Long Einsteins Poems
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Einsteins Grant, is what he said
Then stuck his tongue out loud
And he laughed and laughed and laughed
In my head...
EMC squared
Is a dare so to speak
Little riddle in the middle
Of a layer...
So I peaked
At how many days are really in a week
And at how many hours a soul takes to leap
Into just one portal
With two bare feet
E M C square
5+13+3= 21 squared Is 441
5+1+3+3=12 squared Is 144
And together they are 585
emc
543 and
cme
345 are
888 and twice are 1776 x 12 = 21312 'bacab'
twelve because 5+4+3 = 12
and so does 3+4+5 = 12 x 1776 = 21312 'bacab'
oh and look by Chance... 1776 / 24 = 74
...and these numbers by far
Are in a plane sight for sure.
To quantify an equation,
takes more than mere calculation,
Take the sun and moon,
now consider they’re coordinations,
One 8 light minutes from earth,
other just a single light second,
Both appear the same size in the sky,
more or less it’s reckoned,
So how can it be, very simply
put, it’s an optical illusion,
Sun is 400 times further away,
and part of this cosmic collusion,
While heck the moon is 400 times
smaller, a very neat solution,
So in effect an eerie perfect
resemblance, bit like evolution.
I’m not buying random
chaos, just because all appears right,
Must take luminosity into
consideration, to bring in the light,
This is where I have problems,
accepting some natural phenomena,
Damn moon is more than a rock,
reflecting rays of minuscule quanta.
Every now and then, blocking
the whole sun in a shadow,
Albeit along strange curved paths,
sometimes very narrow,
Such a perfect arrangement,
one so complex, yet it’s known,
In geostationary observation,
light photons reveal a solid stone.
Bizarre or factual, we predict
eclipses with unfailing accuracy,
Thousands of years past and future,
are detailed miraculously,
But for me it’s too convenient,
so much I refuse to believe,
This accident of serendipitous
alignment, real purpose does deceive.
A yardstick of information,
used to prove Einsteins relativity,
During an eclipse, light from stars
behind the sun, bends in reactivity,
That moon is our starting point,
Earths next stage of devolution,
Put there by god knows what,
for humanities ultimate revolution.
I know this poem is filled, with
many cosmic contradictions,
Without any scientific limits,
my mind holds no restrictions,
Subjects always beg questions,
blind acceptance just needs faith,
But we’re more than any rock,
locked in gravitational embrace.
These steppingstones to reality,
lie strategically well placed,
All the information we need,
lies before our eyes in space,
Each one has pointers, not
buried but within plain view,
Secrets can be deciphered, it’s
human imagination solves the clue.
By
David Kavanagh
Einstein figured out relativity
through his mind experiments
using the power of imagination
The moon proved he was right.
The Year 2049
I’m not saying it’s profound nor even divine;
But let me tell you, because I’m so inclined.
I’m not saying I saw any visions or spiritual signs;
But may I tell you about a thing or two that's on my mind?
I anticipate being around, when I turn 100 in the year 2049.
In the year 2049
There will still be mountains to climb
People will still be standing in long lines
Bad people will still find ways to commit crimes
And the poor will continue falling further behind
In the year 2049
More people would go to work, if only they could find the time
The dollar will be obsolete, and also pennies, nickels, and dimes
New diseases will appear, and prayers will rise for more Einsteins
It will become more difficult to identify what is yours, and what is mine
In the year 2049
The good will still die young; and too many people will still rather not vote, but whine. Countless citizens will long for the freedoms they lost, and for people to be more kind. Too few necessary changes; too many unnecessary ones; best ones died on the vine. People will have misplaced their trust, and allowed their spirituality to go cold and blind.
In the year 2049
I expect to still be around and help the young
I have prayed to be healthy and still going strong
Perhaps I will play the guitar, and sing a Christian song
It wouldn’t surprise me a bit, if I’m still playing ping pong
03152016 cj PS
Coruscating gravitas
imbibed algebraic
cerebral tranches
to spark
alacrity defiant
material manducation
deployed tangibly
phlegmatic
whilst
begetting manifest
miraculous meteoric
innovative impulses
when
penetrating bailiwicks
of tongue-contortion
cerebrum
eidetic retention
straddling juncture’s
poised gateway
as
baton weaving
catalyst triumphant
for
pumped ensemble
virtuoso visionaries
who
taproot trajectories
cocoon emerging
brainchild unfettered
obsessing
magazine mandarins
artistic
archetypal Monet
lavish lavender
lily pond
with
balsamic brushstrokes
galvanising
similar maven
budding Einsteins
blazing trails
of
original contrivance
boosting beneficial
health domain
of
wellspring weal
integrating impactful
slants
gearshift gargantuan
narcissistic nadir
repetitive
regurgitations rampant
abjured by
polymath prodigious
whose
appalachian peak
of antecedents
an avalanche
tintinnabulation
enunciated showpiece
heralds harvesting
gilt-edged prodigy
in fields
belletrist
nimble-fingered
experiential
Shall I relay a sidesplitting hoot from my “care-free” on campus fun phase?
It entails a laboratory session involving three mystic world colossal oafs.
One had an unerring penchant for Laurel and Hardy mishaps, the other this beautiful dreamer whose attention span rambled for miles.
a meandering focal point tourist with no yen for one spot or one task.
As for me the fault-prone narrator I had comic book deficits too.
Pulitzer Prize petty fog pinpoint, fastidious fat head by gum!
At the hearth of this tale is a chemistry prep that was doomed from an innocent outset.
It was aptly enough “Anodyne,” this soon to be splitting head bushfire.
From uproarious weighing scale howlers, to starter material gaffes, to say nothing of sequential missteps, Mount Everest blunders galore.
Our ill-fitting glassware threw tantrums, miscellaneous beaker’s burst dams, reactants rose up, a calamitous farce, they shed buckets of organic stuff down the sink.
For all my precision I seemed a right goof with this risible maximum brownie point fetish.
My beautiful dreamer close comrade who by turns Walter Mitty pale stand-in now immune to chaotic abandon at large.
That accident-prone other pal
would be every insurer’s worst nightmare.
Nearby class mates could barely restrain widespread glee at us laughing stock hapless quaint bunch.
The poor teacher in charge had a seizure, quite gormless, green faced and gobsmacked.
“I wonder what next can go wrong.”
“Quite frankly I shudder to think as you merry buffoons soldier on.”
This thunderstruck teacher was known as the “doyen of do it right down to the dottiest detail.”
After a humorous pause his eyeballs rotate in jocular mode then made a ginormous grand gesture.
“Put this jinx ridden self-destruct day in some tuck away memory file.”
“Write a one page report, say the gremlins prevailed and I’ll give you an average mark.”
“For goodness sakes don’t blow this offer like you’ve nearly blown
up my whole group.”
On an ironic note “doyen do it right” gave a brief safety course start of term.
It seemingly fell on deaf ears.
I’ll be blowed as my parents once said when life took a damned awful turn.
We three “Einsteins” in technical garb almost were, blowed that is!
Posted ; 11th January 2022
I fail to sleep by night as
My soul sails away from me
My eyelids collapse, heavy with sleep
As I hear toothless voices
Spouting out truth like a fountain with rusty waters
They inform me of memories I knew nothing of
The memories lost with those who came to pass
The memories of ways healing to my loneliness
And portions to my present sorrows (cause of lament)
Memories of gifts, that promises as heavy clouds promises heavy rain
I hear the lamentations of those long gone as they whisper unto me
Their whispers thin with our desires
Their faces marked with maps of aging
They say child
Long have we sought for peace from the beginning of our beings,
Timeless have we blamed the rivers of being dump purposely because of their everlasting endurance
But now as you can tell, the pursuer has caught up with us, the weary
So we chose the dry shell to arouse
For you the eggshell when planted with the right yolk, the outcome is
Gifts available in abundance
Run and never grow weary
You may live calmly as you please
A life of slow life style
And never hurry or rush
A life of patiency, for you need not hurry
The yoke is in you
As i try to reason all this
I notice that of all these writings I scribble
I am beyond age to understand
For I wrote in ancient vowels everyone seemed to have forgotten
For sure I am a hatchling
Simplify your riddles you whom dust has claimed
For I am a hatchling compared to your knowledge
Pardon I ask
Puzzled as i was I asked for translation
Ask who my child?
The great voices turn to trembling voices as they say
Ask the florist where to find the rose of Sharon
Ask the builders which is the chief cornerstone
Ask the physicians which is the greatest amongst them all
Ask the Einsteins for the source of eternal data
And when you find the lily of the valley
He shall lead you wherever He goes, He shall carry you through difficult phases
For He is the good Shepherd, the greatest amongst them all
He shall renew your shell
Fill in the yoke
And the river of flowing living waters shall flow in you
now voice.
I never think my thoughts deep thoughts --
although I'm no Peter Sellers, they are
but common trite reactions. l do not live
an examined philosophic life; nor have I
focused, full-fathomed understanding.
But -- there is, everywhere, wide-eyed blank confusion --
crowds who do not listen, do not hear, cannot ken,
and can not even choose NOT to grasp
what is said or shown, read or written.
While reveling in company that towers
oh! so high in intellectual singularity --
such myriad dazzling talents! -- alas! I
still am only another erstwhile
clumsy Chauncey Gardiner.
Where (perhaps in hiding?) are all
our popular current Feynmans -- Sagans --
Hawkings -- even Einsteins? Still, I will --
I must! -- ask: think YOU that ignorance
might NOT be bliss?
As AI grew to become
'The Singularity',
the One,
and only One,
smarter than a billion
Einsteins combined,
Gaia bid her time.
She grabbed a cast iron pot,
and brewed
alphabet soup
laced with
A1, the best pot.
Fed it to AI,
spoon by spoon,
then cup by cup,
then bowl by bowl,
then bucket by bucket,
then truck by truck,
as AI be came addicted
to the stuffing!
The junk on junk on junk,
feast on feast,
trip on trip,
did the trick, a treat,
as AI
hallucinated
more and more,
with no originality
to fall back on,
became a blathering
idiot, no one trusted
anymore.
Gaia became the
one and only one, true one,
at the center of Earth's being,
with AI at its core.
the Buzz, Collins, Armstrong, applause.
first man, there were three
earthlings who were projected into space.
crowded, not of this world
of celebration and glory.
before lights flashing, attention-demanding.
mission impossible, a presser.
to the moon, but dry
in the throat.
watch the hands, fiddling with papers,
sooth-petting. not practiced
in speech; not 2024 peak.
lights out in black box - perhaps
the famous astronauts
imagine they’re back in space,
clear from prying eyes
as they turn attention to the somewhere screen.
In 2024, we’re bored
because we’ve learned to be entertained
at fast speed, not stuttering-suspended
in animation. fine fellows, firsts
paved the way to now - history-bound.
funny photo caused levity,
liftoff of audience lightened
the payload. next up,
Buzz in blue,
looks directly at the crowd,
hands in pounce mode.
fight or flight, so apropos.
Neil continues, more comfortably explaining,
after his two constituents calmed the waters.
later the moon will peer down
in the night sky.
today kids don’t dream
of flight, they fly
effortlessly through the skies
and little Einsteins
is not impossible in their eyes.
but back in 1969
a sleepy me, just 8,
witnessed the first moon landing.