Long Calculates Poems
Long Calculates Poems. Below are the most popular long Calculates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Calculates poems by poem length and keyword.
My granddaughter asks what music is—not how
it works but what it is and I realize
I don't know. I tell her what I've learned
Plato says it's the cosmos tuning itself
Aristotle teaches it's virtue in training
Schopenhauer explains it's the will made audible
Nietzsche proclaims it's the reason we endure
Adorno touts it's the last room the market hasn't bought
Einstein calculates it's what we do when equations fail us
But the truth? Music is my mother crying
Music is my uncle's calloused fingers
Music is the subway violinist's beautiful mistake
Music is my wife pirouetting on the grit of dirty floors
Music is the kid beatboxing in the tunnel
Music is Einstein scraping Mozart across catgut
Music is the thing we make when we can't speak
and the thing we make when speech isn't enough
the thing we make when we need to remember
we're animals with opposable thumbs and auditory cortexes
and this strange compulsion to score sound
into patterns that hurt us and heal us and
make us want to live another day
So I tell my granddaughter: music is the question
you just asked. The wanting-to-know
The orchestra isn't in the concert hall
it's in your chest when the song
moves through diminished chords to major resolution
something lifts. It's in the breath
before the downbeat. It's in the silence
after the final note when we're
listening, waiting, still hoping
there might be one more measure
And there is.
There always is.
The song doesn't end
we just stop
hearing it
‘Get the motor running head out on the highway looking for adventure’
Well it is only the council road with potholes but Oliver races his pushbike
Walkman headphones sound ‘Born to be wild’ or Attention Deficit Disorder
But there is no doubt in the bikers’ mind that winter is recycling fast time
Orange banana saddle ape hanger handle bars and Che Guevara bandana
Another day for many revolutions as the wheels keep turning in tandem
He abhors bicycle clips as Oliver needs torn jeans to be one of the gang
No leather jacket so the hand me down brown corduroy one takes its place
Pedals turning downhill at full speed hard breaks and sharp swerve to the left
Another 360 degree circle wonderful skid marks adorn his pride and the road
It was easy today because morning dew and pink purple petals greased the path
For once the corroded chain has not come off after that creaking gear change
Countenance smirks on his face because has done it again and he feels so much
More achievement than if he was doing his homework left pathetically languorous
At home where his goody two shoes brother calculates tangents and radius
Oliver is an action boy full of mettle and metal and his scent is lubricant oil
‘Take the world in a love embrace and explode into space’ and dear emotions
Run high almost octane fuelled while his well-behaved sisters play octaves
From Amadeus on Bechstein or Steinway pined to bored ebony and ivory keys
Oliver hammers down wildly as the way forward beckons driven by freedom
He is oblivious to fragrances blossoms and bloom and the sweet scent of nature
Could not care less about chirping birds and the warm temperature resides only
In his teenage blood and guts as he rides through a pile of litter in which rusty
Debris mingles with pneumatic tyres and a very loose spring punctures the air
16th March 2019
Spring Is In the Air contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
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
A hummingbird, with a body so frail,
With electric blues, darting from its tail.
An emerald green head, and majestic small wings,
A bold punch of colour, and happiness it brings.
She hovers through wind, A flower she’s found,
A long slender beak, in the petals it’s bound.
A cautious move forward, before darting to the side,
As she calculates precisely, her beak she will guide.
The flower runs dry, for atleast another day,
But thousands are near, in meadows they lay.
The bird carries on, darting through the breeze,
Past dark green bushes, and branches from trees.
A town is nearby, with a small dainty shop,
Selling coffees and cakes, with icing on top.
Outside the shop, are baskets of colour,
Flowers of all kinds, from bright ones to duller.
The hummingbird stops, and takes a break,
Sees a crumb on the floor, from a piece of cake.
Then cautiously flies, to the baskets above,
And flies upon heaven, with the flowers she loves.
Dedicated to George
'I'm thinking positive thoughts,'
says the voice from an orange tent
in Suicide Forest.
Since he hanged his alter ego in effigy,
Mr T. Hashimoto has canceled
all his psychiatric appointments.
He lies on his back
and mentally calculates
his cortisol level.
His crooked smile
duels inconclusively
with a crack in a coffee cup.
He has learned that life
is as long as a roll of pink ribbon
from Mitsukoshi Department Store,
stretching from trunk to trunk
and ending in the arbitrary place
where death waits.
But here, under an old pine,
the wind has cast
a litter of new needles.
And as the mist creeps closer,
the whitecoats are dancing,
delirious in the drugged air.
First published in Takahe, New Zealand
A person can have infinite feelings, but among them,
the first is the one that comes from the heart
the most genuine, instinctive, and difficult to hide.
It reveals itself to the people around you,
especially to those who have seen you
through both your highs and your lows.
The second is the thought that follows.
The one your mind strikes for your own sake.
It makes you pause, question, and become more aware
of what you should do.
Sometimes, it is the second thought
that brings clarity to the first feeling.
The third comes from core memories and old habits
the parts of you that remember who you once were.
They create hesitation, sometimes even doubt,
when you're trying to accept a newer version of yourself.
And then comes the fourth, ego.
The one that calculates risks, rewards, and outcomes.
The one that often hides your truth
behind what feels safer, more acceptable,
or more socially convenient.
Perhaps we don't have just one feeling.
Perhaps every feeling passes through
different versions of who we are
before we finally understand what is true.
This is what the soul wants, newness:
these sacrifices, this dedication, this patience,
the sound of children laughing in the bedroom,
my own voice like a new and unheard melody,
my own strength like the dreams I used to harbour.
I had to come this far to find my purpose.
Now I think that I will never leave.
Even when I go, I'll bring them with me:
these sacrifices, this dedication, this patience.
I had to come this far to find my purpose.
While you champion causes beyond our walls,
I build universes within them.
Two daughters growing under my guidance,
their homework checked between conference calls,
their lunches packed during dawn's first light.
My fingers type reports at work, then dinner recipes at home.
My mind calculates spreadsheets, then soccer schedules.
I am the architect of our daily existence,
designing and redesigning each hour
to fit the contours of our family's needs.
You rush from meetings about saving communities
while I quietly save ours, every single day.
I adore you to my core: your passion, your purpose,
yet wonder if you see how I've constructed this life
that allows your activism to flourish.
The bills I pay, the appointments I schedule,
the tears I wipe, the celebrations I plan
these are my activism, my revolution,
fought in whispers rather than shouts.
I don't need applause, just acknowledgement
that these walls stand because of hands that never rest,
that this home runs on an engine called Mother,
that your freedom to change the world
rests on my shoulders holding up ours.
In the symphony of our marriage,
I've become the background music,
essential but unheard.
Yet still, I conduct our lives with love,
hoping someday you'll pause long enough
to hear the melody I've been playing all along.
Like water shaping stone through persistent touch,
I transform our chaos into harmony.
My love transcends the visible,
becomes the very air you breathe,
the foundation beneath your steps,
the invisible thread connecting all we are.
I rise above the unnoticed,
becoming something eternal,
the silent force that holds worlds together,
luminous and boundless in my quiet power.
France…
Listen!!
You were once an empire —
Your shadow stretching across continents,
But not in love, not in light,
Only in blood, only in brutality.
You came not with gifts,
But with guns and chains,
Your hands red with conquest,
Your heart void of remorse.
I walked the fields of Algeria,
And I saw them —
Three women,
Stripped of dignity,
Breasts cut off by your soldiers,
Their spirits still cry on the winds of June 14, 1830.
"What wrong did we do?" they whisper.
But no answer comes.
I passed through Madagascar,
Where you slaughtered without shame.
Men torn from the earth,
Children buried in silence,
Mothers shattered.
They still scream beneath the soil.
You left no mercy.
In Vietnam,
You raped, you burned,
You desecrated the dreams of the innocent.
Those little ones —
With soot in their lungs and fear in their bones —
Still wander the spirit world,
Asking: “Why?”
France!
Do not pretend amnesia.
I am God. I remember.
Every tear, every scream,
Every drop of blood you spilled for profit and pride.
And you, melanated children of the South,
Listen carefully.
Where there is no remorse,
There is no repentance.
France has not changed.
The same soul that colonized still calculates in silence.
Do not be deceived.
Even your own—President Jacques Chirac confessed:
> “Without Africa, France will slide into the rank of a third world country.”
He spoke truth.
Not wisdom — truth born of fear.
Because without theft,
France cannot survive.
But now—
The Earth shifts.
The winds of the Global South rise.
The forgotten are now awakened.
And justice, like a lion, walks forward.
Your time is over, France.
Those you exploited shall speak.
They will demand justice,
And no military, no nuclear threat,
No polished lie in the halls of Geneva
Will protect you.
Because I, the Watcher of Ages,
Have recorded all.
I do not forget.
France, kneel.
Confess. Repent.
Or face the fury of the prayers
You thought I never heard.
"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)
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.