Long Disprove Poems
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A woman’s spirit hovers
above an inert body that is hers.
She sees the surgeons cutting
and then sees their frantic efforts
as they try to bring her back to life.
She had died and yet is able
to describe exactly everything
they’d said and done
when her anesthetic wears off!
Others – many others – have had
similar experiences called NDE’s.
Many see a tunnel or a light,
and some with loved ones long departed
may briefly unite.
Their hearts are gladdened.
They wish not to go back to this life
that most of us fight so hard to stay in.
But God alone determines when we die,
and so we know it was not time for THEM either.
Science cannot prove the afterlife,
nor can it disprove it.
How can anyone explain NDE’s
wherein the subjects’ hearts stop beating
or there is no brain activity?
They try to say the mind hallucinates
when on the brink of death,
but how can they account for miraculous recoveries?
And how do they account for the utter joy and love felt
by the many who get that precious glimpse of heaven?
What kind of light of such resplendence
could make a person wish
his soul had not even been returned to his earthly body?
Things that mortals cannot understand
in time (and in death) will be comprehended.
Lucky are the ones for whom
near death comes to them,
for death to them would have to be
a thing never more to fear again-and instead-
would be a thing to live for!
N/A April 27, 2022 in Chantelle Anne Cooke's Near Death Experience Poetry Contest
Submitted Sept. 18, 2022 for Sotto Poet's Your Second Chance 2Nd Submission: Poetry Contest
The Reflection of light to..
A sanctimonious imposed Tyranny,
A stifling Medical spellbinding idiocracy,
Of a State Sanctioned Nihilism that couldn't stand the irony,
Sycophant Pagan philistines,
consume all that doesn't move,
Our Impetuous gullibility
now notwithstanding,
We cannot though argue,
nor in fact - disprove,
But however your view, with all of today's branding,
Perception means nothing if we cannot then see,
Whatever it is that they
Are not selling
Trading Eskimos for ice;
the cretinous oligarchy
..remains hidden not telling,
Worse perhaps still - to never suffice,
Yet robbed of innate and perceptive feeling,
Why should anything ever
then have
Any sort - of essential meaning..
If all we concede to, all that we are..but through different lenses,
And all that we do to follow;
Nulls and Diguises the natural senses, for mass promised false healing?
Though it is through the senses that we realise the self,
It is against spiritual wickedness that we now wrestle,
As disregarding this; Man as a dumbed down empty vessel,..
An Idiocy to Sanitise his Authenticity,
Only to always avoid, becoming intellectually honest in wealth,
Any mistaken identity of that which is you..
Return in full circle in assuredness and to knowing, but not so, to being aloof,
Prepared with no more waiting
An abrupt end to dismissal,
More to the point 'tis
a self evident proof,
If I did not tell you, I would not be honest
Our practice makes sense for perfecting the truth..
In your Eyes, If it was not
a whisper, of a lost
Tangible promise..
Kurt Hubbard-Beale
23rd Feb 2022
During covid 19 lockdowns
The PoetTree
Awaken Poetry. Awareness Poetry. Geopolitical. Philosophical. Music. Shared
The wayward wind forever so aloof
across the prairie blowing wild and free;
just like a herd of horses on the hoof,
and running loose with nature’s grand esprit.
A restless spirit is this wayward child
who’s never satisfied in just one place;
she longs to solve the secrets of the wild,
and ne’er her ventured steps will she retrace.
A wayward heart is like the wayward wind,
forever restless, always on the move,
and always searching, seeking, ne’er chagrined;
she’ll leave you lonely and her love disprove.
Beware, before you carelessly depart,
don't wrap your love around a wayward heart.
January 8, 2020
I've never been much of a worrier,
Others do that far better than I,
Nor am I renowned as a scurrier,
Which is not to imply I don't try.
My small circle of close friends and loved ones
Is diminishing one at a time,
And one of these days
I'll wake up to discover
That it's my turn, and I'm next in line.
But if, indeed, that's the next big adventure,
I hope it's a pleasant surprise.
I'd love to prove, or disprove,
All the theories I've had
About life and love,
And good and bad,
And wisdom and learning,
And ethics and such,
That faith is a pillar
And not just a crutch.
But, of course, I’m not worried,
I don't do that, you see.
"Que será, será",
What will be, will be.
But on the off chance that there is a hereafter,
I'd like to reserve a small space there for me.
And should any of you get there before I do,
Try to grab us a nice window seat with a view.
Science defines my virtue.
Factual and fictional books are my domain.
Don’t speak to me of pixies, fairies, and unicorns,
Or of your monopoly on morality, love, faith, and shame.
I am what I am
And of what I do I claim my own.
I fight for my survival
Of which need not be told, judged or shown.
There is no all knowing
Or an immortal god of my fate he will judge.
For when my heart ceases to beat
It will return from whence it came, a kind of primordial sludge.
And when I die
I will not be present to lend a single care.
I spent my life living
Where cowards do not dare.
Do not ask me to have faith.
Do not ask me to prove love.
Do not ask me to define absolutes.
For I know absolutely, there is no god above.
I claim we are all one human race,
Merely here because of some random demise.
The purpose of my existence,
Is equal to other humans, including apes, birds, and flies.
Nothing of life can be proven,
Nor of life I can disprove.
I live by a faith in myself;
I am my own god, a perfect image of myself which cannot be improved.
Madness to the Method
It did not come from mode of method,
nor from the charted mind.
But sprung from a will-o'-the-wisp
spark in the blind spot shadow,
of the brain, disentangled and drifting.
The idea slipped in sideways,
from the periphery of focus,
when attention was distracted,
by the flit of eyes glancing,
in other ways on other days,
For the more you look,
the less likely you are to see,
the brilliant gems lying
invisible to naked eyes,
blinded by the wont-of-desire
for discovery, to stare intensely
at the target, and not look away.
But, it takes a touch of madness,
to notice strange occurrences,
in the clutter and debris of
random observations falling
like ticker-tape from
still-born mode-of-method showers,
of collected failures-to-disprove.
It takes the madness of
serendipity for one
to take potluck picks
in the box of tricks
smart minds often miss,
to pick winners
with happenstance.
It was in the year 2040,
in Vienna was where it all began,
folks were looking at the Lance on Longinus,
when they saw something they couldn’t understand,
on the spearhead was dried blood, from a man.
The faithful all proclaimed a miracle,
but science wanted to study this in full.
That, of course, caused lot son controversy,
some feared testing would destroy what they found,
and immigration had changed Europe,
local Islamists were soon coming around,
hating the implications of what was found,
they went to the museum, tried to burn it,
engulfed half of Vienna in a riot.
Given the conflict the discovery brought,
most realized it could not stay in this place,
after much debate a decision was made,
they would send it to the United States,
in hopes that there the lance would be more safe,
So science could find where the blood came from,
and disprove the rumors, which they thought were dumb.
So it was in Berkley, of all places,
that the ancient spear would find a new home,
there was all sorts of hub-bub when it arrived,
the media had a frenzy of their own,
the lab that got it soon became well known,
and Doctor Tom Wiseman soon got to work,
he doubted not the blood was of this Earth.
After six months of examination
they had isolated complete DNA,
and Tom was working very late one night
when to the janitor, Pete, he did say,
“It’s strange, the furor won’t go away.
We tell the believers it’s a normal stand,
but they do not care, still this it’s their 'God-man.'”
Pete just shrugged, said, “I suppose it makes sense,
it wasn’t DNA that made Jesus Lord.
it was supernatural, God’s presence,
the made the man so worshipped and adored,
a lot of people just seek something more.”
Tom just looked at him and said, “Petey, my friend,
I think you just helped me bring this to an end.”
He said later, at a meeting of trustees,
“I think we’ve an opportunity here,
a chance to prove Jesus was just a man,
free people from superstitions and fear.
We can finally make the truth quite clear.
I’ll make a clone with an artificial womb,
accelerate the growth, so we’ll have it soon.”
CONTINUES IN PART II.
If consciousness were to exist
beyond the self
What opinions
might it change
Can something exist outside
its space
Can something be something
it’s not
Is time the new slave
to the master it birthed
Can the end
be started again
Can the future or past
exist on their own
Can the present
be something that’s both
Can you believe what the facts
will disprove or disclaim
With reflection beyond logic
and guilt
Can you teach what you’ve learned
in spite of yourself
Can your silence
—tame the mountainous roar
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
You loved and cared,
Cooked and fed,
Never asking for a coin but for the sake of love...
The poet in me writes your praises,
Yet, the Mathematics in me can't even quantify your immense love for us.
Rest well Mami Margaret,
Tell grand mum I am OK but in the midst of another Pure Mathematics survival challenge.
Tell dad we missed him
and that I wish he was here to disprove my countless concepts in physics,
Tell him I still write poems and listen to the BBC,
Tell him I still look forward to have his twin grandsons despite countless failing proposals.
Tell grand-pa I didn't do political science nor joined politics
But from what I see, he for told our happenings-now.
Tell our forefathers, that we have desecrated the shrines, sold out sacred traditional works of arts for greed and money.
Tell them of the arm conflict and how we've soiled the land with blood,
and divided among ourselves our yet to be homeland.
Farewell Mami Mar!
The poet in me pays you tribute,
As the Mathematics in me confirms your convergence in The Lord,
You're now in the abodes of the Father,
Farewell, Farewell
À Dieu Mami Margaret
Until we meet again.
Your son,
#DePoetHaus 2020
As clouds move in,
A fight begins,
Inside my heart,
Is where it starts,
I see old faces,
Chained to dark places,
Those who swore they would be better,
Those who believed they would hold their families together.
I see dead lives,
That can’t arise,
Fractures in their foundations,
They have destroyed their land with false sensations,
They do what they have learned from this so called life,
Stripped down by loveless fathers of abandonment and strife,
They yell and scream but can’t seem to move,
A generation that desperately wants to disprove,
The mistakes of the former one,
Yet they are bound by roots that make them run.
God have mercy, raise up your sons,
Teach them to face what they have become!
God have mercy,
Raise up our men,
Show them the cycle can be fixed once again.
God have mercy
Raise them up like you did for your son,
It is only by your power
we can change what has been done.
By; Sabina Nicole