"trekkers" poems
Prahu opines re the mathematics of love
Her equations hypotenuse me,
So I write adjacently,
As if we were cosine functionalities.
A special formula,
A Hyperbolic Cosine,
For to equate love mathematically,
We must use verbal hyperbole.
Binomials, the pair of loves,
Coefficient Trekkers,
On the mountains of waves,
To a product infinite.
So let us,
Reductio ad absurdum
That love is pointless.
Nah, nope.
Love is the point on a curve
that never stops moving,
Even as the curve forever, bending
And the possibilities,
Exponential...
In the sums of love,
The finite answer is always two.
So let us be clear,
This exercise has made me late
For work,
For which
I express my appreciation as follows:
X = xo,
Or
Summation Expansion
e e= 1 / n!
= 1/1 + 1/1 + 1/2 + 1/6 + ... see constant e
e -1 = (-1) n / n!
= 1/1 - 1/1 + 1/2 - 1/6 + ...
e x = xn / n!
= 1/1 + x/1 + x2 / 2 + x3 / 6 + ...
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
Robert Ardrey posed the question for the ages
When he offered up his treatise on rats in cages.
As space recedes, said he, the pace of life leaves us no
Time to breathe, crowds in, forces us to cross against
The yellow to red light, doesn’t wait nor hesitate.
While the breath of fresh air becomes the fetid exhale,
Heat, the result of speed,
Expands each encounter’s
Press
Sure as a cavein cuts off
Light
Turns day into night, begins the claustrophobic’s fright.
Crushed against each other, each instant seems longer and so the
Press
Sure grows – We move – Race against
The red light or even more (maddeningly)
Cruise through it at the end of the line obdurately refusing to look left or Right.
You know this truth even as you sit in denial waiting for the last car to
Hurtle
Past and the cars behind you begin their honking cry
All ready to race to where the next lights lie. And even each recognition of this act of speed compressing,
Instead of giving us peace,
Becomes another form of the press
Sure to push us even faster.
Ever closer to the edge that’s despair. Consumed, subsumed . . .
Our terror turning ist.
And meanwhile, there it is blinking, the cursor light winking,
With it’s only eye – telling us
That it’s Pentium (TM) process can take us there,
Race us there out into inner space,
Our gameboys palmpiloted.
Our implanted synapses
Imploding at Warp 8.
Which seems great, until
We realize like the Star Trekkers we so wish we were
That that is the speed at which our universe begins to disintegrate,
Begins to un relate.
And only Super (the person that is) man can reverse our fate,
Can retract the boarding gate,
Can reinvent the late great time when we all had a little SPACE . . .
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Off to a distant planet,
In a spaceship with our best,
What would you take, Nasa?
What of our culture really matters?
Books of lit. and Maths,
Maybe faith, perhaps,
Music, art and maps,
Or a book of isms.
to start new religions,
or the history of the human race,
Send it all into outer space,
In a spaceship with our best,
Star trekkers one day, I guess,
Nasa's vast plan, no less......
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.
The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.
Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."
What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.
And his voice carried on.
They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.
Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.
The villages tarries on.
They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.
The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.
He is alive.
And he is free.
He thrives.
I know it ...
Because I am he.
The last poet.
And his voice carries on.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
four strapping teens surveying a map
the adventure of a lifetime in waiting
an expedition through backcountry
10 days 4 portages backpacks at the ready
paddles yearning to be dipped into glossy waters
an excruciating two hour drive for excited trekkers
launching canoes with but a trail & compass
crackling fires stoking companionship
seeking warmth from the crisp nighttime air
tents hoisted while listening to nature’s rhythm
crawling into sleeping bags serenaded by croaking frogs
exhaustion from a day of paddling bringing deep sleep
bright sunny dawn the wakeup call for rising
roaring campfire ready for pots and pans
breakfast cooked on an open flame a treat
time to pack amidst an onslaught of mosquitoes
drizzling day a reminder to the voyageurs of the past
portages carrying canoes overhead long & arduous
standing on the shores of turbulent Lake Opeongo
her challenges
beckon us
Andreas Simic©
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 7:08 AM UTC
The wish trekkers
invented speed- wheelers
for feather rides
in ebb or tides.
We call these- automobiles
which frequently change plumes and styles.
We invest sweats for comforts,
save time and use in trades or sports.
Their utility changed from luxuries to necessities
now these run in frontiers, villages and cities.
4th Dec.2016
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 2:20 AM UTC
As sitting on its side i see
a highway
silent now, empty
that once bore so much industry,
now modified by
free enterprise,
that of course lacks memory
of any past, of
trekkers who have lived-
buried dreams on this path-
lonely now
black asphalt
going nowhere
receiving no remorse.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC