciousness. String theory, I used to refuse, but from topological soul, to spacetime soul, finally to what is here expressed.

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May 24, 2021

May 24, 2021 at 1:13 AM UTC

MichaelTChase

Another chunk

The soul is Calabi-Yau every quality of topological string theory correlates to the workings of my consciousness. String theory, I used to refuse, but from topological soul, to spacetime soul, finally to what is here expressed.

8

what's your story? and what are your dreams? these questions i long to ask and longer still, in immortal desire of these questions posed to me... i fantasise without substance of having solid, topological answers. they are constructions of smoke and shadows while behind my brow unburdened.

0

Jun 4, 2015

Jun 4, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC

thymos

what's your story?

what's your story? and what are your dreams? these questions i long to ask and longer still, in immortal desire of these questions posed to me... i fantasise without substance of having solid, topological answers. they are constructions of smoke and shadows while behind my brow unburdened.

12