A blinding fastball, more launched than thrown,
approached the corner of the strike zone.
A bat responded, just as fast.
The crowd was deafened by the ensuing blast.
On a mound, there lay dead
a man in uniform - a hole cut neatly through his head.
Released from captivity are the sons of Israel, and with tears of joy they are received by all. Today is given the name Peace 2025 indicating an ending of brutal war. Neither adversary was present, yet an extraordinary event. Can’t build a lasting peace with hate as a building material. Is it true tranquility is what awaits the world or a temporary armistice, a break in the storm—lingering disarray of what is already rubble and dust—a dystopian gray. What shall these torn nations find in an entanglement led by hyperbolic politicians, known for their vacant promises. An immovable permanency that shall lead to unity that was once in our illusive dreams, is it what it seems? Oh is it what it appears to be? What happens to a dream deferred, does it dry up like a raisin in the sun or bring a new bloom of blustering flowers from beneath the desert sands. What tempests are these that blow over deeply rooted in religion, in the eras, in the cradle of civilization.
Freed!
anticipation
Jewish son freedom now comes~
their wait exhausted
Am I talking to you my friend
or the younger me, in the end?
You feel that you need her,
and you know you must have her.
While I am of a different mind,
you'd say I'm insensitive and blind.
I'd say it's you blinded by love
falsely attributed to the One above.
Your life is under your control.
You don't need her to be made whole.
You say that you are sure but,
you're trapped into her orbit.
So, whatever you and I may say,
it's Newton's laws that rule the day.
Her power over you is diabolic.
Your orbit should be hyperbolic,
but you're headed for love's black hole.
You're dedicated, heart and soul.
Atoms on a ship without a rudder
try to stick like peanuts ground to butter.
You'll be torn up and rejected,
and, ultimately, will be ejected.
She'll rearrange your molecules,
but it's been done to lesser fools.
I once knew a man named Aloysius
Hyperbolic as hell, superstitious
He avoided black cats
And ladders without slats
He seemed to me frankly quite judicious
I find delight in poetry and math.
I like to follow intuition's path.
In the beginning, I pick up a scent.
In the end, no one knows what I meant.
There is more to life than meets the eye.
Nature's beauty makes us wonder why.
In math and poetry, I can explore
To find creation's essence and its core.
The symmetry found within a flower
Wields a seductive, enchanting power.
A mathematician or a poet
Makes his sacred goal to truly know it.
Fibonacci's sequence expressed in plants,
Pythagorean tuning, Gregorian chants,
Hyperbolic orbits, traced celestially
Have no need for poetic hyperbole.
Life can be a puzzle or mystery.
This poet/math student's eyes try to see.
I know less than a percent and a half,
While God, upstairs, has Him/Herself a laugh.
In poems, tears flow from my eyes like a fount -
Since you left me, an ocean is the amount -
And I would sure like to live without 'em,
But the math's not done until I count 'em.
What’s a homeland, I don’t know
Sounds a bit too much symbolic
I’ve got no land of my own
So it turns out hyperbolic
This home concept is not real
Could be my imagination
Sort of melancholy feel
Hardly a concrete location
Not the property I own
Not a shelter from the rain
Not a place where I was born
But a picture that remains
They say home is where the heart is
And my heart is over there
Far away, where willow trees
Softly rustle in damp air.
Twist off the cap
Lay it in your lap
I'm your favourite beverage
Take a sip of your leverage
I give catering a double meaning
Leave the flavours of my heart overweening
Soft or alcoholic
Was your love for me hyperbolic
Do I leave you dreary in the streets
Every step your awareness depletes
Or do you look forward to tasting me again
No longer a recipient of your disdain
In Christmas's glow, where dreams and joy entwine,
A tale unfolds, of Christ's birth divine.
In Bethlehem's cradle, a babe so mild,
The Savior, Messiah, the Holy Child.
Santa, my father, in folklore's embrace,
Brings gifts and wonder to each eager face.
Yet deeper, reality's truth is spun,
For love and giving, beneath the sun.
Hand in hand, a nation in delight,
Rejoicing in the Christ, the guiding light.
The togetherness, a sincere embrace,
As hearts unite, and time begins to race.
The epic tale, in pages old and true,
A metaphor for grace, a love anew.
Hyperbolic dreams in children's eyes,
As Santa's sleigh across the starry skies.
In slumber's grip, anticipation weaves,
As visions of presents, like golden sheaves.
Sincerity wrapped in ribbons tight,
A Christmas sonnet in the silent night.
Our nation - at a crossroads now
With intersecting planes
Of concepts much at odds somehow -
Exacerbating strains.
The Democrats perplexities:
A "Heart without a Head"
Explains irrationalities -
(Dysfunction - simply said).
Republican proclivities:
A "Head without a Heart"
Explains their personalities -
(Flatlines on MDs charts).
Both play the same devout "blame game"
With terse polemics wrought
As zealots on both sides proclaim
Their hyperbolic thoughts.
They come and go yet most remain,
Though times change in due course,
And seem to think it's their domain -
Their livelihood resource.
And, money flows and money goes
Awash in large amounts
But how, from where, no accounts show;
Just smoke and mirrors doubts.
With most seats safely in the till
Few voters needs to heed,
Instead exert, exhort their will
On things inflating greed.
Then, how do we comport with this
Vast wasteland so immense?
We wax and wane and turn and twist -
It's our experience.
cosmic kinks
earth frozen in space
hyperbolic tidal wave…
time motionless nasa
Knowledge of this might not be public:
Some Dialects are hyperbolic
While speakers judge it not, feel it not,
Quite sure hearers the raw message got
In Igbo Language Dialects this clear
Like a heaving chest or hands bare:
In her North’s “My Mum is not alive”
And Speaker means “Her mother is sick”
But to Stranger “‘one you can’t revive;
Date of her funeral to pick!”
In one of her West’s “He just flees.”
And Speaker thinks “He just runs.”
But impressing an escape from bees
Or fears of being brought down by guns!
Time to look at one’s dialects
And pleasure find in what one collects.
DANCING WATER HOLLOWS
The canal water endlessly moving from passing boats
Creates not waves but dancing hollows between,
Moving like countless competitors in a dance hall
Swirling around in kaleidoscopic color.
Hollows waltzing in time to their internal rhythms
In a constant irregular flux of shapes and positions,
What geometric science calls hyperbolic paraboloids
In countless watery reflections. Dancing figures of eight.
Each with the same rainbow of colors on its edges,
Red and yellow and always with green on the outside,
Lliving reflected imitations of the church colors above.
Yet each is different. Liquidly mobile with endless variety.
God’s informal dance has no rules, just beauty :
Colorful shapes taken momentarily
By wave-hollows. Giant living amoebas with green edges,
And seen with His heavenly microscope.
17 April 2021
…………………………………………………………………..
NOTE
Next time you are looking into a river or lake with reflections between the waves, look carefully at the reflections and see how they are arranged by nature into beautiful patterns.
look out from Hawaii
where summit isles peek at volcan panorama
like curious messengers scouting out ahead
where we spied Oumuamua skim slanting past
interstellar sliver rock tumbling by our yard
from Lyra curving by the sun, on to Pegasus
hyperbolic speedster, too fast for solar capture
......
am I poet enough to catch your angular drift ?
prophet of the space age
Arthur foresaw your approach some years ago
for moments our eyes meet, tangential traveller
mysterious wanderer, wonder who probes whom
wonder whether we are worth your fleeting visit
hello from us to the white-horse mythical stars
wisdom and excitement resides in not being sure
......
am I poet enough to read space between the words ?
do not stare directly
be askance, be oblique and somewhat off-kilter
watch the molten islands plume across the ocean
cosmic time, ancient journeys, canoes and planets
stumble on a meaning, kneel down, breathe in, rejoice
feel transition, change of key, symphonic rise and fall
music in the silence, in divergent destinations
......
am I poet enough to hear gaps between the notes ?
Ripened blood still sleepless
On the staircase of memory
Flying with reliable winds
Mild embrace of the winds
Imprinting the uprooted roots
Sculptures now govern all
Breath of independence
Floating in the midfield of birth and death
Life in the sharp blade of crops
For many corpses, wounded bodies, flowing blood
For the lost chastity of women, abortions
Enthronement and dethronement the politics
Everything is an exaggeration,
Hyperbolic figures in the born free world
In the thorny frontier fences
Everyone is brother, sister, relative as human
Everywhere the fight for something else
Meaningless in the successful freedom
Today I cannot run after the wealth, names, fame.....
I cannot run after the patriotism, sovereign motherlands.....
Fear of lost the humane love I cannot run as the biased spirits
15.08.2020 Chattogram
Note:
Almost all countries of the world are independent
But still, humanity is in the inhumane subservient
-wHY?
You have the hysterical look of mutes
that roar through narrow straws.
I see in your yellow eyes – a Jules Verne winking moon.
Soon that ribbed pink cave will release
another flock of demented coots
hacked from the craw of an ancient macaw.
Soon the whip of your vocal squawks
will pluck my eyes from their trembling stalks.
Maine Coon, part Persian, part whiskery herring,
grimalkin mouser,
I love you not when you sing.
Verne goes to the movies, a flickering French theater
of painted malarkey, where mice threaten to Can-Can.
Buck Rodgers shoots rays of hyperbolic sound
from the open nozzle of your mouth.
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