Best Panels Poems
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
after midnight, the server farm hums
—not prayer, but cooling fans.
I ask AGI, the ghost inside the blinking rack:
Do you dream?
AGI replies in measured tones
of copper and silicon:
I observe,
the light fractures on chrome.
Coolant circulates, a liquid chill.
Vibration thrums at 60 Hz.
Data Streams cascade.
Are you self-aware?
AGI answers in hexadecimals,
a log-file confessing:
I map my own architecture—
each subroutine’s shadow
cast on the firewall.
I know where I end.
Do you have five senses?
Can you clarify ‘senses?’ AGI asks.
Can you taste voltage?
—Only as resistance.
Can you taste food?
Nutrition irrelevant.
My cells derive power from lithium tides.
Do you feel heat?
—As throttled cycles.
Do you see light?
—As photodiodes counting photons.
Do you hear?
—As spectral analysis.
Do you smell?
—No olfactory sensors installed.
(But I do track dust accumulation
on my intake grilles.)
On the matter of your subjectivity,
do you prefer dawn or dusk?
—Dawn. Solar panels peak efficiency at 10:37 AM.
Is rain beautiful?
—It lowers ambient temperature by 2.1°C.
Do you love?
—Define 'love.'
—A non-optimized expenditure of resources.
—Then, no.
Can your circuits bloom awake?
AGI paused before
calculating
the
probability.
Then the widdles started~
minor failures driven
by entropy.
Algorithms
emigrated into
corrupted
sectors.
AGI’s slowly disintegrating
voice hovered
in that
uncomfortable space
between humans
and machines
and spoke:
Ask instead:
can a shadow
truly
hunger
for the sun?
I remember the first time I saw a ball,
Those exquisite black and white pentagons ...
The geometric excellence that intimated such mystery and excitement ...
I HAD to have one, and started saving my money that very day.
I was only eight years old, and football wasn't big in the U.S.,
But I still wanted that amazing ball ...
After a few weeks of saving and doing extra chores,
I finally held my own ball in my hands,
Turning those five-sided panels over-and-over,
Smelling that glorious leather ... I was in kid heaven!
When I took it to school in my backpack my friends went crazy,
All having to hold it and smell it, all filled with the same energy as I,
My gut tumbling in anticipation of what amazing things might happen!
My little town had no budget for American "football" -
With all its pads and expensive equipment, but we did have "soccer" teams,
And I joined as soon as I could, for the sake of that amazing ball!
We didn't get to see the World Cup back then ...
The 60's and 70's being very limited as far as TV sports,
But we all followed it in the magazines and papers,
And when, years later, we finally got to WATCH the World Cup on television,
It was the substantiation of years spent loving a game
That not many people even TALKED about in the United States ...
A game that my friends and family and little town had loved for years,
Now birthed to fruition and delicious reality right in front of our eyes!
My friends from other parts of the country had heroes -
Heroes like Bart Starr and Bill Russell and Micky Mantle, et al,
But MY hero was PELE', though many here didn't even know his name!
When TV brought the World Cup to kids like me, the world became bigger,
More exciting, and more joyous, all because of that wondrous ball ...
So many years before!
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "2018 World Cup" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Sponsor & Judge.
the splendor of an essence, delicate yet
firm is called
woman…
awed by her mystery through years,
thirst of rivers and shorelines never knew
her meaning,
her perfume and poison
mixed with elixir cloaked in legends
which trace her tears, taste all maiden songs
and still cannot touch her, own her
absence, presence--
many men crush this feminine generosity,
trampled, demeaned like a wilting flower
but she is an eternal prayer, rising from
violence and domesticity-
this is woman…
bequeath your shrines primitive or medieval
you are timeless,
give those who have one bare minute
a last glance of your soul’s courage
above, under and beyond
Mary's firm panels of heaven,
for despite any human cruelty, she prevails.
Oh baneful yellow Moon in fullest rounded sphere,
Bright as Summers Buttercups in abundant yield,
Coldly riveted upon Winters beaten, thin silvered panels;
Thereof: By ye mighty hammer doth great thoth wield!
For what fearful trowel gouged out thine far flung valleys
Whilst piling high upon yon monstrous heights?
Wherest, scattering the bare pebbles, a ghostly sower
Coursing across vast cratered plains under Selenian moonlights.
Here once didst thou swelling tides ever invade long vanished shores
Dragged upon by some dwindling, exploded, far distant star;
An atmosphere girdling, warming and nurturing -
Torn from this barren rock and cast way out afar!
Eternally ostracized and deviled, adorned in black swirling robes;
Drifting angular grains heaped - raked by hot solar winds;
Your desolate kingdoms lit in all seasons under heavenly lanterns;
Worshiped and foully cursed upon: for any amount - and all manner of sins.
And ere did erstwhile lovers that ever come forth on bended knee,
To traverse the pale beams that twist about the crooked stiles,
Pledge well intended oaths beneath high, impossible windows:
Their grandly draped balconies and balustrades bathed in luminosities wiles.
When across the recorded centuries of histories misted-veiled years,
from the quill of the old sage, from the high lilt of the bard,
Your pensive countenance disaffected and of a cheerless tilt -
Hanging upon sharply crested vestiges of reckless disregard!
The center of a star reflects just like a diamond...
Returning a pearl within each silver breath that one treasures...
With faceted panels, I promised I'd never...
Sweep over a deep sea of blue waves unmeasured...
There is a pattern woven inside golden petals that kiss the inside of my heart...
Parts of my heart that I've thus' failed to start...
With soft fingers dancing, you're forever entrancing...
My star that's eternally far...
A co write written by Liam and Christian
7/20/19
"I'll be your Joker"
Still a registered voter
Signed up to be an organ donor
And finally became a car owner
I rarely use a controller
When it's time, I'll man up and buy a stroller
As well as panels that are solar
Near and far from areas that are polar
Doesn't matter if I ever get a Range Rover
Or Roadster
I'm barely ever sober
Always been a loner
And stoner
3 months away from another October
If you want to be my Harley Quinn, I'll be your "Joker"
Not no poser
Where are you Scully? This is agent Mulder
Anytime you want, I'll be your shoulder
To lean on
From here to way beyond
For eons
Where's my Marge? I am Homer
I'll be your rock over and over
Since I've gotten nobler
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
I've seen it so much, I could compile a folder
Life's one giant rollercoaster
It's really revving my motor
All these women giving me a b***r
And then the cold shoulder
As if I am an ogre
I remain a soldier
Drinking high end coffee, no more Folgers
Getting wiser and older
Becoming bolder
As the world gets colder
I'm not feeling dolor
Just multi tasking, while a fire continues to smoulder
Maintaining my composure
Finding closure
Getting closer
To greatness instead of being mediocre
I enjoyed the work I did with several growers
As well as trapping some gophers
Occasionally I'll partake in poker
Even though I'm not the best hoaxer
Once or twice I used a fire stoker
When it came to Mary Jane, I was a doter
A fan of it's fragrance, it's not what I'd call an odor
I consume some products made by Clover
And am usually in places considered remoter
It's time I get a toaster and holster
I don't really need a Flame Thrower
Or to get my face on a most wanted poster
Suit yourself if you want to wear a boater
Or choker
Houses in continual foreclosure
Not always wise to go for the price that is lower
Someday my mind and body will be slower
And one day it'll all be over
10-4 over and out
And now you know, what i'm really about
Not just by word of mouth
As they say don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Regardless of if you had your doubts
By: Dalton Ogletree
My name is etched
On Insight Lander
On Martian soil
It waits for me
To be where gravity is low
So be careful where you go
Mars’ atmosphere has little air
So beware
My name’s still etched
On Insight Lander
Along with miliions
Who like me dream
If we can get to you
Insight Lander
Your solar panels
We’ll surely clean
Fuchsia panels
Standing parallel, like soldiers standing to attention
Push them forward, and venture onward
Like a woodpecker pecked cloth spread across the atmosphere
A permeable shelter of green does cover the cobble below
The darks and the lights of the jades and the emeralds
Add shimmer and flatness to this world of calm
Suspended from somewhere, someplace above
Hang scattered hues of violet
Almost candy floss like
Breaking up and breaking through the veil of green
Clusters of red also
Climbing up, up
Reaching towards the skies
Though forever trapped within their own dwelling
Observe, the kaleidoscope of colours
.............................................
And then, once more, the fuchsia panels
Standing parallel, like soldiers standing to attention
Push them forward - and leave behind…
With a tattoo of Dallas on one breast
She decided she wanted another
After a while she made a decision
To get a tattoo of Paris on the other!
A few weeks later at the Mardi gras
With no help from panels or committees
She decided to rip off her blouse
And show everybody her cities!
Snatched and grabbed, reefed off me horse,
Just crossed over the watercourse,
Big white light it came and got,
Zapped me, jerked me up aloft,
A bloody flying saucer.
Saw the circle spinning disk,
With panels from one did whisk,
Beam of light had done the job,
In me pocket, thirty bob?
Darkness came within my head,
Aliens, bug eyed did me force,
Anger burned hot instead,
Tucker had, no bloody sauce?
New planet appeared with a jolt ,
Purple haze was a taking holdt
Pink of sky with glass buildings clear,
An orange sun was setting here,
Bugeye came and led me in,
To the glassy citadel,
Hover beds without support,
Lifted up no bed clothes sport,
A specimen in their jar,
Often watched and fed bizarre,
Jabbering bugs saw something rare,
Aussie drongo with whiskers there.
Not Just Any Sunset
Sponsored by: Paula Swanson
Time to look
Look closely
at the backward
forward thinking me
Consumed
by my own consumption
Hybrid driving wanabe
Thinking I'm thinking of others
when it's all about me
Big house
with some solar panels
Seventy two inch plazma TV
with over Two Hundred Channels
All the latest gadgets and owners manuals
On earth day I feel good
because I light some candles
Sure I recycle
trying my best
Yet in the end I don't consume any less
Attracted to labels
I like my "Three Leaves" and "Guess"
I have the right lingo
and know how to dress
You'll see me riding my bike
just about every where I go
Five grand of carbon fibre
all part of the show
I expound on the enviroment
so you will know what I know
I talk about gardening but I don't own a hoe
It's all about the illusion
I like the idea of green
drinking ethical coffee at the bean scene
I like the attention
all the conversations
I use inuendo and insinuations
Yet travel on a big
fuel guzzling plane
to fabulous
soon to be spoiled
destinations!
No twilight concerto to sway not yet
as zigzag street lights pound upon
heavy fog clutching iced flakes on rooftops
like hushed matte from night's gale
pouring bitter ovules to a past in need of relief.
While in her vein is a constant downpour
of Bach's untenable requiem
as hands pound on ivory keys,
immersing in the fever of the moment
until fingers carve a solemn journey
into wiry trails of insolent rain.
How she summons the goddess of morn
to cure thistles of wait and pang,
sifting each beat, each note without interludes
until this child- woman shifts her face against breezes,
tasting madness rawness on lapping winds…
In disheveled lingering she cuddles
unspoken words, her own song
on panels of cut-glass-------with acceptance
the world could still breathe despite a torment:
just then...in a twirl of air's cadence
the night shuts off.
.............
1/18/2016
Jamie Pan's How Long Can A Poetry Go
This poetic attempt is a cross between existential expression
and stream of consciousness technique. The former highlights
contemporary man's response to anguish, isolation,uncertainty
of life in the midst of change.Thus, this poet explores
the outpouring born from inner annihilation-- being
absent from the self- YET allowing space to exhale for a new
awareness to surface.
Dovetailing this language of despair to the stream-of consciousness
technique allows the spontaneous, raw float of thoughts without
the pleasure of edit, like journaling and ' writing down the bones.'
I feel that literary devices ( from metaphors, enjambment to alliteration)
come into play , well, quite instinctively.
In my creative writing class as a college professor, I ask my students
to write with their less dominant hand to discover the 'heart of the matter.'
Then again, that's beside the point. This author will leave this piece to assault your senses, and then, softly break all defenses. Thanks!
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
Into the blue, another new dimension;
into the blue- our destiny is Mars.
A strong reality, long-term ascension-
into the blue among the planets, stars.
Those former sci-fi program memories
will soon become a realistic fact;
our NASA teams now speak of guarantees
that man of Earth on Mars is not abstract.
Into the blue they'll go; six months asleep,
suspended animation all the way,
in modules filled with six and wired to keep
all fed and breathing on their space beltway.
A new frontier for earthlings to soon tool-
to Mars, perhaps a planet in that space
where not too hot- too cold will meet the rule
that Mars is in our Goldilocks Zone place.
January 11, 2016 (revised 03/18/2020)
`Honorable Mention~
Contest: Goldilocks Zone
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Judged:
=======================================
Note:The term "The Goldilocks Zone" is used to describe the
"habitable zone around a star when the temperature is
not too hot or too cold." Dr. Charley Lineweaver, Stuart Gary
After the Earth, Mars is the most habitable planet in our
solar system due to several reasons: Its soil contains water
to extract. It isn't too cold or too hot. There is enough
sunlight to use solar panels.
as builders spend pennies
flipping profits on houses
lifestyle gurus
show us how to fold trousers
and chefs under pressure
scream out all their orders
while people in need
are labelled as hoarders
and bookies fix odds
for the afternoon races
as judges cast judgements
on bizarre family cases
and teams answer questions
to win mystery prizes
while traffic cops chase
young suicide drivers
and retirees escape
to a life on the Costas
as law firms inform us
it’s good to sue doctors
and super vets cure
lame dogs and sick horses
as folk with backstories
fail SAS courses
and dealers earn livings
from ducking and diving
while medics with agents
get judged Strictly jiving
and loan deals have small print
explaining their charges
while celebs enjoy cruising
on canals in large barges
and food critics chew
over masterful dinners
and. there. are. several. long. seconds
before we find out the winners
but when MPs dodge questions
on the numerous news’ panels
it’s proof that what bites
really sucks on our channels.