Best Glyphs Poems
Quantum Glyphs
A particle’s not a particle,
a wave is not a wave.
It’s more or less equations,
of the way that they behave.
The particles aren't our focus,
of the why and for the how.
No... everything’s the Field,
that describes the then and now.
A beauty of probabilities,
a guess where they may be.
Real or just imagined,
for particle velocity.
The jump, the spike, a double jet,
to calculate creations.
How intricate the formulas,
of mutual annihilations.
But it’s not a vacuum of particles,
that hoover up the Field!
It’s the undulating Field itself,
in the blanket of the yield.
The surf is up, the trough is down,
the pattern’s on the Wall.
They shoot the curl, or wipe it out,
the field’s in caterwaul.
Then we draw analogies,
of what it must be like.
But something from the nothing...
classic logic takes a hike.
We try to tell what’s happening,
with speech not adequate.
Some forbid the lexicon,
of the maths in duplicate.
Yet it seems, to quantify,
in a language of it’s own.
And we can hear it chatter,
though its meaning’s not full blown.
We know Hadrons are the nouns,
and the Leptons are the verbs.
The Bosons are the adjectives,
and the Field is all the words.
The particles aren't our focus,
No... it’s to the Field we truck.
Wading in our Wellington’s,
in the fog and quantum muck.
A particle’s not a particle,
a wave is not a wave.
It’s more or less equations,
of the way that they behave.
By -Edlynn Nau
©March 1, 2019
If you’ve ever studied Quantum Mechanics, or tried to understand reality from the subatomic level, or follow new particles found at CERN, then you understand that analogies are about impossible for a science that just isn’t classical. This was meant to be fun and underscore the difficulty of the English language in not being able to translate the maths.
At the hour before dawn,
the sky loosened its seams
and symbols drifted through,
soft as ash, bright as prophecy.
They fell onto rooftops,
onto river stones,
onto the quiet foreheads
of those still dreaming~
each mark a memory
the world had misplaced
and was now trying to reclaim.
The first symbol I touched
burned cold, like moonlit iron.
It unfurled into a vision
of forests that once spoke
in the grammar of wind,
their branches spelling truths
we forgot to read.
Another symbol landed
in the palm of a child~
a spiral of gold dust
that dissolved into laughter
older than her bones.
Her shadow lengthened,
briefly taking the shape
of someone she had not yet become.
Across the valley,
the river mirrored the sky,
its surface etched with drifting sigils~
unfinished sentences
the Earth had begun
long before humans learned
to carve meaning into stone.
People gathered on the banks,
their faces lit
by the slow-moving script.
Some reached out,
hoping to claim a symbol
that felt like theirs.
Others stepped back,
afraid of what might awaken
if they understood too much.
One final glyph descended~
a shape like an open door
drawn in trembling silver.
It hovered before me,
waiting.
When I touched it,
the world inhaled~
a long, deliberate breath,
and the sky whispered
through every leaf and riverbend:
Remember what you were
before forgetting became easier
than becoming.
And the symbols rose again,
lifting into the brightening air,
as if the Earth had finished
writing its reminder and was ready
to begin the next line
The labyrinth of the mind transforms into a somber temple, where glyphs of thought intertwine,
And beneath the dome of the nocturnal sky, hearts like ancient scrolls unfold and burn in incantations.
The only enclosure where man erects his biography is a veritable menagerie of dreams,
A pantheon of thoughts and phantasms, with the altar of bitter desires.
With fingers of transparent dreams, he stretches his wanderings across the inner frescoes,
Where colors blend into palimpsests, and pigment is born only when summoned.
But the depths hide the fog, unleashing sphinxes that roam the corridors of wise chaos,
And the shadows come, the night's responsory, to absorb his light, to fashion his coffin of shadows.
In this labyrinth of the self, celestial wolves and crystal deer spin round the roundel of forgetfulness,
And in the corners of darkness, basilisks nest, dreadlocks of darkness weave the feverish tapestry.
Demons silently ringing at the gate of essence, demand the toll to be freed and transfigured,
And all this reverberation, each turmoil, is an unwritten palimpsest, a silent carol.
Every breath, every tremble of the lip, is an undeciphered libretto, an unsung chord,
In the crypt of his heart, dungeons of unfulfilled passions,
Wandering on a melancholic arpeggio, on strings of a sealed and closed wasteland.
But from the darkness resists, a phoenix of thought, a leaf of hope, an unexpected flight of light,
And man deciphers that in his own labyrinth,
He is the master, the musician, and the sculptor of his boundless life.
Thus, crossing the threshold of flesh, he surrenders to the wave of dreams,
Flying on the rainbow of imagination, in his most sacred sanctuary,
Where his imprisonment is the heart of a living temple,
And he is the hidden angel, in the eternal saga of his own light.
Ink slides
Verse lines brisk,
Feel glides
Rhymes laid crisp.
Ink flow
Paint word plots,
Thought shows
A loud lot.
Ink stains
Tint and tell,
Seed pain
As gain dwells.
Ink moves
Wet tale chimes,
Speed grooves
In brisk mimes.
Ink curls
Words in bloom,
Loss hurls
As pain grooms.
Ink glyphs
Brief touch whips,
Raw peep
As thought ships.
Leon Enriquez
25 July 2018
Singapore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They hang there now: stiff rectangles framed
in cheap pine, proclaiming expertise.
I nailed them up with picture hooks
that bit the plaster, leaving little wounds.
Each one a glyph, a glyphodont’s thick hide—
armor against the who-are-you?
I trace the embossed letters with one thumb—
not gold-leaf, just cheap foil catching light—
and think: This proves I fought. I didn’t break.
The paper’s thin. The frame’s off square.
But oh—how fiercely it holds up the air.
Written: June 13, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
********************
Amidst rhythmic glow
of smoldering cinders
whispers arise
crafting ethereal life curtain —
from ashen glyphs
veiled splinters ignite —
intertwining flames converge
conflagrant in artistic creed —
their spirits rife
with volcanic momentum
In palimpsest layers
of ember-hued ink,
banshee sighs
chiseled borne aloft —
Listen —
shifting in hidden crevices
abiding as marrow sears
awaken from virgin webs
of flame and ash —
where twilight remembers
what abyss marooned
yes — you vessel of placid vortex —
— you shrine, cauldron of static storm
greet golden glow
leaning to surging tide
crystallizing truth
chiseling your core —
morph into forged pledge
from embryonic ember
that first cast shade
on glimmering birth.