I am my own instrument,
Not an object, but I speak blunt,
Streets run through me like they’re running out of time,
To doubt a mind is toxicity boxed into a paradox,
Tear approximately into me to make an era stop,
Errors got us programmed with the wrong data,
The wrong place at the right time might chime our own doom,
I’ll pluck the strings they tie me with to make my own tune,
The throne room raided and riddled by maidens and fiddlers,
Laid in the middle is the crown for the taking,
The sounds that we’re making are the only things to listen to,
Just listen…
Tag: poem
Through The Screen Door, by Dominique Doutre
My favorite color only happens once a day.
It’s that moment right at sunset as the sky changes from blue to grey.
The light that kissed the treetops has faded from the leaves, pulling away his warm fingertips.
The color can’t decide if it’s blue or grey or simply light, tiptoeing the edge of night and day.
The color feels like solemn emptiness and acceptance that the day is over. Do we rejoice? Or am I full of dread? Of emptiness? Can one feel full on emptiness?
I sit watching the day wind down and listen to the birds through the screen door, all while my favorite color sits in the sky.
While the sunset oranges and blushy pinks cling to the clouds for brief moments and then vanish, my favorite color watches quietly.
And for one moment, once a day, right at sunset as the sky changes from blue to grey, I feel a little less alone.
The Climax…, by Jo-Ann E
You’re yelling now.
The veins in your neck
Popping out as if they’re ready to attack me
Right then and there.
I sit on the bed as I watch you pace back and forth avoiding eye contact.
Can’t help but feel the tears gathering themselves, blurring my view
The knot in my throat ready to take over
Common sense, love, and empathy go flying out the window as I hear the words coming out of your mouth.
I open my mouth to interrupt you but I go mute. Out of fear.
Fear of our future. Fear of getting hurt. Fear of not being able to recognize the person that I claim to love. Fear of falling out of love.
So I stay quiet. Let it out.
But remember….
remember that a sponge can only be full for so long, until water starts spilling out of every hole.
random forests, by Mark Tiegs
we are in the random forests
we are. leo. adele. Ho[4][5] and Amit and German [6] in order (Fujitsu now)
we are random forests
we are decision trees. tree bagging (Main article: Bootstrap aggregating)
predictions for unseen samples x’ can be made by averaging the predictions
from all the individual regression trees onx’
we are from bagging to random forests
we are in the 7000 oaks
we are documenta 7 (joseph beuys)
we are 7000 oaks
we are the basalt stones pointing to the oaks
predictions for unseen situ (situationist international (not regression trees))
we are from random forests to 7000 oaks
If Walls Could Talk, by Christopher Kent
If walls could talk,
they’d hear a man
breathing all alone
as he stares longingly
out the window
watching a young robin
build her cozy nest
for a family quickly coming.
If walls could talk,
they’d hear the shuffle
of routine feet
assisting the man
from the chair to bed
and back again,
and the barrage of insults
issuing from a man
exhausted from sitting
for so long.
If walls could talk,
they’d hear an old man
fumble with his phone,
punching in the only
number he knows,
waiting and hoping
to hear her voice.
“Maybe tonight,”
they hear him whisper,
but they know the truth,
that number’s been
disconnected for three years
and it’s only the dementia
keeping the old man’s
love and drive alive
in this quiet nursing home.
If walls could talk,
they might say,
“I’m sorry
your robin’s flown away,
but it’s ok to let go
and fly too”
Masking Selish-nesses…?, by David Keen
-How should we feel about face masks, as it is not essential, like spacesuits…?
-But, re: numbers, for those in the N.H.S., on mere citizens, do they seem cute…?
-These people might well need them, having the COVID, or just being older, & vulnerable…
-But the fact they may shock, or endanger, us others, might make us then view them as trouble…
-If one needs them, you should get, & things will be good,
-That they’re available to you, as protection…
-But I wonder about before, & each office ‘uniform’,
Does it more shows some users should be ‘sectioned’…? (!).
An Intense Love for Literature, by M.S. Muhammad Nawfal
She is my beloved,
Whom I love indeed.
The sacred ideals have been buried,
That I wish men dig hurried.
she has drowned her texts,
in evil-free oceans.
The scholar bathes in stream of texts,
That flow through education.
He kisses the aesthetic ideals,
That came from the great mind.
She knows no death,
And no wars could steal her wrath.
The art sows saplings of humanity,
That bloom in heart of men without vanity.
And I smile with similes and play with personification,
I dine with diction and cry with characterization.
I melt with motif,
And I nurture my soul with narrative.
I have sucked the pill of madness ,
On literature in kindness.
And it is the bad subject of my relations,
Upon whose tongue it lays waste.
For it, I apologize you my dear,
Now let those sicked ears hear.
The lines of your art are the well-cooked biriyani,
That melt deep in the whispering stomach.
Your body has flowered the bunch of righteous,
That mentor the humanity in priceless.
Your pride has unscalable path,
As the great wall of China hath.
Some taste the fruit of it,
Some waste it on innocence as unfit.
The elixir of ideas it gives men,
That travel on minds amid demon.
Drug dealers are the deepest thoughts of it,
That faint me and feed me merit.
The art that has killed social evils,
Race, class and other unequals.
The sailors on it,
Has looked the wind of humanity.
If not, they are pseudo sailors,
On whom she never unveils her.
Some false followers among the greats lay,
Who make her preaching disobey.
And shall the crown of good sit on her head,
And shall rule the mind of good and bad.
Dear God, bless me to clutch her hand,
That shall give society the cherished changes with writing wand.
-M.S. Muhammad Nowfal
Wild imagination, by Ezzy Callender-Braithwaite
My frontal lobe crafts a path to find an apposite residence
for the fields of lavender provoked my limbic system kindling fine motor skills to
zoom into high gear swerving over Mount Everest’s most southern hemisphere,
Plummeting at warp speeds to crash perhaps into the rapid waterfalls,
But there is a tributary in Egypt’s river that’s swelling to the overflow,
Triggering the cortex to hover in excitement, like frantic butterflies fluttering in
unison,
Distressing the frontal lobe, how it throbs faster than the heart’s rhythm,
An impulse one too much! Darkness creeps quickly, dwarfing the thinking quotient
shutting down the speed of light,
Reverse!
River, mountain, lavender, butterflies, field,
The stroke of beauty vanishes, taken away, compromised, gone!
But the shell still exists, the light is on, that means someone is home! Knock Knock!
Any one home?
Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?
Can you follow my fingers from left to right, from right to left?
Smile for me, I see the droop on your face,
Let me show you an unframed picture, my daughter once wanted to visit this place.
I see by the sparkle in your eyes you recognize the lavender fields! Yes?
Take it easy now, be encouraged I will stay with you as you get back to where you
need to be,
We will need two special luggage, one for our clothes, the other for miscellaneous
tools and we are off!
Bring a blanket to keep you warm from the cold Himalayan nights
A waterproof suit for to keep dry when we near the waterfalls.
A measuring tape to record the length of Egypt’s river,
A net, to harvest the frenzied butterflies
Music to calm the palpitating heart and remember a dagger to cut loose this wild
imagination of yours.
Rise, by Larissa Xavier
Rise every day,
day after day,
once and for all.
Rise like the sun
from the dusk to dawn.
Rise like the ocean waves
moving up and down.
Rise like the trees,
which from seeds they arise.
Rise and shine.
And still,
like the air,
to the sky,
rise.
Rise from the ashes,
Rise from the horizon,
‘Cuz
Invariably you gotta rise.
Rise to the top
until there’s no other way
unless
to rise.
Rise and fall
all the time.
‘Cuz
at the end of the day,
we are all
risers,
early or late.
So rise up!
—
Larissa Xavier
http://www.larissaxlima.com
Am I dreaming, by JiR
Look,
Here she comes.
I look at her and ask myself,
“Am I dreaming”
It feels that way,
Sometimes…
I wonder if she feels it too.
I think she does.
What we have cant fade,
I tell myself.
She tells me that I feel like
home to her.
I smile,
and ask myself again,
“Am I dreaming”
She tells me she loves me,
She tells me she cares.
She calls me her flame.
And that she isn’t going anywhere.
I ask myself,
“Am I dreaming”
…
Its been two weeks since I last saw her.
Its been two weeks since I heard her say;
“Lets just be friends”
Look,
Where did she go?
She left,
and took my heart with her.
She can keep it.
Ill just sit here.
With this hole in my chest.
At least that doesn’t fade.
Ill just sit here,
And try to forget…
And I ask myself one more time,
“Am I dreaming”
-JiR
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