Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Long poem by
Demetrios Trifiatis | Details |
“I am certain that I have been here as I am now a thousand times before and
I hope to return a thousand times after.” GOETHE
Once upon a time,
The Lord of spiritual consciousness was sitting peacefully on His blissful throne
Ceaselessly contemplating upon His equilibrium
T’ was the era of no moon, no sun, no stars, no earth, no oceans, no rivers
Just a motionless, timeless and deathless entity it was happy with His existence
Suddenly the thought of sacred motion was felt deep down in his essence
Seeking the chaos to be stirred from its core outwardly
Consequently separating the light from the darkness and all the other elements
That constitute the Cosmos
Thus giving birth immediately to old mighty time
When Time: This wizard of celestial art found himself alive
His expert hands stretched in advance, wanting to create
For that the plastic energy he took, that was everywhere around
And skillfully and patiently the Cosmos carved according to the Logos
Creating thus, the nebulae, the galaxies, the stars and all the other planets
Then God looked at times creation and marveled with its beauty
But as there was no life to be seen in all of this creation
The thought of desire was born in God to inhabit every place
For that out of himself he cut myriads blazing souls
Which like shooting stars he sent downwards to animate nature,
In this way, to manifestation’s cosmic sphere, the souls were beamed
Radiating their luminosity to reality’s lower planes
Bringing with them the sacred principles to denser forms of life
As they were passing from the spiritual, the mental and the astral
And finally materializing, themselves on the physical solid plane
Where life began on earth, with God’s will and grace!
Each soul an ambassador was and is of God’s will and grace
A ray of divinity, a guardian of the Holy Law
Each with a specific mission: to learn or rather to remember
How to find the way of return throughout space and time
And with the divine, again, to be seen in perfect equilibrium
The day I was born, as every man alive,
I found my immortal self bound to the wheel of time
That around eternity’s circumference took me, in very heavy chains
Asking to follow obediently the unswerving path of fate:
This endless trip of return where the only constant thing is change
Since then I have died once and many times after
But death's dark palaces to hold me were unable
As my soul’s perpetual desire to follow my destiny
Brought me back to this ephemeral world of fleeting dreams
With a new body, new hopes, new goals but always with the
Thus I journeyed back and forth the plains of oblivion
Choosing the best conditions I could, according to my karma
Trying to find endlessly the golden middle way
That unmistakably between the extremes is only to be found
But since from the river of forgetfulness each time I was drinking
I was obliged, unfortunately, to start over again
So, I was born once a king and another was I born a beggar
And in turns I was born a coward, a hero, a holy man, a vicious man,
A Christian, a Muslim, an atheist, an idolater a strong man and a woman
And healthy and sick I was born and intelligent and witless
And was I born to love so much the things I once detested
And to hate passionately the things I once held dear
And I was born once to laugh and another just to cry
And I drunk successively from joy’s cup and that of sorrow’s
And was born to make friends out of my enemies
And enemies out of my brothers
And was born to realize the impossible dreams and fail the very easy
And I was born to slay and to be slain alternatively for thousands of years
Thus I lived continuously the extremes of both good and evil
Striving to find endlessly the balance in my soul
Through the wisdom that was endowed upon me by the Great Spirit
That like a beacon, luminous, to guide me waits
To my supreme destiny that GOD for me has traced
So, as was passing from life unto death, from darkness unto light
With a speed determined by me, I don’t put on GOD the blame,
All my lessons have I learned through trial and error
Up to the very last reincarnation, in body’s mortal temple
Now free, AT LAST, from all earthly desires and every karmic blame
Radiating with holiness and glowing with grace
My immortal soul, HER divine wings unfolds and soars upwards the heavens
White light blazing in perfect equilibrium
And pure now to her glorious creator returns and with
11 DECEMBER 2013
“A little while and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body.
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind and another woman shall bear me”
* This poem because of its length I was unable to post it in one piece for I was not a
member for life at that time therefore I published it in two parts as: “CREATION” and as “REINCARNATION.” Here is the entire poem as it was originally written.
Now, my friends know that apart from my epigrams I write... long poems as well!
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
You can feel it spinning
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.
By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.
Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexico's greatest and most beloved leader.
Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
kept out of the playground, government buildings, children's games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
seasons, weather, earth.
While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
Food is life and a good study,
The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
who serves the people. Peace out.
Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments.
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
So it was that the night transcended peacefully over my head
Taking me through thick clouds,landing me upon parched land
Spilling tranquil moments into daylight complexity.
So it was that I found myself among a crowd of unfamiliar people
People who I have perhaps seen in the city or on TV
So it was that an influential woman hosted a dinner in a sizable hall in town
A gloomy dinner with little food just to wet the appetite of the starving crowd.
So it was that the courageously dressed host gave a short speech to amuse the
hungry lot, while her husband stood silently summarizing the plot.
So it was that she gave a short speech when everyone was expecting her to preach but the starved guests devoured the tiny portion and scrambled through the door. Hundreds of them instantly streamed through the hallway leaving the host to deeply ponder.So it was that the host came running to me pouring out her heartfelt misery."The people did not interacted", she said, "they just swallowed the food and fled". I told her not to worry they came for dinner because they were hungry.
The night still had me bounded taking me from town to town,
Propelling me into another space, showing me Saudi riyals all over the place.
So it was that I entered this remarkable place and an official man came through a little gate. He handed me a stash of Saudi rial, piled up with one hundred notes with three one riyal notes to keep afloat.I separated the 100 notes from the one riyal notes and muse deeply over such astounding happenings hoping to find some plausible answers. So it was that as I stood there, the woman and her husband that hosted the dinner appeared.The authoritative man tenderly placed some riyal in their empty hands.The husband seemed very pleased but his wife was intensely displeased. And so it was that she walked away and uttered these words in dismay,"I will see to It".
The nights mystery kept me drifting and wandering all over the city
forcing me to submit to its rigorous rules.With nothing to say I drift with the night all the way. So it was that I ended up in a beautiful church in the center of town and walked silently in the church hoping to get some encouraging words.But the entire right section of the pews was blocked off and covered with a tall screen from the back leaving just the front row vacant.Whats the meaning in all of this I tried so hard to understand but nothing seemed to fit.
Three women dressed in white sat composedly towards the back on the left side of the pews.Two of them sat on the very last rows while the other sat further up leaning her back against the corner praying. And so it was that I walked through the pews praying a powerful prayer. I held the hands of the women sitting in the back rows and prayed ''Luke 12: 22-30 from the scriptures with them.
"Then He said to His disciples,Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; nor about the body, what you will put on. Life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing. Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds? 25 And which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature? If you then are not able to do the least, why are you anxious for the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothes the grass, which today is in the field and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will He clothe you, O you of little faith? “And do not seek what you should eat or what you should drink, nor have an anxious mind.For all these things the nations of the world seek after, and your Father knows that you need these things. But seek the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added to you."
So it was that I walked up to the third woman and prayed with her when suddenly the man and woman that was hosting the dinner walked towards the right of the church straight up to the front row.And so it was that as I walked towards them to pray, the night grabbed me vigorously and tossed me back into my bed. I woke up at three fifty eight am at the crack of dawn and mulled over the strange nights adventure.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Long poem by
Prince Rage | Details |
Oppressor and the oppressed.
Who is the oppressed and who is the oppressor?
Who has the right to beat a random person on the street?
Who has the right when to pronounce a person guilty or to see that they is the victim?
Who has the jurisdiction to carry a gun and to unload on a random person because of the way they is playing life's game?
There is a president but he has a nation that needs to be run, there is a mayor but he or she needs to govern protection and education for every man,woman, and child. There is those who vote and those who do not, there is those who KILL for a FEE and those who KILL to protect those who threaten and attempt to poison their feed.
In the Crayola box there is over 8 colors and how many of them do you see fighting to maintain a piece of land that doesn't even have their name? These colors have managed to get along but why has us as artist slander there good name?
You may agree we should be free, others may agree to lock them away, the third party may vote that we should have a Hunger Game and declare a winner from each district and let them be reminded by name and plaque.
Will it not be funnier if things went back to being the same before the post-Europeans, before the ice age, before slavery, before time itself? Before evolution, before the industrial revolution, do you believe it will solve the conflict of today? Do you believe it will create a new name of a newer society that is under a different system?
The enforcers enforce a punishment that themselves would not want to see happen to people of there kind, the victim sometimes is the guilted, the drugs may make a person a bit deranged or even appearance may look strange. But deep within their brain hides another person who has experienced a pain that became so unbearable so they hid behind a false name. Drinking, smoking, feeling of looking at trees in 3-D is all the same when you are being called a different name, but let it not change you into something that you did not dream of to be.
Look at me, I am me, you may see prince, others may see another black person, another person may ask me name and they may read my palms and tell me that I carry. Both a Spanish and African name that I was originally given to from birth. But hey life is a curse. You can argue with what happened in the past but will that change the date of today's oncoming past!
But the most funniest thing about our past is how much we cherish it and pray for its ways to be continued on today. But look around you what do you see... I won't say any name for my name is not even copyrighted, BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO START A RIOT! I look at the people around me and I think how can you say that we need to bring change when your thinking and doing the same as the person who once stabbed you in the back?
I'm not saying don't hate the Man, I'm not saying say **** THE POLICE, I'm not saying that the president is part of some dummy corporation, I'm not saying that their isn't a war that has begun, but if you choose to believe what you hear than you will get what you perceive to be your reality!
I'm not saying don't go to school, I'm not saying don't drink, smoke weed, or snort yayo, I'm not saying that you have to rob and be branded a theft, I'm not saying that you shouldn't give love a chance, but everything is up to thee on how thou wants to perceive the world.
I'm not saying that if you close your eyes you will dream, I'm not saying that if you smoke crack you will become a fiend, I'm not saying that THERE IS NO DEMONS ONLY REASONS, I'm not saying that if youse look into the mirror you will see another person in your eyes, I'm not saying that the soul lies behind the eyes. But if you believe the lies you will think that when the truth is told you will think that, that is the lie.
There is a oppressor and there is there oppressed. There is the depressed and there is the depression that we all feel. There is two eyes but they act as one. Nobody asked to be POOR, nobody asked to have WEALTH,nobody asked to have POOR HEALTH, nobody asked to be born with ways that needs to confine to limited space.
But hey the more you believe the lies. The more that you have to believe you will be confined Into thinking that this life is a lie.
There will be battles, but instead of battling and slandering. Why don't we make our voices be heard like that over a beat slapped with claps and a set of drums. Kicking the inside of ears.
Let us prevent the internal bleeding of our heart that is beating (BREATHING)!
Long poem by
Sam Toil | Details |
i hear a snap. and somewhere another body goes limp. i hear it all the time these days. It’s the times i think. or maybe my youth. i can’t tell.
i hold tight as four chins poke into the small of my back. three fists in my face. a shoulder in my stomach. it eases and i grab a tablespoon of air. the breathing is hard now and I can’t scream anymore.
i look at the man between the heads. he cannot speak. the Wires will not let him. he smiles and pulls at his arms but there is no where to put them. he cries. and then he laughs. and then he is awe-stricken. it is what the Wires demand.
i shift as a body beneath me twists. a head and an arm and a belly and another arm and a shoulder roll over and twist my body like a mop. my spine will break soon. but it doesn’t matter. i have nothing to do now but lay here and sink. and watch the sky shrink a little more as the bodies pile up.
but the man between the heads stays with me. his scarred and bleeding face drifts into and out of scattered shafts of light. his face moves as if to speak. but the Wires will not let him. and now a frown and sulkiness because the Wires want it that way. but the Wires can’t get to his eyes. his mind and his face yes. but not his eyes. how he resists. the images forced on him are strong. at least it’s what the dying ones say when i am lucky enough to hear them.
yet he is there. sinking. and waiting. for the platform he knows will come. he can not help it. i am all he sees now. another snap and a shadow. the platform is near. and, too, the mechanics riding it. to pull the limp body from the crowd. there is momentary glee in his eyes. his steady eyes. hungry and waiting. but it passes as the shadow moves away. “you cannot escape for long.” that’s what his eyes tell me. burrowing in through my naked face. i can nearly hear him. the pressure eases and i take in a gulp of air and smell his rotting breath.
another snap. and a scream this time. i treasure the dying screams. the only Truth i know anymore. i forgot all the rest. the ones i was told. the ones who told me even. but not the man between the heads. what would he say. or would he just die. too many scars. and his skin bleeding in too many places. from fighting the Wires all his life. and the rapid twitching in his face. the Wires forcing the muscles. he cries. he laughs. he speaks too rapidly for me to hear. not me. not now. not without the Wires. i wonder if he envies me. my avoidance. “they never found me!” i scream in a whisper to him -- to explain my uncovered face. i wait for a reply. but the Wires are too strong. and his resistance too weak for the pain. he only smiles and then cries and then laughs. it is what they do, the Wires. with everything in the face but the eyes. and the fantasies take care of the eyes for most.
but the mechanics eventually find me. the platform floating in air and the two men leaning out. searching. “here,” i whisper. as best i can between the short choppy breaths. one points. “over there,” he says to the other. they hover above me and place the Helmet on my head. they leave. “its my time, now,” i whisper to the air. to the man between the heads. as the Wires work into my skin. the fantasies begin to creep into my brain. i look one last time at the man between the heads. his eyes smile in triumph, oblivious to my newly found conformity. his shoulder assumes an odd shape as it dislocates. finally his arm is free. he raises it up over his head. his eyes gleam in victory. he curls his arm around his scalp and wedges his elbow into the mass of people above him. he grasps the side of his jaw and flicks his mighty torso. i hear the snap of his broken neck. and see the slow release of breath as his head flops over.
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Sit up straight and go to sleep! Could be
yr Uncle Al is dead or nobody's died
forever. Think you could recognize Ed's
garbage from yr own? Banana peels, verses
used Trojans and Greek yogurt cups.
She died and became an ad for faith. Wait
and trust. Summon patience and endure
yr pain. Pavilion for disposal of the loved one.
Airport terminal, departures (and arrivals).
The mystery of sex with operating systems,
effortless mastery. Uncomfortable pews.
Amazing Grace. Battle Hymn of the Republic.
God gets angry. But don't anticipate.
The final resting place is the city of the dead.
24/7. War! war! war! Faith and death
they go together like a horse and buggy.
Cincinnati. Not a city to be considered
a city in flight. Living a useless fantasy
about big cities. To build a city
of her descendants that she can defend.
A city of hope and a city of history.
That's what I want from this city:
to wear it. July, a cold city
not as great or as gritty as I thought.
Is the city depressing me? It's a poor city,
the seasons touch us. What a city
I murmur to myself looking at its map.
A community, a city or country
in which people, the women especially,
are upset. A hurricane approaches the city.
My future in a forest or a city.
We were riding a bus into the city.
A baby shouted Vamos! every time the bus
stopped. Come to a populous place, a dense
city. Sitting in a chair in a corner
of a room at the top of a house near
the end of a street at the edge of a city.
The sun is hot on a crowded city.
A place unlike any other I have known,
a city. All by yourself in a besieged
city. No more certain than a drunk
in his city. A big city easy to hold in your mind
when you're in the sky. Sack a whole city,
a port city, seven ample cities, a lost city.
A city in the twilight dim and vast.
I have made my living between two hard anvils,
the mountain and the city. I have sung women
in three cities. We draw together into
greener, tighter cities. Oily body sweats,
city summer. Steve said, let's go see
the city. I saw empty cities sleeping.
The city of Kabul is understandable.
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
The city taught me fear, an infinity of fear.
To leave the city always takes a quarrel.
The young move out, the old stay put
but young artists priced out of big cities
move in. And see the city in a nuclear war.
Beleaguered the city from four quarters of the earth.
Meanwhile the city behaved in accordance with its nature.
This is the thunderous city. The cities crumbled
and blue sky appeared in unexpected places.
Her sad, clear, soulful missives
from the city. Far away, in city streets,
every house is mellowing in the mild air.
All the clocks in the city began to whirr and chime.
It sends the dogs after us, after the holocaust,
in the tattered ruins of our city. Marvelous
cities, still city, the same city, Codrus
died for his city, New York City. Order
on the mountainside, in the city. New squares
have cropped up in my far-away city.
The city is an experienced, used beauty.
City skyline. Cities make a silent, distant sound.
When you're picked up at the airport in a big city.
On the outskirts of the city. To the holy city.
Report from the besieged city. The city slept.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
The roof soot of the city calls me back.
Whatever opposes him in the streets of the city
shall go down. Our enemy becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
The city sleeps and the country sleeps, the living
sleep for their time and the dead sleep for their time.
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
By which nothing is divided.
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
no black hole
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.
In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian. - Wikipedia
After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclidxs geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with it pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written. - Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa
Long poem by
J. W. M. Earnings | Details |
You can’t expect miracles in the eyes of men
We must wait patiently with heartfelt acceptance
You will not look back & slip into your comfort zone again
We MUST gain eternal freedom & experience
The attitude of gratitude right this instance!
The compassionate, luminous chorus sang with cheerful sensation
Imagining the nature outside of the polluted city
The smell of crimson roses and burning incense triggers my elation
Idolizing its ravishing aroma, sending me vibes of vitality
It doesn’t take much to have an attitude of gratitude
Are you alarmed? Have you lost faith, dude?
I’m sorry if I did you wrong, but I need you to sing a positive song
I’m positive that you will feel like you belong –
Don’t get me wrong…someday, you will win this game of ping-pong!
The pangs of passion pressures me to keep trying my best, despite the feeling of giving up
Refining our serene spirits, empowering us inevitably
The good-looking scenery’s sparkling essence refills my beautiful bliss – that’s what’s up!
Sympathizing with your heart’s tune, uplifting me jubilantly
The taste of tear doesn’t take over my taste buds because I hold you dear
Drive out your atrocious fear, ganging up on us furiously!
The ugly truth leaves me with my shameful scars and they tend to interfere
With my future goals and dreams…enticing me with twisted passion,
Discouraging me endlessly! How can this be? How can it reign over me?
Walking on my own, wrapped up in my anxiety, shivering violently…
The frolicking heard chased after you, but you escaped with pure confidence
Bringing back the importance of the purpose of prosperity
The precious, triumphant sight of mountains rising with sheer effulgence
Prizing its fine appearance, serving as my dream of reality
You can’t have faith without works or fences without a gate
We must take action carefully with articulate and gallant insight
You must have the strength to kill the old man; just start on a new slate
We will be lights of the world, always hopeful and bright tonight
It doesn’t take much time to seek help during your arduous adventure…you’ll be cured
I pray daily for your fortunate flight…your future goals are fulfilled because you’ve endured
Are you drifting away in the ocean of commotion? Do you need my helping hand, dear friend?
I want you to be a brave and wise hero and soar with liberty close at hand–
Do you have the strength to understand? Let’s land in the Victorious Land!
I owe my praise to you for staying strong throughout the years of pain
I honor you by lightening up your load that has once driven you insane
The attitude of gratitude will be with you,
Even if you break or bend
I have faith that you will endure until the end…
You can’t expect miracles in the eyes of men,
Though their domineering irises are like stars in the midnight sky
We must wait patiently with heartfelt acceptance
I wish you luck as you obtain the attitude of gratitude, an attitude you can’t deny
An attitude that gives you a natural high
~ ~ ~ ~
Special thanks to Jake Ponce for your recent poem entitled “Archaic Assault” for inspiring me to write some lines. You’ll surely find some of your words in this piece, Jake!
Long poem by
Kelly Crenshaw | Details |
I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday.
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think,
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head,
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end.
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts.
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.