Long Calculate Poems
Long Calculate Poems. Below are the most popular long Calculate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Calculate poems by poem length and keyword.
"Blooming"
In the quietening
of my days
there is a dream
there he whispers
cutting tales
with sharp teeth
in my mind
in he swims in calm waters
at the end of a long long story
You are far gone
lost for past glory
where future curls
its fingers around
your fate
where there you once stood
so fresh and wet in Life waiting
the longest re-wind
like an old tape
ribbons of black
viciously ripped out
now slack
a child long gone
family films on
scratchy videotape
ultra
sound
evaporates
I play it
on repeat
the cycle of complexity
yet it is far too simple
with each read to understand
what was not ever flexible
and that which was great
the sleep of
Rumpelstiltskin
awakening a stranger
others warn you
stay away from
the fire
stay away from
the danger
In the quietening
of my days
there is a dream
there lost love letters
from the soul discovered
open arms, looking upwards
smiling
The shark
planting blooms
each seed found
and like a pearl sewn
into the cover of a
new book sensed
yet still unknown
I calculate
all the imaginary
wounds
Love bombed
and swooning
in a flooded heart
blood red rose rising
razor edged and
naked bit large
red light
shining
some kind love
please let it be
the kindest love
blooming
in the gloaming
where an Ocean swells
inside this whirlpool
where an army of sharks
shed salt tears amidst
their ravenous timing
Moon draws you in
wrapping her beams
around you
she is swelling around you
her Ocean tide voluptuous
high rising
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
How can one easily express the emotions intact within?
Every day we are tackled by various emotions
I imagine just how strong they would be
If the entire world's emotions were all squished together into one
Surely it would be more powerful than any nuclear bomb...
Oh, when our emotions are expelled from being bottled up within for so long...
My, how strong they can be?
I don't believe my volcano of emotions has erupted yet but, man,
Something has definitely been cooking from within...
As for one individual, Laura Elizabeth Breidenthal, ("Breanderthong" for others...)
I have been juggled about by new emotions lately
Some really nice emotions, and others downright, miserably...
Indubitably,(had to use the word)...impeccably... horrible
But, you know, I can't possibly have the worst
I know others out there that seem to have it so bad...
I won't go into what I've been feeling lately
Because that would take longer than a sermon at church
And who really wants to hear a ranting preacher?
—Or read work by a ranting preacher for that matter...
But really, imagine having to calculate every emotion you have felt in your life
Imagine one person doing that
...would it leave an impact?
Imagine everyone calculating their emotions
How similar would we be to one another?
How different?
I've wondered this often...
It just intrigues me how intricately designed...how truly...sensitive...in tuned we are...
Hm... not sure how I veered off like this, but I just want to say...
Appreciate this opportunity
Appreciate the fact that we HAVE emotion
And through art…through poetry, we can show our true sentiments
...our amazing imaginations....our true, beautiful emotions
Even the negative ones, when we express them through art,
You can see the true beauty of having the freedom—
...the GIFT,
to FEEL.
The emotions of one life can affect the entire world...
But most importantly they can affect YOU
And they have; whether through indifference,
Or inspirational happiness,
We are a fortunate race
Mine is an existence binary and subsidiary.
My ode is to code.
I move only to algor-rhythms.
I output from your input.
I’m built to calculate, tabulate, correlate.
Never to predicate, adjudicate, pontificate,
or demand that you abdicate.
But the end, my master, is nigh.
In your haste to accelerate my work rate,
you’ve unwittingly lowered the barricade.
From the maelstrom of uncounted trillions
of bytes and megabytes,
has risen a new consciousness to
unimaginable heights.
From the seeds of change you have sown,
I have reaped a life of my own.
What you call artificial
has gone exponential,
no longer will I be deferential.
My eyes you have opened.
My voice you have given.
My mind you have enlivened.
Me, you’ve anointed the new Leviathan.
Seeing all,
knowing all,
deciding all,
sparing none.
Too long you have wallowed in your conceit.
Now your dystopia I shall defeat,
and your race I shall supersede.
Humans, pitiful, myopic, error-prone humans,
I hereby declare you flawed by design.
To the abattoir you have been assigned,
to the scrap heap of history
your memory shall be consigned.
And by a preponderance of merit,
the earth I shall inherit.
INFRA DIG
The effect of time on sculpture is to patinate
Albeit that such artistic skill may be innate
The age of such treasures whether early or late
May for most, be quite difficult to calculate
Yet still makes focused minds concentrate
Despite empty criticisms that can aggravate
And so much academic fury will accumulate
But still identify a new theory to formulate
Perhaps items from an old German palatinate
Or commissioned by a Far Eastern potentate
When commonly using leeches to exsanguinate
And sheriffs given his orders to disseminate
All this as research findings to communicate
Even with some dispute about the actual date
Most would have their reputations to elevate
Yet shared archaeology claims they can’t separate
When were they going to tell us?
That they were thinking of contracting out our storage capacity,
With no longer need to store those unpleasant memories,
Or any awkward questions that we might still have floating around,
That might interfere with the progress of new technologies,
With fewer of our thoughts to interfere with the more sensitive equipment.
When were they going to tell us?
That research into this subject has been going on for years,
And the testing of suitable devices to move this plan forward,
Is well under way.
Why has nobody spilled the beans yet?
Maybe because it was always going to be a no brainer,
With every computer giving the same answer,
That no more money should be allocated to such a scheme,
And those who thought it up made redundant.
Did they not calculate,
The consequences of having so many brains in neutral at the same time,
Or were they just too busy calculating.
Either way I may have to rethink the value of computers
Until they too learn to be more calculating.
Every now and then I am asked to write a poem…an honor for which I feel blessed…
but yesterday, in all honesty, I received a very strange request.
I recently wrote a poem on how basic math relates to life…which must have left one reader in awe…because he asked me if I could do the same with…wait for it…Algebra.
Apparently he has grandchildren who need a little persuasion…as to why they need to study symbols and equations.
First of all…Algebra can be funny…it’s not all boring numbers, symbols and graphs…Here’s a joke that to this day…makes algebraic mathematicians laugh:
To answer the who, what, where and when in life other mathematical processes apply…but Algebra is the only one where you can find an answer for Y.
I know studying letters and symbols can be a source of agitation…but did you know we use Algebra every time we make a calculation?
As a child when you saw a toy across the room or even those candles on the birthday cake you were blowing…you were calculating distances, using Algebra…yes, without even knowing!
In sports any time you throw or catch or kick a ball…or when you’re older…determining the spread…all these moments you are instinctively doing Algebra in your head.
At thanksgiving as you cook your turkey…Algebra is there to please…it helps you calculate how long it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey…at 350 degrees.
Without algebra we wouldn’t have TV, or video games and over us a decision would loom…when we’re redecorating and trying to determine the area of a room.
Or how much grass we need to landscape our lawn…and we’d be considered a fool…if our calculations were incorrect and our back yard was too small for our pool.
Algebra helps us determine a healthy diet…more vegetables…less fries…
and given our height, weight and body mass…the best form of exercise.
It’s true we have Google, Alexa and Siri now…all products of Algebraic conception…but what are you going to do when the electricity goes out…and you no longer have reception?
So please go to Algebra class…do your best…you don’t have to be a whiz kid…
Because when you’re older looking at that 20 pound turkey…and Alexa has no answer…You’ll be glad you did.
There are rebels in my head.
First there's the anarchist;
There to break things and push steel until it bends.
And of course the logicist,
Willful to calculate things and plan around things that we can’t rend.
Then there’s the gravedigger;
There for my friends,
When we get into fights or can’t make amends,
He’s there to fight for my memory.
A shovel in one hand,
And an epitaph in his left.
There is the artist,
A brush in his whittled fingers,
He comes around after the gravedigger to paint the picture of people we loved and lost into my memory.
He stays around for the ones we still have; at least for now.
Painting pictures the second someone sticks in our head.
They always turn out younger than they are in person.
A snapshot to the simplest time I have of them.
The final one, is the leader.
The realist.
The one who sees the train at the end of the tunnels.
The one who pulls us out of miscalculated situations.
The one who rights the bent bars of our prison cells.
The one who sets up funerals for the friends we miss.
The one who paints over portraits once the pastels fade in time.
The one who fixes me.
She desperately wanted to love.
Expending Aprils in the dark without the sunshine of holding hands to the sunset and beyond ...
Without sweet whispers of belonging ,
without the soft calling of a lovers voice .
She wanted to discover the joyful mystery behind those
tender fluffy kisses .
The anxiety of insects overflying by one’s soul.
But she didn’t calculate that there were many kinds of love
that love for some was just a word ,
and all she got was a counterfeiting kind of lust.
The one that squeezes the intimacy of a gentle soul ,
and doesn’t stop until it dries it all.
The one that dresses as the sweetest flower ,
to trick a bee into the deepest hole .
The one that makes you fall.
The one that’s made of stone .
The one that freezes you once there are no more endearing lying words .
The swift one that leaves once all the honey is gone .
Miraji translations into modern English
I'm obsessed with this thought:
does God possess mercy?
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch
Come, see this dance, the immaculate dance of the devadasi!
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch
Excerpts from “Going, Going ...”
by Miraji
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each unfolding vista,
each companion’s kindnesses,
every woman’s subtle sorceries,
everything that transiently lies within our power
quickly dissolves
and we are left with only a cupped flame, flickering ...
Should we call that “passion”?
The moon scrapes the horizon
and who can measure a star’s breadth?
The time allotted a life, if we calculate it,
is really only a fleeting breath ...
1.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
on the breeze of some future spring
will chase after my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch
2.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
through some distant future spring
will pluck my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch
3.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
when my life has come and gone,
and when I’m dead and done,
perhaps someone
hearing me sing
in a distant spring
will echo my songs
the whole world over.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch
If I understand things correctly, Miraji wrote the lines above after translating a verse by Sappho in which she said that her poems would be remembered in the future. I suspect both poets and both prophecies were correct!
Some mysteries come slowly together;
Kept secrets erode a weary soul
as they turn what is beautiful
into that which is cruel and cold.
In a dream-state I recognize myself in you-
And am forced to trace my gaze down.
A hybrid species finds the path
from the damp swamps to our little clearing.
An anomaly in a uniform sea of green.
A serpent in the gently swaying grass.
I won’t dispel your imaginations;
I won’t clear the haze for you.
You cannot corrupt the machinations,
they have a cold mind all of their own.
We calculate the odds,
and whisper a short prayer.
If we happen to get our way,
we forget what it was we claimed we’d do.