Best Calculates Poems
Acute power or a mystical virtue?
Not daring to venture further
Became superstitious by token and sign,
Leaving the most positive meanings behind
Ends with a 3 that reminds me of the trinity
A belief that kept within
All good things comes in double,
You're not alone just behind 1
Together you became 13 an age in certain
Tradition when a boy became a man
Among the many numbers
People pretends you came out the worst
even saying that you are a curse
But besides all others, you came first
Ignorance do hurts,
So they put you behind as a negative sign
Thinking of you makes me enjoy
The intricacies of mental calculates
A million seconds in 13 days,
13 stripes for thirteen states
A Friday 13 in every year
Again let me be a bit humoristic
Since I'm in love with mathematics
For those who calculates well,
Come let me play with your head
Close your eyes using the power of your mind
Pick and choose which power hidden inside you
The clock strike 13 hours, the mind reminds
us that it's 1 'o' clock,
infact we're back at the starting block
Since things became a mystery we tend
Not to go beyond our senses
13 is a number that all human share
The 13 major joints in our body
13 lunar cycles in a solar year
And the moon travels 13 degrees across the sky everyday
Making things works in a mysterious way.
By kelleyana junique.
“The Memoirs of a Cat Lady”
you slinked onto my sunny windowsill
winked with your one good eye
a no-brainer, all in your face, head
saucy marmalade pants
bittersweet No. 1 wins the day,
in my bed
oh to be dominant
in my realm of warmth
once again
Moonlight
calculates the temerity
of a head-over-heels
One-eyed Pirate upstart
heart-claiming
Love Cat
she remembers
shameless,
she silently grins
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
Sarah Johnson is, and will always be a cold, heartless murderer. She has no empathy for what she did to both of her own parents, Diane and Alan Johnson. Her friends and family can't even believe that a sweet girl would kill both of her own parents over some guy. They knew that Sarah wasn't supposed to get into this so-called "serious relationship" with this guy named Bruno Santos. The illegal immigrant was three years older than her, especially when he is still known for having a criminal history. It's sad to hear that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had to die that soon. The entire Johnson family had their lives ahead of them. Sarah Johnson is a heartless liar, an assassin, and on top of all that, she has no soul. The girl was afraid that both of her parents would go to the police and have her so-called "boyfriend" arrested and charged for statutory rape, so Miss Johnson killed them. Now, that was a cowardly move. The reason why Sarah Johnson had killed both of her own parents (mother and father) is because for one, they were going to send him straight to jail for dating a then-sixteen-year-old and they grounded her for life, as in, "indefinitely." Everybody, including her brother, knows that Sarah has no heart and no soul. But in the end, I guess society is better off with Sarah Marie Johnson in prison for the rest of her life. And as far as the citizens of Bellevue, Idaho, her family and her high school friends are concerned, prison is where she belongs. She wasn't abused by both of her parents, but I still can't believe she killed them in cold blood. Now that's what everybody's talking about: a cold, calculates sociopath with no remorse for what she did and had felt no empathy. Sarah Johnson will always be remembered as a bad woman with a selfish ego. And if all types of homicides (matricide, fratricide, and/or parricide) continue to increase, there's no telling what bad thing might happen next.
My soulmate is a pilgrim,
He explores the zodiac’s constellations
Not always in our own Milky Way, he treks
His journeys enlighten mankind
Because he aims his bow hunting faith in Sagittarius
And swims with emotional artistry in Pisces
He judges mankind with Libran scales
As he admires beauty while visitingTaurus
By Capricorn he calculates the distances to travel
With Gemini he knows about all the heavens
In Aquarius he will always be courageous and cool
While adventuring The Scorpio Moon, my soulmate tells no secrets
Because he is a man of Aries who has great self worth
His mother The Virgin he humbly thanks
The Cancer crab brings him home again
He enters Earth as Leo the lion
That time occurred when Regulus in retrograde circled Jupiter
Then, Jupiter conjoined Venus
Making it event the brightest lights in all heaven
So the Maggi would find the divine child
My soulmate is that deity
He rides on the tail of the comets.
One day he will come again
He promised
And he, my friend, does not lie.
K??
© #Bojenn 2015 All Rights Reserved
Argentina's son, a lineage to immigrants
shaped by boyhood aspirations
diminutive left foot striker
taunted "dwarf" in childhood
his growth hormone deficiency
overcome through meds and workouts
a counter to foes physically imposing
Messi's daily slog of skills
agility and balance
slow grind of mastery to mesh the skills to speed
on the football field, Messi dribbles through opponents
pivots round defenders, takes an opposite direction
accelerates
de-accelerates
takes stock of field positions
awareness like a lordly hawk that calculates its prey
a kick triggered whittles through the air
the ball's stinging centre,
flight controlled
at a goal keeper spiralling to the ground
this FIFA World Cup champion
devout in faith
celebrates goals by a gaze upward
a pointed hand to the heavens
another field of his embracing
790 - Messi's career goals for Barcelona clubs and
Argentinean glory
football awards that roll on like credits on a movie screen
on field moves that burrow into memory
through the entanglement of limbs
Messi's footwork, like a dancer's gift
his sprints to fill the field with unheeding power
midst the bulging roar of fans
a homage to glorify the footballer
before he fades
to legend
Poem written January 4, 2023
One of my grandsons, name of Benjamin
He likes eating toast made with cinnamon
But uses his wits
To not eat his grits
Then excuses himself like a gentleman
Charlie thrives on competition
Out smarting you is his mission
Bear hugs
Tiny bugs,
And “stick to it” repitition
William’s impish smile is contagious
The attention he wants is outrageous
That slobbery kiss
He can’t let you miss
Borders on being sanctimonious
The little princess is Laura Nance
She wears frilly, girlish underpants
She loves a warm lap
Cartoons and a nap
Getting attention with a coy glance
Joseph loves learning karate
He seldom is rude or naughty
A steady grind
Kicking behind
Finding wisdom beats the haughty
There is much to say of Caroline
She is definitely DNA of mine
Quietly aggressive
Lovingly possessive
She calculates when to toe the line
Jackson just started to first grade
I’m sure he has more game plans made
Like the rest
Mom knows best
His lunch is PBJ and marmalade
Colin just finished his S.A.T.
I’m sure he did better than me
Sharp as a tack
Knows how to rack
The pool balls to break wimpily.
Derek made the junior varsity
The “main man” he would seem to be.
Fit to be tied,
Praise not denied,
He’s still that six foot little boy to me.
Ryan—such a smart young man
I teach him a card trick when I can
He learned how to play
Challenged me one day
Skunked me then got up and ran
Three dogs, alpaca and a kit
Where in my family do they fit
My pseudo grands
By a daughter’s hands
Who admires them more than a bit
© 02 Dec 2010 Charles Henderson
it calculates all day and night
what the worst possible thing that could happen is
and then it happens
this is life.
"Gutter Hearts"
He’s got a gutter Heart
bleeds words that birth
diamonds sharp on his tongue
They hit her like
bullets from an Uzi gun
Silent, her heart implodes like molten marshmallow
She’s standing in the cafeteria
moving grease with a smile
that cuts his goat’s cheese like sharp steele
He licks his fingers
his tongue stings, he's still burning in Chile
while his mind calculates her
Unknown to him
She moves white white to black calculated,
his cufflinks are mounted with Pearls
She spells him
a long sentence
dripping from her eyes onto
an empty plate of dreams
He writes what comes to his mind
on a paper napkin, a story
smudged with tears and cigarette ash
the words slip out slippery
antiquated, smashed.
“What would you like?”
she takes his order
“A Normal Girl,"
he passed his payment in cash
She smiles
and thinks, he’s the No Go Zone
He’s living in another world.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
How could he be so cold with the raging lightning striking through his aluminum lines?
His synthetic skin made of wax, glass, and fibrous mass has more than an eternity brushed abrasively against my own. His serpentine belt has been felt and wetted with the tip of my carefully budded tongue and my hesitant plush lips. His gear driven hand molds meticulously against the nape of my neck, gently poising his other hand upon my rose-painted cheek. His glowing sapphire eyes imbedding themselves into mine, trying to decode and decrypt when the precise time to close in would be.
He calculates that UNSUPPORTED CODE is the time.
He mechanically cranes his head towards mine, close enough for me to hear the engine purring and revving intensely in his analytical head. His oddly supple lips capture mine before I could have time enough to turn my head in an escape. He skillfully uses my saliva to keep the kisses moist and my intimate desires high. As he wavingly nods his head against mine, his kisses become more and more forceful and passionate. My lips fall in sync with his and, before time can begin to slip by unnoticed, the organic and synthetic weld into one fluid and syncretic being, flowing back and forth in a rhythmic and mechanized pattern, heart and pump beating in pace with a nonexistent metronome.
How can he be so full of sensual emotions when he is satiated with inorganic materials and preprogrammed with impure, yet inventive hands?
Should it really matter what he is, or who my adoration has fallen upon? This age old question of why should cease to be as the answer should simply be to accept destiny in the ever-evolving, shapeshifting world where love can transcend beyond the boundaries of the breathing.
Are your eyes the green of a shamrock's leaf,
or your nose the tide that comes and runs?
Is your skin the plains of pearls and perplexities,
your hair the curtain to a rainforest peace?
Could be your ears the caverns where rarities dwell,
and your shoulders belfries that will never ring?
May your chest be a wound that never swells,
and your heart be the silence that learns how to sing
Is your hand a ten-minute first-light,
your fingers the fleeting moment that stays?
Might your arms ensphere the the broken, the evil, the cold,
bring what ends, for sure, to the prelude, alright?
Your legs and feet, perhaps, lucid dreams and strange fools,
with bizarres and bazaars, eccentricities galore,
Playing with colors, creatures, the cosmos, the rules,
that no matter duration, leave invocation for more?
Your mind calculates, creates, contemplates, is there,
But without You, none of these could ever, ever be.
For without the green of a shamrock's leaf,
the vastest of woodlands would seem nothing but bare.
Architectural
Beautifulness calculates
Deforestation
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
He walks by day the northern woods
He seeks by night the skies
He sees in stars a face he knows
And one he knows no more
He plumbs with vague suspicion
The abyss of his soul
And calculates the irony
Of what he does not know
He is at war, he is at peace
He is beyond the pale
A portrait of a modern man
At manhood’s tender age
Who knows of no restrictions
Nor limits understood
Yet knows the truths that must be told
To beggars, and the proud –
Accommodating challenges
Summoned from within
He looks beyond the you and me
For where he wants to be
And walks by day the northern woods
And seeks by night the skies
To find in stars a man he knows
And one he knows no more
Please bring back paper bags,
I cry in genuine pain.
Those tight wrapped plastic covers
are driving me insane.
With scissors, knives and razor blades,
I hack and cut and snip,
trying to get the product out
from its clinging, shroud like grip.
I think I'm there, its giving way,
I've made a little tear,
I put my finger in and pull,
it jams, its a rabbit snare.
I cannot move my finger,
and worse it starts to bleed,
its got me trapped inside the thing,
but I will not concede.
I wave it round, I give a shake,
I slam it on the bench,
then tighten it up in the workshop vice,
and grab a mole grip wrench.
I jam in a screwdriver,
to ease the hole a bit,
and force the mole grip jaw in,
and wangle it to fit.
The grip now covers my finger,
but I'm too stressed out to see,
I use all my strength to lever the tool,
and shriek when the grip squashes me.
The plastic wrap is still attached,
and I think I might use a saw,
but my fingers are very dear to me
so the idea I quickly withdraw.
My neighbour comes running to aid me,
when my screaming hits top note,
and he sizes things up in a moment,
and fetches a length of rope.
He rigs up a block and tackle,
that he uses on his boat,
and with seaman like knots and rigging,
to the task his skill he devotes.
After greasing my finger all over,
and fixing a hook to the pack,
he calculates the angles and distance,
and on the rope he takes up the slack.
With the rope's end tied round his body,
a shanty he started to chant,
and he heaved as he sang out those stirring words,
that sailors of old did chant.
The rigging was working its magic,
the packet was starting to shift,
and with one final plop I was freed of the thing,
as the pack could no longer resist.
How can one be in love with an image?
Although sultriness oozes from within
it is only a glossy photograph.
Yet it is the moment frozen in time
a moment of magic captured forth with
that intrigues this imaginary mind,
yet no matter what the mind calculates
the image is one of sheer loveliness!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
He's in self-isolation keeping company
a rooftop crow reminding him
a wiser authority is still at work!
No sense of distance within four walls
sickroom alien, where dawn comes early
and long night falls.
He's lost track of time, the pilgrim soul in him
finds no harbor to anchor, plays monopoly with
his mind, thinking of Galileo: “the larger the machine, the greater its weakness.”
Conjures a theory of “Chinese virus” as spirit wrapped in embryo waiting for the opportune moment
to rule the world, a living locked in its own order by
the magnitude of its destruction, clearly one cannot grant an invisible giant
the same proportion of limbs as an ordinary enemy.
Push up, stretch, and climbing up and down the stairs,
he calculates the rate of death as the speed by which
life is saved, it's always good to spin the positive, and
he thinks of the virus as a snow emergency using old shovels
to deal with it, or a bowline knot that comes untied with ease
on a fisherman's boat in wild, boisterous ocean, and then his mind
conjures the word “cross-mutation,” readaptation of an idea
from one artifact to another, now wondering if the virus has come from
outer orbits or is a cell phone disease, or the tree of life re-enacting
an old theme, full of words such as tension, compression, torsion, shear, bending, and
destruction, but then again he thinks of it as a material form, in need of cutting, hammering, grasping, scraping, splitting, piercing, re-shaping, and measuring.
And time passes and suddenly, he is in company with god,
that drops by late hours to check up on him, reminding him with
genuine equanimity, nature is capable of designing traces of extraordinary
polarization.
We are on sojourn
myself and I, breaking the monopoly of
his mind.