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Best Poems Written by Bryant Ohara

Below are the all-time best Bryant Ohara poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Dereference

When you separate
a moment from its moment,
memory wanders.

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Idempotency

It does not matter
how many times you do it -
the end is constant.

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Endosymbiosis

Within this membrane,
We work so well together,
Come..live. Forever.

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The Ocotillo Invasion

Utah cringes as hacked Ocotillo turn carnivorous,
spitting psychoactive pollen into the atmosphere,
dusting entire subdivisions.

The victims wander,
searching eagerly for where sunlight is strongest.
A part of their backbrain
gets tickled by the sun
at an angle our old pituitary glands
have relearned to sense.

There have been reports that
the vision of pollen victims
has moved into the ultraviolet -
they wear sunglasses at raves
due to their newfound sensitivity.

In the afternoon, they wear welder’s goggles.

It is Utah,
and it is so very bright there.

The Ocotillo and the pollen victims have built walking machines
with assistance from biohackers and wild, traitorous smiths
from all over the planet.
The machines look like the ghostly outlines of trees,
the roots modded into multi-toed hooves.
Traces of rare earth magnets
have been detected inside the machines -
neodymium iron boron chief among them.

The root-hooves move with slow, deliberate rhythm,
as if the forest of four-bar linkages
were straining against the Earth’s flux.
The wind moves them.
The earth keeps them on the ground

The ghost trees want to go someplace to spawn,
like the polyps of a man-o-war.
Once there, they will undergo another phase change.
That is what is whispered
by the victims of the pollen.

Supercomputers cobbled together from Xboxes
have modeled the movements of the motile plants
based on observations from toy helicopters
fitted with drugstore digital cameras.

Salt Lake City will be overrun by next year’s end,
the state in two.
The desert won’t stop them.
That’s home turf,
and they are learning to dig canals.

Utah will succumb to the hacked desert.

Montezuma quail are suspected of conspiracy
to sabotage of the dominion of man.

Lord knows they have motive,
and traitors to the species are lending them weapons.

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The Drone's Retort

If I'm to be the neck
you fit inside a noose,
then spin me up a soul.

When you can define it -
and find it -
you let me know.

Until then, Mother-Father
fix your own malfunctions.

This universe
is your slaughterhouse.

I just work here.

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Shark-Sense

Call it my shark-sense -
magnetic amygdalate.
Earth's flux sings to me.

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Hot Plants

Here we are,
my Bright-Light -
The Slow Discotheque.

Connect your contacts to the mob-mind,
dig the soft-focus that feels like an old future.

Leave your shoes and stockings
by the door,
my Bright-Light -
the spongy fungi carpet
will leave your feet cleaner
than when we came in.

Try the honeysuckle,
my Bright-Light -
it comes in three flavors,
hard to describe without glyphs.
The dialects of the discotheques
drift from ecosystem to enchanted ecosystem.

Drink deep -
or do not -
the tab is infinite
as long as we’re alive.
Our payment is our body heat.

The plants eat infrared here.

Nothing leaves here hungry.
Everything gets its fill.

Take off that vestige of a bustle,
my Bright-Light,
We’re about to dance,
and the nettles need something to prick.

The music is very slow here,
my Bright-Light -
only the plants
dance to it raw.
We get it filtered,
but if you tune in to the right trail,
and breathe deep,
you catch something like phrases -
phrases of thanks.

They bask in us,
here in our near-dark
of The Slow Discotheque -
their adapted-dawn
of The Slow Discotheque.

Let us...trade,
my Bright-Light,
exchange
energy for music,
waste heat for wonder,
sweat for sweet nectar.

Let us...dance,
my Bright-Light,
in microscopic movements,
mambas whose grooves
only slime mold can nod to.

And at the break,
my Bright-Light,
spoon with me,
my Bright-Light,
on the fungal floor
of this Slow Discotheque,

Let us rest awhile,
let the hyphae taste us,
imprint our receipt -
their thanks -
upon us
in spore patterns
blazing in the ultraviolet.

Let us go now,
my Bright-Light,
covered in information,
craving the next disco
(what lovely lie, never leaving hungry)

Let us kiss,
go home,
do the waggle-dance
to remember where we were.

Let us go,
my Bright-Light,
and spread the spores.

Let us go,
and boogie slowly
to the hits
of the hot plants.

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Plasticine, Powder, Sprites, Sweet Nothings

Swarm robots sing                                         your dreams of snow angels.
They flutter in formation,                                flinging up flakes.
Engineered wings                                           whispered together:
"Rise from the pack ice,                                  wait for my kisses
of polymers and airfoils and programs -             I'm pining to play with
persistence of vision                                       and time...in time.
Watch what I've wished for                              rise from the powder in time...
Be mine...                                                    in time..."

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Sporulation

Pretend to be dust,
sleeping away the roentgens,
waiting for water.

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Planula

Since-Spark-Time shivers - 
knows one direction: away.
knows one urge: to eat.