a sugar maple leaf slips free
counting toward One proof
the Seven Mysteries
God, I count prime gaps
I watch prime numbers growing
only primes orbit
a rule sends one step
loops return periods double
recursion counts One
an iteration
within fluid smoothness frays
water turns inward
can you see the curve
study elliptic rank shifts
findings test the rank
questions spiral out
unknown patterns circle back
pi bends into sight
a proof can be checked
still search cannot prove it now
checking outruns search
every loop turns east
the count folds back into form
through form, God's Haiku
the sugar-maple leaf settles on frost
children of the corn start to awaken
.
'1' waits.
Before primes.
The seed of counting.
The primordial monad.
The missing unit from which all numbers grow.
I am one, that I am, raised to each power, I'm one.
Multiply a prime by one, the prime remains, while the one waits outside.
One is one, the unity source of all numbers, the '1' before the first prime.
The primal, primordial unit of counting — it's the one and only one, it's never prime.
Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air
Would it be better to die and not be stressed
Or to live but forever be depressed
This is a common thought I've had
But I came to realize that this thought was stupid on my behalf
Stress is apart of life
You just have to push through it until you get to better times
That's why you shouldn't slit your thought with a knife
And just keep pushing for those primes
A bard born to a muse is full of song,
for he imbibes on the milk of her breasts,
a suckling babe that's inspired 'ere too long,
to pen refrains, lines, and this sonnet no less.
When inspired, songs of bravery are plentiful;
and words of chivalry gallop on page
like gallant knights to damsels most beautiful:
to him, Poesy never knew a greater age!
But bards worth their weight in gold soon realize,
that one must learn how to be their own muse,
for the muse can choose to not exercise
her power (and what choice have we if she refuse?).
Like the primes, the muse leaves and disappears,
as the bard's years increase past life's hemispheres.
True beauty, indeed (to all number-theorists),
reveals the distribution of the primes.
Beauty, too, is courage, the defiant fists
of a defender that we praise in rhymes.
Beauty are oaths, that Prince Hector all times
keeps to shield city, child, and princess bride;
or King Priam's grace for thoughtless Paris's crimes,
rather than wrath for his treach'rous regnocide.
What beauty is not, is Euclid mortified,
if Riemann's Hypothesis's not in sight,
or the Zeta function's proof verified
(for the spread of primes) gives zero insight.
But beauty is what frames your lovely face:
which even shames Helen of the Trojan race!
seed
aloft,
lands lightly,
sends roots below,
sprouts into sunshine,
and, as the seasons pass,
becomes a great sycamore,
while, below, a boy lies face up,
and reflects under its swaying limbs,
"a climbing tree is not built in a day".
tree
regards
a young boy's
strong, supple limbs
on a summer's day.
both of us, in our primes
he thinks, shading the spry youth,
cooly offering his branches,
pondering the pervasive creature,
"you see tree climbing boys every summer".
My mind could well from a million alts choose:
Marvel at beauty of that moonless sky,
Re-live that meandering slow boat cruise,
Recall fragrance from her love wafting by,
Re-enjoy bluebell blossoms of late springs,
I could have dwelt at her demurring dimple
Which, seems to show deeper dent when she sings,
And whilst at it, could have delved on her ample
Presence— any of her prime beauty spots,
But worries weighed in, crowding out my joys,
Why, but I kept on dotting needless dots,
Not on the pleasant dream, what it destroys,
Which, made me twist and turn in bed n times,
Dwelling on life’s peripherals, not primes.
__________________________
Sonnet |01.02.13, revised November 2024|
Prime numbers are my favorite digits
Weird digits no method to date finds-them all
6n+1 is prime, n is non-real number
Primes are like sands on a beach, infinite
Blest threes in math thru religion ,intricate
Prime numbers are my favorite digits
Fives are feet, toes human senses as we see
Pentagrams, and starfish arms so much beauty
Weird digits no method to date finds them all
The Seven Kings of Rome and the seven seas
The Sieve of Eratosthenes method does please
6n+1 is prime, n is non-real number
In the back yard they speak
Hush! They sleep. Do not ever I do
Not weep for them. No I never speak for
Them. My cats in the backyard are
Tranquil. They are each individually
Unique! Yes they are! And sometimes
Travel far for food. They greet eat
Return satisfied they play fight tumble.
And purr wrestle and pure they are
Delight! The ancients believed them
To be sacred. There they have laid
With the fallen in TOMBS and or
Pyramids sealed! This real I feel!
These felines are primes of nine
Lives Prim pure puuurfeeect EXISTENCE!
Simplistic care for these SACRED
With NO RESISTANCE! They sleep
Now. In the back quiet BEINGS this
EXPERIENCE. They sleep. Huuussh!
In the backyard. Hush huuuussssh.
VBR Black Panther! Val
JET Black Answerer! Big Black CAT
ROARRRR!
I draw tadpoles, in ponds off back roads
With black coals that have no color
But when the Sucker is finished
They think I'm Van Goh's Brother
My painting style is Zig Zag
Diagnol Smother
You turn off the lights
I turn on the starry Nights
Natural Wonders Under Astro covers
Stars with names & there last known numbers
One thought at a time, One dot at a time
One possible race, Whos Drawing the line
Beginnings and endings probably combined
Indivisible like positive primes
Impossible ties to cut
Remarkable rises up
Nautical streches out
& The inaudable Silence What was that
The lush green moss that clothed
rocks and collared the base
of trees has begun to turn
a sickly gray and peel away
into powdery clumps. Nearby,
the contents of an old pot half filled
with water that had harbored
a menagerie of life all winter
has been distilled to dust.
Roots now rummage deeper
for water and where gulps fed exuberant
growth, small sips barely keep
a self culled canopy of leaves alive.
Life turns inward towards its core
and slips into a kind of trance
deep in its own shade,
hidden from summer's heat.
Further away beyond fences,
the bush primes its fuel. On hot days
a blue haze of eucalyptus oil hangs
in the air. Senses strain on raw nerves
to catch the first whiff of smoke
or the distant wail of a siren.
If I were a bird love would be my wings
My flock would be of hip hop
Allow me to cruise sky blue white streams
Without fear of flying treetops
And oh the blackbird songs I prophetically sing
Would I sing just as lovers do
Mating season is never in winter time
Yet frostbitten love warms a fool
Romantic rendezvous red as fine wine
Love peaks primes we win and lose
If I was a cave would you explore
All my dark places to find peace
Would you have amber hope for
Love inside of both of us deep
What do you dream of amour
If I was a dream I would be odd
Feverish romantic and enchanting
I would feel like holy love of God
With all souls delighted dancing
We would see the heavens and stars
Alas I am but a human poet
Using my heart as a green vase
If I didn’t say would you know it
Love is my garden and faith
plants the seeds of eternity hope is.
Four on the Floor
Lying between primes 3/5/7
4x4 cube drives over
waka, haiku, senryu, tanka,
to chime, sublime eloquence.
A dark flame
bites at the edge of my existence
It burns cool the tips of my fingers
consuming moments once held as treasures
Like a broken clock, with its second hand stuck
costing me time.
I sit alone, next to a spent lead bullet
buried in the root of an old oak tree
on a day that doesn’t deserve 24 hours
12 minutes from a 6 round bender
bound for a 3 am train
holding a smoking barrel
accompanied
by an empty copper shell
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.