Today is 11/11/11, so today’s prompt is to write a poem involving math and/or numbers (I realize the higher you go in math the more abstract it gets). Anyway, have fun poeming today, because we won’t get to all meet up here again on 11/11/11 for another 100 years.
Here’s my attempt:
“11 Ways to Write a Poem”
One, find a metaphor hiding behind
a school bus. Two, tell the truth, or three, lie.
Four, paint a picture with words. Five, haiku.
Six, remind your readers you have the blues
in confessional voice. Seven, write form
poems that explain you’re a thunderstorm
of bad intent. For eight, experiment.
Nine, apologize for meanings not meant.
Ten, remind your readers apologist
poetry ain’t your thing. Then, make a list.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
Learn more about me, writing, publishing, and more at my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob.
*****
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ONE ON ONE
One. It starts with one.
When one is not enough,
another one is added.
One and one isn’t always two.
One and one can be one.
You do the math!
really like this – my mind imagining all the ones there can be
I’ve always loved math.
It really has been only recently that the love of words has taken over.
And…why would it not surprise me to find you at the number one spot today…with a poem about “one”?
So, does this mean you’re “The One”?
Number One at Number One on 0ne 0ne 0ne 0ne One One!
Short, creative and simple. I like it.
Great One, Walt. I’ve been one in a room full of ones often enough.
Loving, Walt! Great play on words.
On Buckling Shoes
One, Two…
The rhyme, taught eons ago,
runs pell-mell through my mind.
Buckle my shoe.
What’s a buckle?
Three, Four…
Velcro your shoe would be
more succinct, right?
Shut the door!
Why shut it?
Five, Six..
The sun is shining bright;
the air smells so fresh.
Pick-up sticks.
Is it autumn, again?
Seven, Eight…
Yard cleaning, if you have one,
is an exercise in persistence.
Lay them straight.
You’re kidding, right?
Nine, Ten…
A heap will do fine -
less OCD if you ask me.
A big fat hen!
Chicken soup, anyone?
Chicken soup and smiles…
makes me smile – love the sounds you deliver to our ear
Thanks, Jane! I had fun writing this one!
Great job Linda–lots of smiles and laughs–let’s hear it for heaps!
Thanks, Sara! I love “heaps”…heaps of hugs!!
Very clever!
I love chicken soup. It tastes like….SQUIRREL!
So, my sweetie says, too, Walt. He used to eat squirrel down in NC when he was a kid.
It took 12 or 13 to make dumpling soup for 3-4 people. The big ones were called boomers. He wonders if they are any bigger on the Great Lakes.
Lots of squirrels on north side of Great Lakes. Our dog has daily chases in the backyard!
I was always bad at math.
Have you no fingers that you may count?
Have you no toes that you may count higher?
“Everything Reduces”
You = me
seems like a balanced
equation
but we need to add me
to your side
to balance you out.
And you to my side
to correct
for the holes
in my life.
(me you = you me)
Canceling out
the common factors
we are left with
Us > 2.
How does that math work?
The math of people….ahhhhh what an endless ripple….no wonder they “invented” string and particle theories…. The simple numbers won’t suffice
Math is NOT my forte! However this equation looks like it gives a healthy balance.
Like this math a lot!
Highlights the strength in the constants in “Us” in the end after all the confusion in carrying out the “equation”
especially liek your getting in the phrase “common factors” – nice poem
Math is fun!
Walt wrote about one and one being one. You have pointed out that one and one is > 2.
AND…you’re both right!
Can I say it again (and again!?): math is fun!
Lovely, lovely, lovely!
That math works just fine. Nice job.
Jerry, That makes me dizzy!
Math is like that. You should have seen the first draft.
We add them to count seconds.
They compile to minutes,
then hours, days,
weeks, months and years;
A sequence of ever increasing numbers
to tally the measure
of one life
and one death
where we step
from this number-bound threshold
into an eternity
without numbers.
Janet~
I never did care for numbers much. I like letters.
Letters build words.
With words we can paint anything.
Haha Janet …. Wrote before reading and we hsve used same words to describe the similar sense of number limitation… A fault I beliieve in not somehow suggesting to the little verbal tykes that numbers could be infinitely creative we jut had to kearn the language first…. What a disservice it would be like a child mistaking the learning of the alphabet for language itself…
Love your perspective
especially the last lines.
“Letters build words. With words we can paint anything”
I like this poem though – seems numbers wored well for you today
When you study what you study and you talk the talk.
When you study what you study and you talk the talk.
every word out of your mouth becomes
about
” Who really is Shakespare?”
, and that math is your fatal flaw
That chocolate is your Achilles heel,
And “man that Sarah sure has an Electra Complex!”
when you study what you study, and you talk the talk
Don’t be surprized when He starts to mention
“log rhythms” and other such syntax that math majors do.
Delightful quirky take on the poet’s dilemma
enjoyed this read and the repetition serves well
Oh, Janet! I so agree! Love words…great poem!
slanting light
shimmered from high
mullioned windows
dancing dusty magic motes
as silver hair sparkled
that circle of kindergarten
children listened
as struck with a tiny
baton a hand held xylophone
colors bouncing primary
with each clear strike
three gleaming notes released
One – Stop
Two- Look
Three- Listen
And so it began
That first hour
Long ago
Shining
I love numbers and like this poem – especially the feel brought so well with the line:”colors bouncing primary/ with each clear strike” – the bounciness and sounds of kindergarten ringing once again
Wonderfully delightful! Reminds me of Miss Foster, my kindergarten teacher from long ago. Black hair, red lipstick and poodle skirts…she was wonderful!
Love this note of nostalgia, Dr. P.
Never much cared for numbers
Seemed someone always had
The blank faced
Sameness of answers
The words released the questions
To infinite possibility
On time the cleanness
the precision of numbers
Comes clear unlocking
Hmmm typo should have read “in” time …but “on” time different take
Okay, I’ll admit I stretched the prompt a bit:
Prayer for the Eleventh Hour
In the winter of my life, may I feel tenderness
for the face in the photographs, a younger me
before laughter etched the lines there.
In the end, may I feel no need to extract
death bed promises, holding hostage
those I love whom I must leave behind.
And at that eleventh hour, may I ease
out of this world, headed for the next
free of guilt for words unkind or unspoken.
what a generous and gracious prayer – wish the same – lovely rhythm lifting this
What a beautiful poem!
“In the winter of my life” <— perfect line/perfect beginning. I absolutely love this piece.
Prompts are meant to be stretched, Nancy. Good stretching!
I love this poem.
Great poem!
The dripped they fell
They danced on lips
And across the page
The words freely
Tumbled
As numbers stood
Calm
Still
Inscrutably
Themselves
Crisp description of your passion and the other
“Calm
Still
Inscrutably
Themselves”
Good one!
Maybe that’s why I like words so much more…the endless possibilities of words, and the crisp unmoving inevitability of numbers.
Oh, Nancy, that’s lovely! You can “stretch” any time you like!
)
Walt, I like your math!
Linda, you made me laugh.
Jerry/Chev – creative, confusing, fun, sweet.
Janet – lovely! You did alright with those numbers.
Billie – I like it! Married a math man myself — so I know what you’re talking about!
Pearl – some sweet ones. I can see clearly — those little ones in a classroom struggling with numbers.
Finally catching up after storm Alfred. Back later, to post & read — I hope! :-]
I never much liked numbers
I’m sure that you can tell
I thought they were a mystery
Till chastised to learn the right
Answers well
I never much liked numbers
To count the history up ahead
It seemed when counted in numbers
Too few until I would be dead
And so I kept my numbers
Tiny
Disempowered
Relegated
to the very bottom
of the pages of
the books
Read in numbers stead
I did not know what
Sweet smelling pink erasers
Existed for
Until told that I could not
Create my own answers
To number riddles anymore
*laughing* “number riddles” LOL
Infinity and beyond observation.
The world of math
isn’t always so
defined, though constants
are often factored in.
Even with exponents
and the best equations—
additions, subtractions,
divisions, mixed fractions,
Oh, did I mention multiplications?—
there are such things as pi’s,
no, not Granny’s pies!
Though we start at one from nil,
it surely gets abstract out there—
those grim negative integers
all the way up to infinity
really blows my faculties!
This is such a challenge, Robert !
Thanks for being relentless that we’d really squeeze our minds.
Sincerely
Oh and I really love “11 Ways to Write a Poem”.
Thanks! It was a fun poem to write.
Squeeze our minds is right. One day to the next, I must learn to jump each particular hurdle you have set out for us, Robert. Fun and taxing — and yes, mind-squeezing. ^_^
The Ongoing Tally
She marks the walls in five bar gates
one line for every day of marriage.
He tries to ignore it but can’t. They’ve crept
out of the bedroom into the hall –
railway lines for a zig-zag train at eye level.
He confides to his mates he wouldn’t mind
but she started on their wedding night.
They laugh and tell him to fight fire
with water; to mark the walls for every time they have sex.
When she sells the house prospective buyers are amused
by the frieze that runs from one end of the house
to the other but they’re confused by the single mark
on the unused side of the bed.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says with a smile,
‘That’s just my tally of lives.’
I must have read this four times. Love it. ^_^
Eight years ago, a couple had a baby
three years later, they welcomed another
the four lived together–learning and growing
laughing and discovering along the way
until the inevitable happend
the two kids were fine
but the Mom and Dad–
they lost their minds
LOL!
Raining Again
Day twenty-three and
counting now some fear
more water pouring down
soaking sore the core
beyond despair
hope for what is now
so unclear
hint of day twenty-four
on the rise, false
security of mud
as days pile on
adding always up
souring the hour
mud too thin to hold
a foot, the rocks awash
ground on the move
and us without one raft
some oars or wings to bear
our lives or spare this sweep
of once sweet rain
another day, counting…
Jane Penland Hoover
November 11, 2011
Beautiful, Jane.
11.11.11
Remembrance Day
Red and green wreathes
Colour the memorials grey
Lest we forget.
yes – we must remember
wonderful poem. simple, to the point.
Jane, Ina: Thanks!
Oops, sp should read “wreaths”!
if i
were Amish
would i
count on thee?
Pingback: PAD Day 11(11/11): Prompt: Numerical | 31poems
LEGS ELEVEN
The call her Legs Eleven, oh you may ask me why.
Well she met a chap named Arthur, yes; she met him on the sly.
Off they went to Bingo, played time and time again
never thinking they might be lucky, maybe win a game.
No, don’t get your hopes up, lucky they were not
they lost all their money, oh dear, quite a lot.
She left him, poor old Arthur, left him with tears
streaming from sad brown eyes, older than his years.
She laughed did Legs Eleven, showed no ounce of shame,
kept on playing Bingo, ‘til she won a game
at ‘Legs Eleven’ the last call, it was
so that became her name.
Basic Math
There are twelve days of Christmas, twelve steps,
Fifty ways to leave yours lover,
Eighty-eight piano keys,
Forty days and nights of flood.
There’s more than one way to skin a cat,
Eight or nine planets, depending on
Your science or sense of nostalgia,
Four humours, four seasons,
Two roads diverging in a yellow wood.
There are twelve apostles, then eleven,
Two cups to a pint, two pints in a quart,
thirteen stripes and fifty stars,
More countable than those flung across the sky.
It takes two to tango,
Two sides to every story,
And, according to conventional wisdom,
Two heads are better than one.
But there is only one you,
Only one you.
i liked that summation!
Three cheers!
Loved this one, Nancy! I could be said about you and every person posting here today. So many poems, so many poets…but there’s only one YOU.
This is so beautiful.
Two for tea in chilly Chi? Love this one, Nancy.
Wow! I love this one.
iPad wouldn’t let me edit, durn it!
It’s happening in two weeks, that’s thirteen days from today;-}.
Thankful Mathematics
The turkey weighs sixteen pounds eight ounces
with each person eating at least eight ounces, so that’s
thirty two servings, minus bones and fat,
for, let’s see, Jim’s eight or ten, Lynn’s two,
Gail’s eight or maybe twelve, and Bill, if he wants,
that’s twenty-five, but they may bring more
or show with less and all of them don’t like turkey, so
a ham, maybe, smallish, five pounds, but they’ll eat
more than meat, so the salads, potatoes, stuffing,
vegetables, casseroles, breads, pies, cakes,
gallons of sweet tea, coffee, and oh, dishes and
flatware, glasses, water and wine, chairs and table
enough for everyone, even the little ones want a chair
of their own, and we have onetwothreeeighteleven
thesixdownstairs that’s seventeen, two long stools,
so twenty-two, Gail can bring four folding chairs
so all of them can be gather thankful ‘round our table
like the Norman Rockwell painting, that browned bird
being delivered by yours truly, fat-cheeked and aproned,
beautiful. Everyone smiling and hungry, my loving
husband…where is he? Oh, no, I didn’t count us!
Tis the season for the chaos theory
See me smile.
I’m going to miss that kind of Thanksgiving this year. It will just be three of us–but I’ll cook enough to feed your crowd.
I know. Why do we do it?
Guesstimations
Pick a number
between zero and two
with one being me
and you being you.
Grab an abacus
if you must
(these things are complicated).
Factor in
the logarithms of my heart
the weight of your anger
the long and tired measure
of these many mournful miles.
Regroup
and consider by degrees
the length of this great divide
and your innate ability to
undervalue my worth.
Recalculating route…
What dumb luck that yours was the first poem today I’ve read since Robert’s grand beginning. De, I love it, the math of relationships a heady formula indeed. Wonderful.
Love it, as always. <3
Echo Taps
All the way to school, we see the small flags
stuck in the ground, each with its own number,
planted with dignity in stony soil,
anonymous integers adding up
the cost of sacrifice – a mother’s tears,
an empty room, a raft of nights wide-eyed
each one unique in this unbroken line.
Flag number thirty-nine is on our block.
I clutch my arms around me in the breeze
and watch a kid dressed in his Sunday best
hold his horn, fingering it nervously.
From some distant point, taps is echoing
towards us, from one player to the next.
A car pulls up, and the driver gets out.
We all listen, heads bowed, to the bugles,
Each one unique in this unbroken line.
At his appointed time, our young man plays
the aching beauty of an elegy,
gone far too soon, swallowed up in the wind.
This singular loss is enough for me,
a tiny glimpse into the greater pain,
and pride, of every family that serves
each one unique in this unbroken line.
Appropriate for the day, and movingly rendered, Andrew.
Perfect, Andrew.
a lovely piece, Andrew.
Beautiful tribute, Andrew.
Loss Division
She said, with a sad smile, and her hand on her bag;
‘One can’t be divided and still be whole.’
Never mind her divisions.
Work. Friends. Movies. Music. Art. Skiing.
Each more important than the next number
thrown at me. I throw back.
‘Two divided is not the same as one and one.’
I take her other hand softly, waiting for it to pull away.
I get the you’re-an-idiot look. I’ve seen it before
countless times.
My desire to sit and write and fret with words
‘divides us’, she says for the billionth time.
Her eyes are empty as she says it.
Dividing by zero can destroy the universe in a flash.
It destroys mine in something less than that.
Two divided by one, and some of what is left is gone forever.
Quagmire
It is day eleven
and I wallow
in 18,059.
Acceptable
according to NaNo norm,
but I feel the emptiness
of two days of zero
that stagnated
my 18,059
to 18,059
and 18,059
again.
Where is that elusive 1
that puts my fingers
again to the keyboard
and pokes my characters
awake from their slumber?
18,060,
you are my nemesis.
I feel your pain!
Use the number any old way to get you moving address phone number ..population will move you
11/11/11
This is a
day
to remember.
(a PiKu for Veteran’s Day)
Indeed it is, Paula!
Math or Numbers
Equations make my head hurt
Geometry gives me hives
Denominators and numerators
My me sick inside
Trigonometry should be illegal
Calculus a punished crime
Such subjects are very dangerous
For people as sensitive as I
A day like today is considered
A math lover’s ultimate heaven
But I’ll avoid all that math talk
Pondering eleven, eleven, eleven
Don’t Get It
“Math Suks” Jimmy Buffett
I never pursued the higher maths,
Algebra was manageable,
Geometry – well, I survived.
Calculus seemed to be a bit much,
Just saying trigonometry too much fuss.
Lucky for me calculators are common,
Since my brain has apparently gone to mush.
If it gets more complicated than
My magic adding machine can manipulate,
I have to admit,
I just don’t get it.
looking forward to reading all these math creations!
i had to make a picture out of mine, so if you’re interested…
http://taratylertalks.blogspot.com/2011/11/eleven-eleven-eleven.html
#1
Lift your foam finger,
point to the sky.
The world won’t need
to wonder why.
It says it all,
no doubt about,
how did you ever
live without it?
Not given freely
a place that you’ve earned,
reaching the top
with plenty to burn.
So point your finger,
raise it high,
you needn’t tell the reason why,
“You’re #1″
and here is another…
Probability of Publication
The probability
Of selection
By an agent
Is a relatively simple
Mathematical
Equation
Derived by the ratio
Of the number
Of queries sent
To the number
Of rejections
Subtracted from
The result of
The process of
Elimination
As it approaches
The limit of
One yes!
Delightful
Lessons in Creative Mathematics
Start simple. Don’t ask why, ask how.
Like, never divide the hours you work
Into your salary or count the number
Of pages of student papers you mark.
Never think virtual investments are real
Until the cash is in your hand–your employer
May be inflated by numerical magical realism.
Try to see beauty in numbers and
Play games with mathematics.
Add your earnings for ten years,
Stacks of ten-base angling for the ceiling;
Subtract living expenses and whims,
Like climbing uphill in sand, sliding down again,
Slow progress; apportion creatively,
Dividing years like fingers in a glove,
Each wanting its own warm portion.
Theorems solve problems, multi-dimensional
Understandings of the world laid down
Like carpet, like structures walled and roofed,
Like military costs divided by the dead and maimed,
By cities leveled, by platitudes and prayers–
A complicated formula, admittedly, but strategize!
Look around and see mathematics act and react,
Trapezoids walling in wide-mouthed circles,
While fractals lurk everywhere in broad daylight
Waiting to be seen, beautiful and repetitive,
Seemeseemeoverover, like notes grouping
Into harmonies too beautiful to hold,
The rhythms of the universe like sea waves,
Fold on fold, dancing, fingering the stars,
Tides pulled by the moon’s mathematics,
Like speeds sliced into time, lightning and
Thunder, eye blinks, breaths, heart beats…
First, follow the rules. Then try to be creative.
Start simple. Don’t ask why.
This makes me love the beauty of numbers, and I generally just shudder. Thanks, Jane, for a lovely poem and entrancing idea.
Domino said it beautifully…. You precisely eliminated the shudderingly stupid way so many of us use numbers to horrific disadvantage and illuminated the beauty instead! Bravo !
~FIBONACCI~
A
Way
Nature,
Creation
Exponentially
Sets sequence and number, its form.
Underlining pattern found in feather and flower.
Mottled coloration of beetles back, numbers residing in recipe for skin,
Scales, bone and blood, mystery behind muscle, heart feeling this chemical called love, invisible power surging;universal current.
The last three words on the last line belong in the line above them for the Fibonacci sequence of 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, (syllables per line or you can represent by amount of words per line). And the sequence can go on exponentially like this as long as one wishes to write. This is one of my favorite mathematical poem forms. I feel that there’s magic in using this pattern that occurs in nature.
’s to everyone!
I’m intrigued! Check this out ~http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/14/books/14bfibo.html
The real first line of each Fib is silence. I love this detail. I forgot also that the poem is actually just the first bit of the sequence being the 0,1,1, 3, 5, 8, and that it is a six line poem. Thank you for this link, pomodoro. No wonder it seemed so much harder than I remembered! lol Thank you for your comment!
I did a fib+reverse fib !!
I love writing fibs !
And as for the poem , i really enjoyed your words …
I’m glad you enjoyed, Nimue! Thanks a bunch!
I love the “fib” too…going up…and then reversing. I’ve also fallen in love with PiKu…do you know it? “Pi” (for the mathematical expression of 3.14)…so three lines (like the hai”ku”) with syllabication of 3/1/4. FUN!
yeah i know PiKu ! i even attempted it for a prompt i think .. cute it was
Thanks, Paula! I’ve never heard of this one. I love haiku so I bet this would be fun too!
My post today was PiKu.
That is one beautiful poem Hannah! Nature is a wonder.
It surely is and I so appreciate the comment, Sara, thank you!
All I can say is “wow!”
You’re welcome <3
13 Stairs
January, 1949.
Wind steered sleet sideways.
Russia had the nuclear bomb
and the Cold War dance shuffled on.
My father drove through the tempest,
not thinking of tensions between East and West
or imagining men in cloth caps foraging for food.
He came home dog-tired and scrubbed off foundry grime.
Maybe he sat on the couch in front of the Philco,
eating his wife’s chicken soup and
listening to Perry Como croon,
‘A you’re adorable, B you’re so beautiful…’
He might have smiled when she settled close,
and put her hand over his,
warming the space between them.
So they did the washing up,
then climbed the stairs
without words.
this is amazing, so simple and vivid.
wonderful details that paint a sweet portrait of a life. love it.
This is beautiful.
cool prompt , really cool poem robert !
(Nanowrimo character’s pov)
Doing the Math in Maryland
I’ve traveled to ten states
for a total of about 2,000 miles
in eleven days.
I have 40 states,
about 9,000 miles plus two flights,
and seventy-nine days to go.
I’ve eaten seven foods I’ve never eaten,
have done ten things I’ve never done,
and have met three new friends.
I’ve been adopted by one dog.
I do my daily five—
Pray and read the Bible
Write a poem
Do an hour of exercise
Do something kind
Do something fun—
and I’m learning
no matter how many people
I add into my life
and no matter how many leave
I’ll never be just one,
for You are with me.
Here you go for today:
11-11-11
http://poems.truckpoetry.net/2011/11/11-11-11.html
“i”
At a certain point, there’s a leaping spot,
a pier over a quiet, dark lake, perhaps,
or a building ledge so high that the ground
is hidden by clouds and fog. My friend
stood at the edge of a bed of glowing coals
and made a brave decision not to walk
across. I had made a brave decision
to walk across, hearing the sound
of glowing embers crunching
beneath my feet, aware of heat
and miracles and inevitable motion forward.
There’s a decision point in math
and in the calculus of how we live
where we face what is not real
and choose to keep our feet planted
where we have put down our roots
or step into a state of not knowing
that will haunt and bless us
for the rest of our lives.
Me, I don’t know. I can’t remember
ever knowing. My practice is reminding
myself that my path is not the better one,
but that it’s the only one for me.
I understand the i in math,
the imaginary number that generates dragons
and tesseracts and the complexity of my love.
I can’t tell you what I found in the lake
or passing dizzyingly down through the clouds,
but I can assure it’s not fatal,
and not safe.
Oh, this is nice – dreamy and thought provoking. Good one, Daniel!
Wow Daniel, that is one amazing poem. So much beauty and wisdom. I really love the phrase “my practice is reminding myself that my path is not the better one, but that it’s the only one for me.” Well said. The less “Us vs Them” the better
Exquisite Daniel KUDOS.., ” not fatal….not safe”. Mhmmmmm
Wonderful and wise. Thanks, Daniel.
Daniel, This one intrigues me.
if
you
ever come
back asking
where and hows to me,
i hope my silence refuses
even recognition
of feelings
invoked
by
you
A fib for the maths based prompt. Fib has a syllable count of 1-1-2-3-5-8 .. reverse fib is reverse !!
Nice fib!
Pingback: About Those Numbers | Soul's Music
My numerical ditty may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/11/about-those-numbers/
Thanks
Math makes me silly. ; )
Geometrically Speaking
I may be square,
Perhaps obtuse,
Isosceles, hypotenuse,
Try any angle,
Circle around,
Parabola to solid ground,
Build a pyramid,
One, two, three,
Ovoid the obvious, cylindrically,
What can it be? A shape? A sham?
I say, parallelogram.
How fun…would be great to use in teaching these terms…
LOL!
AHHH….this had me giggling!
Ok, so all those children’s rhyming poems that are in my brain archive sort of took over today. Edward Lear, a bit of Seuss, a dash of abstract and abstruse, a pinch of blue and of chartreuse…a mathematical tinted rhyme that plays a bit with passing time…I tried to stop but don’t you know it’s part of being a silly poet…
When You Are Half-Past 64 …
your months will number 7-7-4
your weeks divided now by 3
produce eleven hundred twenty-three
in days that makes you very old
half a million hours, I’m told
thirty-four million minutes too
two billion seconds when halfway through
to your next birthday, sixty-five
that’s still just nine in doggie life.
The clock-tick quicksteps
down the minutes …
bypasses you, but you’re still in it,
(how old is that, in lives of Cat?)
Next year I’ll still be nine in dog
and what is it in squirrel or hog?
Numerology says my number’s 3,
a cryptic triptych seems like me.
It quests, it says, for destiny
with words, which might have been
absurd, but as I poet, you’ll have heard
that words are usually my zest, unless…
is this another test?
Carol A. Stephen
November 11, 2011
I liked the imagery.
“Cryptic-triptych” was irresistible. Good work!
Brilliant!
It really is brilliant.
Thanks to each of you for your kind words. Sorry to reply so late… I am a bit behind schedule…well more than a bit! Carol
Summary
Peace may be
unlikely, but
War, by any
accounting, is
just bad math.
short on so on target
Agree!
Jane, you nailed it! so much impact with just a few words–count yourself talented!
Okay Jane you are my WOW of thevday…formal reasons stated above
Perfect poem, Jane.
11/11/11
Three prime numbers, identical, in a row,
palindromic – read the same, backwards, forwards,
upside-down, right-side up, or in the mirror -
it happens only once in one hundred years,
But does it have any real significance
beyond the symmetry? Numerologists
may find some hidden meaning. Doomsday-sayers
may tie it to some end-of-the-world event.
But its real importance happens every year –
today, the numbers stand straight as soldiers in
formation, like the veterans we should thank.
[Taking today's prompt rather literally, you might say. Also, this poem is eleven lines of eleven syllables each.]
good work and a good word to be taken in extended out to them again
Excellent. A bit unfair raising the bar that high though.
I wouldn’t call it raising the bar. I’d say it’s more like turning the dial to 11.
Nicely done Bruce! The ending is perfect.
And we bloggers are out there doing just that….I’d like to re-post this, if that’s OK with you.
wonderful…straight as soldiers in formation. thanks
Time Turner
I tried a cascaded nonet form which is series from 9 to 1 and then back up to 9 again in syllables
It was a fun exploration!
that was fun to read – I really like the formatting.
Unequal Equation
“Have you forgotten yet?…
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.”
Siegfried Sassoon
We should be ashamed in truth,
If it is only today, this eleven of November,
That we take the time to truly
Remember
Those that have marched and those that died.
We spend our days in our pursuits,
Most often so busy that we fail to
Remember
That this freedom we cherish
Is paid for daily with sacrifice and blood;
Bought by the Soldier who only asks that we
Remember.
Lucky we are that at no time in our history
Have our warriors lived by our civilian calculation
Where reward and sacrifice must be of equal value.
Remember.
*a poor first draft of what I would like to say, but wanted to make sure it got posted*
Pingback: It’s A Date | TrollPants 2.0
It’s A Date
Hi, Grandmama! It’s me, again,
One year/month/day since 10/10/10.
Today’s our fifteenth Triple-Date
Since we began to celebrate
The month/day/year trifecta in
The seventies (not quite Grade 10
For me); was there a sixteenth, too,
On six-six-sixty-six? Well, you
Would know that better, far, than I
Since I was just a tiny guy
Back then, not yet turned four years old
(Non-prodigal at math, I’m told).
We’ve one more date before the drought
(Or Mayan End of Days). No doubt
We’ll both be here to share the joy
On 12/12/12: The little boy
Whose grandmama delights him (me)
With silly number tricks, and she,
My children’s Grandma Helen, who
[*cough*] WHOM we love so much (that’s you)!
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
That was fun!
Oh how fun! I’d never thought of it, but the month/day/year trifecta is a real thing. Hilarious. ^_^
Silence Please
Oh. Twilight Zone, he thought,
As lunch service stopped
Waiters paused where they stood
And all was silent for 2 minutes.
He was not a student
Of war and the fallen brave.
I love this! It has a quietness to it, too.
Thank you, Posmic.
Ever since the marvelous De mentioned fibonacci, I’ve been intrigued. Thank you for the perfect prompt Robert. Your poem was wonderful, in countless ways
Here’s my Fib–
Countless Waves
Count
Waves
Rolling
In, spreading
Across broken bits
Of rock rolled constantly
By waves in the sea, see how it can be–once so big
Now not at all, like problems and tears large things disappear when counting waves rolling in
nice!
Thank you Genevieve!
Celebrating Eleven
1 – One stands alone on a pedestal
2 – Two cocks his head like a periscope
3 – Three turns his back revealing only his buns
4 – Four shows his bicep can lift near a ton
5 – Five peers out with a sharp-eyed watch
6 – Six rolls her back because it is all too much
7 – Seven blocks the sun with his canopy
8 – Eight goes round-‘n-round to infinity
9 – Nine looks around with one great big eye
10 – Ten can’t resist his grandmother’s pie
11 – Eleven is the celebrated number today
Because two-one’s stand together and together they stay!
An Ah-Ha Reality
1+2=3
2+3=5
3+4=7
4+5=9
5+6=11
6+7=13
7+8=15
8+9=17
9+10=19
Math is kind of like relationships
If there is one odd one in the couple
You know that the sum of their existence
Is always going to be odd, rarely supple
This is part of a series of science fiction poetry.
Date Unknown
What day is it, I’m wondering,
back home on Mother Earth?
We’re far away in outer space,
far from our planet of birth.
All time is relative, I’m told.
On board, time’s ticking quickly,
while back on slowly turning Earth
time trudges past less thickly.
So back on Earth, my sis-in-law
is getting older faster
and if we ever meet again,
I’ll grin and swish on past her.
This one is from 2009. I’ll write another later, when the little munchkin is home, and the day winds down.
Questions, Three
If I am hooked on counting,
Then I have questions, three.
Does that count as a hobby?
Or just as O.C.D.?
You say you counted only two,
When I had promised three?
Well, I just don’t know what to say.
Guess you can’t count on me.
Wrong Numbers
On 11/11/11 at 8:52AM
A siren wailed a warning
And the TV screen went black
Several seconds later
A message began to crawl
“Just a Test” was the message’s text
As once more it disappeared
Into the big black screen .
For the benefit of those
Who saw the screen too late
The message was repeated
And in a little while
A re-run of the first warning
In stylish black and white
As to the actual message
(what we should do in the event
of a real emergency taking place)
That one was never sent.
A super quick haiku…
Penn State Coaching Staff:
Fire one, protect another?
This does not add up.
Oh. Timely. Sad. And no it doesnt add up. What WERE they thinking?
11/11/11
For me this date holds something much different,
An anniversary of a common life saved –
For if left alone to poverty – doomed emotionally indifferent;
Blood let saved my life, and my recovery ever fervent;
Without shield and without honor I braved -
For me this date holds something much different.
Little did they know the light shown onto me was brilliant;
Though in this road, broken by others, I stood unpaved,
For if left alone to poverty – doomed emotionally indifferent.
In my heart and mind with him I had lodgment,
My life, with overcoming I am engraved,
For me, this date holds something much different -
A life to reveal what others kept hidden and cast judgment;
For my lengthy quest, in blood I stood laved,
For otherwise left alone – doomed emotionally indifferent
My words, quiet and concealed grew fluent,
In ignorance those small minds whom objected raved;
For me, this date holds something much different –
For otherwise left alone – doomed emotionally indifferent.
“Don’t ask me to do your taxes”
My fingers get lost in the upper row of
the keyboard.
I don’t think they were created to
ever play up there in the land of 1-0.
The digits may all be in order (how boring)
but for some reason, the twenty-six (not 26)
unorganized letters
in the next three rows
make more sense.
Amen Lynn, well said.
This poem speaks to me…I’m into fuzzy logic.
I seem to remember back in April, one of more poems about “11:11,” that time we always end up looking at the clock. I missed the morning one, but I hope to catch it tonight.
Sequence
It blazes along the hypotenuse of everything,
a certain theorem of a world made new,
all the edges illuminated now, awakened
with living logic, fresh fire. And now I hold
the key to everything; Fibonacci, tell me
how to make a sunflower, a pine cone,
show me the measure of your music and
I’ll dance to it in 0 1 1 2 3 5-step time.
Three Hundred and Seventy Nine
That’s the number of years
my family has been
in this country;
in fact,
they’ve been here long
before it was one.
Roger Terrill landed in Boston
in September 1632.
We may think of Boston
as it is now,
but at the time,
it was a rough frontier town
with few amenities.
And when he left Boston
that spring
to start a new colony
there were not even
dirt roads.
It was likely
a roughly blazed
track.
They found a place
for a town
and fought the wilderness
to hold on.
They built a life with
their own hands
and raised children
who carried on the
family name.
Three hundred and seventy nine
years ago.
Simple numbers really.
Haiku 11.11.11
One unfinished life
perched upon the precipice
of finality.
very nice
Thank you.
Math for an English Major
“Math has become
a nightmare
for Diana.”
The words on my
grade 3 report card
remain true.
Numbers
Sand grains on the beach,
Stars in the sky,
Drops of water in the sea,
What number could quantify the love of you and me?
NOTE: What? Are you rolling your eyes? I hope your blood surgar didn’t go up too high from reading that syrupy sweetness. It’s not my usual style, but I couldn’t resist. Well, after all these years, “Roses are Red” is still a well-known poem and circulates every Valentine day in many variations. Wouldn’t you like to get royalities on that little ditty? There is still a need for simple sweetness.
Sometimes you just gotta go where the muse takes you–even if it’s sweet–I love it!
One Short of a Dozen
First it was one, just me.
Then it was two when I married you.
Three, came a wee lill’ baby
Four, one baby more.
Five, a very lively puppy
And then a guppy on a bowl made in six,
And then seven and then eleven,
Until the family was just one short a dozen
That’s a lovely math equation
Thanks. I do however hate it when iPad changes words that I type. Oh well, I’ve corrected the blog version so it makes sense.
Utopian arithmetic
Subtract from official and elected thieves
add joy to many deprived lives
multiply the happiness of the dispossessed
divide the greedy from their loot -
the sum transforms the pipe dream,
equals infinity.
Wolw, what a great message, wrapped in a gentle package. Fabulous.
Viv, what a wonderful poem. I love “the sum transforms the pipe dream.”
Margin Notes (a higgledy piggledy)
Higgledy Piggledy
Fermat’s Last Theorem
remained unproven for
so many years
Though it was thought to be
Incomprehensible
Wiles and Taylor de-
serve all our cheers
– Cara Holman
One day I woke as if from a slumber and we were no longer
Two people heading our lives in the same direction, but
Three thousand light years apart with
Four lawyers and clerks between us. It took
Five hours of waiting and testimony for
Six years of marriage to be stamped as undone.
Seven we’d both once claimed as our lucky numbers.
PROBLEMS TO SOLVE IN THE HEAD
How many grains of rice, at 4 to the inch,
will it take to go around the earth at the equator?
How much of the earth’s land surface
will be occupied by 7,000,000,000 humans
at 1.5 square feet per person?
Multiply 7,000,000,000 by the human
birth-minus-death rate in 2012.
How many years until the surplus (humans
exceeding land) must live in the sea?
How many grains of rice, at 9,200 grains
per mouth per day, to feed them?
Tomorrow we’ll factor in pigs and sheep,
cats (do they eat rice?) and cattle, donkeys and
dogs; the supply of water to cook the rice….
Oh yes, that is a math problem we all must solve–nicely done Taylor
700 million miles an hour
How fast I must go
So as not to see you?
How fast must my heart beat
So that I can flee you?
How far must I travel
Before you’re my past?
As fast as light travels,
But I can’t run that fast.
Nicely done.
Thank you!
I can feel this one.
“Anniversary”
~ Fib poem
Four
years
ago
whispering
as the veil lifted
we felt November chill our skin.
(11/11/2007 was my wedding…this would have been our fourth anniversary…still picking up the pieces of that dream…divorced this past April)
Lovely Annie… this is a lovely delicate and sweetly haunting poem … “as the veil lifted …we felt November chill our skin” Terrific line… Lovely Annie-lovely poem
thank you PKP…
so sad so sorry
Cold + Lips =
Numb
Brrrr
January
Shiver
Wow, Dr. P. We were really in tune on this one!
Hi, all. I’ve been working real hard on another project for the past couple of days, but am still poeming. Here’s a very rough draft for today:
_________________________________
From Infinity to Nil
They huddled together like football players
this clique of five teens, or preps as one
mother coined them with eyes of sheer pride
while peers called them popular, attractive
and all of that fluff, the other four girls
(the outcast nerds) knew they were parasites
searching for hosts of approval and praise
three times the normal amount times two
but infinity wasn’t enough for their taste
so they sucked out the juice in each other’s
brains, stabbed their backs again and again
until only superficial smiles remained, nil.
In The Dawn of Ever
Sun rose fingered
the day to wake
in the dawn of ever
Fore the dusk of
numbered time
in the dawn of ever
Petaled skin
FIngertipped for first time
In the dawn of ever
each damsel danced
each strong thighed lad
strode through
the dawn of ever
climbed astride each gallant steed
galloped barebacked
heathered fields
In the dawn of ever
until a reaper rode in with a
gift – gracious taken with
open hearted joy
laughing innocents
hands unwrapped
that bottomless box of
numbers
floating, flying, falling oer
the heathered fields
on sweet shoulders
sudden bending
as strong thighed lads
grew sudden limp
and horses slowed
to walk
in the dusky death
of the dawn of ever
The Numbers Game
Counting –
The more there are, the more you count.
You subtract and divide, then you multiply.
Stats on this, stats on that;
Year in, year out;
You do the math.
Why?
You figure it out.
I – 2 Wonder . . . What is 1-4
(Pondering life through numbers!)
We all have an ultimately purpose,
As we find our place the world.
Even if situations make us fuss,
Magic is in life- unfurled.
Gifted with family, at least, one good friend!
And opportunities for health, wealth and means!
Tools and abilities if things suddenly end!
Food to eat like fruit, protein and greens!
One basic way to survive,
To play out all our human acts!
Just like bees heading straight for their hive,
We like to know who has our backs!
Yet, I am prone to wonder,
Why deep inside us all,
Exists a oneness, no lightning and thunder
In effect . . . the tall of our small!
It is just a presence,
A silent witness to life,
It can awaken every sense,
When allowed to, end any strife.
It is the one steady constant,
We really can’t deny,
Never will it rant,
Nor is it possible to lie!
It just stands high as love,
This truly is the peace!
It is what the one is made of,
Of that, we’re all a piece!
Once known in our heart,
We are grateful for the one,
Always the place to start,
When we have that . . .
Love has won!
Unfinished
I was born number 2
In a family of 8
Moved away when only 6
With my brother number 1
To my grandparents house
Just 38 miles South
On US Route 1
Mile marker 305
In the sticks
Of Northern Maine
In the little house we lived
For 5 years and then
Moved 1 mile North
When my Great Grandpa died
At the age of 78
In 1966
Still on US Route 1
Now at mile marker 306
In the sticks
Of Northern Maine
Just 3 years thereafter
My Great Grandma passed on
In the spring of 69
At the age of 79
The house was too big
For our family of 4
So we moved 12 miles North
To a small 2 story home
3 bedrooms and 1 bath
On the East side of Route 1
At mile marker 318
No longer in the sticks
Of Northern Maine
Then on a balmy August night
The 22nd, 1970
Just 18 days short of
His 60th birthday
God took the greatest man
I have ever known
Home
29 years later
The love of his life joined him
And they’re waiting for me
When my number is up
Kepler’s Constant
I would orbit you forever -
slow on the stretches,
winging into a fast curve as
I approach – just to catch
your admiration, make you smile.
But the constant is only constant
if the object of desire doesn’t change
and you have changed.
The pull is no longer there
and on this next round
I will go winging away
into the dark and the deep, alone.
Thanks to all my fellow veterans out there on this 11/11/11. May God bless you all.
The Veteran
Often left out
Often overlooked
Sometimes forgotten
Sometimes reviled
Many times cheated
Often put down
Sometimes a nuisance
Swept off to the side
Always prepared
No matter the risk
Standing for freedom
Standing for truth
Ready to sacrifice
For the common good
For you and me
An hero unsung
Always defending
Upholding your rights
On the alert
For the enemy’s approach
Ready for action
Ready to defend
Ready for battle
Ready to die
The veteran waits
For the country to call
Duty and honor
And freedom at stake
Protecting us all
With no thought of self
The veteran acts
For God, country and you
Thank you, and all the other vets, for your service.
Earl – the first stanza of your poem breaks my heart … may you never feel like this – thank you for being the kind of soldier you describe in the rest of your poem and continuing to live your life as the honourable vet you are – thank you.
Perfect Ten
One moment changed it all,
two people fell in love.
With a blink, their family of two became three
and then four,
five,
and finally six.
It makes for seven busy days each week.
Mom wishes she had eight or
nine, to fit everything in.
But regardless of messes and headaches from the noise,
life with them is a perfect ten.
Opportunity
One
opportunity
in a
hundred years
on the
eleventh
minute
of the
eleventh hour
on the
eleventh day
according
to the
eleventh
prompt
of
the
November
PAD
Challenge
of
the
year
two
thousand
eleven
Hey Shannon!
I give your poem a “perfect ten”.
Nice ending.
Be fruitful and multiply
God created one man.
Out of man
Came the woman.
The two became one flesh.
One couple.
One family.
Fruitful, multiplied
Seven billion.
Three little girls
(A triolet for my three nieces)
Kimmie’s goals are Krystal clear
We have so much Faith in her
She’ll be a nurse in a few years
Kimmie’s goals are Krystal clear
She will further her career
Those who know her will concur
Kimmie’s goals are Krystal clear
We have so much Faith in her
Numbers Game
You see numbers here and numbers there.
Crazy numbers are everywhere.
Numbers there and numbers here.
Numbers meant to create fear.
See gas prices rise and fall.
Wonder who controls it all.
Dow Jones market if you choose.
Wall street wins, main streets loose.
Numbers keep watch over you,
drivers license, S.S. too.
Account numbers are to thank
to track your money in the bank.
In the red or in the black?
Players numbers on their back.
Sports scores decide who will win.
Numbers making my head spin.
G.P.A.’s and S.A.T.’s
Student loan guarantees.
Credit card, installment loan,
bills for gas, water and phone.
Electric, cable, internet,
so many numbers I forget.
Taxes take most of the money.
It really isn’t all that funny.
By the numbers, play the game.
Still we need them just the same.
Three point one four one five nine,
A piece of pi would be just fine.
By Michael Grove
A Friday night
In 10 minutes, I will stand outside in the cold and cry.
In 30 minutes, the results will not be in.
In 60 minutes, my swollen eyes will tear again.
In 90 minutes, I will complete a scuff circle outside your room.
In 120 minutes, I will get another call from the woman who left you.
In 150 minutes, I will doze in the chair next to your hospital bed.
In 180 minutes, I will be consoled by strangers.
In 24 hours, I will write this off as someone else’s nightmare.
Numb, Brr! (a monchielle)
That first chill of winter
scoops wind into a scarf
that winds around your bones,
sending icy breezes
to some erotic zones.
That first chill of winter
Brr! Is fall really gone?
Trees are bare; it must be
true. The sky is grayed for snow,
I fear will come anon.
That first chill of winter
arrives with no fanfare.
No brass band horns resound.
I must get my coat out,
the blue one filled with down.
That first chill of winter
starts snowfall predictions
`bout the number of feet
we will have this season.
May I please raise the heat?
Great minds think alike and all that … Enjoyed your numb burr
Thanks, Dr. P!
A Little Balance Would Help (a fibonacci)
One
plus
one does
not make two,
when I compare check-
book balance to banking statement.
Four and Twenty
We really don’t say that anymore,
no more than we still say “four score and seven”.
So, for the record, it was twenty-four blackbirds
baked in a pie. The rest of it makes little sense:
who would sing a song about sixpence, anyway,
and what the heck is a “pocketful of rye”?
Rye bread? Rye whiskey?
Anyway, someone stuffed these birds in a pie
and baked it – obviously not long enough,
because when they cut the crust,
the little buggers came out singing.
Maybe someone didn’t follow the recipe,
or maybe it was an elaborate practical joke,
but it seems the king got a kick out of it,
though the novelty must have worn off
once he realized that two dozen blackbirds
were flying around his dining room.
After that, the story digresses –
the king counts his assets, apparently
in a building made just for that purpose.
The queen stuffs her face in the parlor.
And we hear nothing more of twenty-three
of those blackbirds, except for one
who seems to have revenge on his mind,
and attacks an innocent maid (who had
nothing to do with the pie prank),
as she hangs out the laundry,
pecking off her nose.
I hope she had worker’s comp.
Moskowitz Vital Statistics
Marriage #1:
Length of Courtship: 260 weeks
Length of Engagement: 63 weeks
Length of Marriage: 21 weeks
Age at wedding: 30 years
Children: 0
Regrets: Too many to count.
Marriage #2:
Length of Courtship: 30 weeks
Length of Engagement: 9 weeks
Length of Marriage: 467 weeks (as of November, 11, 2011)
Age at wedding: 39 years
Children: 3 (from spouse’s previous marriage)
Regrets: 1 (not marrying Anita sooner)
Aw, this is so sweet!
The Calculus of Flight
We board the plane and wait
for mechanical repairs, a fixed
point on the tarmac somewhere
along an x-axis near Boston.
For a good while “y” equals zero.
I always think of flying this way.
The captain informs us it might
be a rocky flight. The seatbelt light may
remain lit. We will intersect a powerful
front and turbulence could get tough.
The cowboy to my left is unsettled
by this news. I can tell he’s not a frequent flyer.
The cabin door now closed we are cleared for flight.
His nerves require a pinch of tobacco which
he now tucks in his cheek. Outside the rain
has begun to bead like spittle on the edges
of the glass. I am bound for Texas again.
Soon we are climbing in a craggy spiral.
The sky below us has been broken,
then reassembled into a stuttering arc.
But unlike the cowboy who fidgets with his cup,
I am not afraid of flight. But I understand this fear.
I want to tell him it is only points on a line,
independent of time. Up here is perspective,
space to examine the area under the curve.
Time to look closely at the graphs we have drawn,
the partitions we obey, and the reasons we will leave
or remain. I wish to say this from outside the plane.
in the permeable voice of interpolating clouds.
It Doesn’t Add Up
One
Plus one is more than two
Add a few more
And soon it’s a score
The mud and the blood hide some
Yet they are counted still
To a mother, a brother, a son
It doesn’t add up, the math
Is all wrong – more than a number
It grows amid the cries and the moans
Of the dying
Our side and theirs don’t seem to matter
To the equation – the value is too high
The answer is always the same
But our freedom comes with a cost
And the math doesn’t add up
(Today I remember those brave men and women that fought and died so we could be free – God Bless You)
Pingback: 11/11/11 (NaNoWriMo – Day 11) « echoes from the silence
Pingback: 9 or 4, on the Enneagram (NovPAD #9 & #11) | Never Say Never to Your Traveling Self
Do the math
Divided we stand – despite what
he said,
Aesop, that old Greek fabulist.
Tell me
a teaching tale that works for
all this.
Please. My conventional wisdom
begins
to falter, white hats turned black,
blue
collars turned gray with the muck
of
dissent and fear and anger. The
news says
big fight tomorrow, with police
on the way
from everywhere, and wooden
cudgels
and rusty nails and Molotov cocktails
served
on the streets of my city. I’m not sure
where
the bad guys are; perhaps they’re we.
My Imaginary Classmate
She never came to graduation.
I never saw her again
after that rehearsal,
but I never forgot her, either…
“Count off!” the principal commanded,
so we complied: “One.” “Two.” “Three.”
(and so it went) until her soft, clear voice,
chimed in: “square root of minus one”.
Some giggles and guffaws followed,
but the counting continued – right where
it had left off – she, having smoothly
omitted herself from the tally,
also, absented from the ceremony;
but as we passed by her nonexistent
number, some (few) giggles ensued
(not malicious, merely amused), and
my mind meandered, foraging for images
of her: outlander, invisible, elusive, fanciful,
fey; stray unicorn, or faery, in our herd;
yes, maybe, (just a little) imaginary
She didn’t come to the reunion. I never
saw her again; but, I like to imagine
that one day, (perhaps, like Pinocchio or the
Velveteen Rabbit), maybe love made her real.
Seven Snapshots
One kiss.
Two hearts.
Three whispered words.
Four delighted grandparents.
Five years of deployments, waiting, and homecomings.
Six men in black in a somber parade with a flag-draped casket.
Seven rifles, each fired three times, a final salute to the hero of her heart.
OMG, this just breaks my heart.
So sadly beautiful, Mary.
Liberation
Time has ceased to exist –
I no longer count minutes, hours, days or years
but live only in the moment.
Eventually time will resume
but that time is not today
and right now,
I glory in the liberation of
timeless living.
Day 11 11-11-2011
Write a numbers or math poem.
How Useful Numbers
Book in the Bible
Way to identify an athlete on court or playing field
Population census
Amount added to recipe
Distance to nearest mall
What’s owed for utilities
Dollars in bank account
Ounces in the box, chips in a serving
How many cats curled in a chair
Place settings for Thanksgiving table
Sweet potatoes counted for candied yams
Bills due by end of week
Days this laptop can carry on
Minutes left to do to-do list for today
Items on said to-do list
People that matter most to me on earth
Countdown
Twelve reasons to love you
Eleven reasons to hate you
Ten reasons to judge you
Nine reasons to forgive you
Eight reasons to help you
Seven reasons to abandon you
Six reasons to forget you
Five reasons to remember you
Four reasons to laugh for you
Three reasons to cry for you
Two reasons to live for you
One reason to die for you
Iain
Numerical Elegance
“Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics – I can assure you mine are still greater.”
Albert Einstein
Reading and writing and arithmetic – two out of three’s not bad
At least that’s how I used to think about it, especially
As the two – reading and writing – were ever so rewarding
And arithmetic – way back then – was so not
Conditioned to think I was math-challenged by dint of gender
“Girls can’t do math – but it doesn’t matter …”
I happily ignored the need for Algebra, Trig, and Geometry etc.
Until I married my engineer husband and even then
As much as I admired his prowess – I didn’t want it for myself
Occasionally, my love would try to persuade me to appreciate
What he calls the elegance of mathematics, but my aversion
Was deep-seated and it wasn’t until we had children – both girls
That I decided to take a hard look at my knee-jerk reaction
To all things numerical – especially as our first born proved
To have a natural aptitude for anything mathematical …
Unfortunately, my math phobia was passed to our youngest
A fact I didn’t realize until long after the fact
Fortunately for her, once she realized practical applications
For formulae and logistics, she overcame her fear
Enough to get a degree and become a financial advisor
Her life is all about numbers actually, and actuarially
For my part, I found, and find, myself becoming increasingly fascinated
By numbers that coincide with art – things like the Fibonacci sequence
Or DaVinci’s take on the Vitruvian man, or the Pythagorean idea …
Not to mention what math means to poets – given the importance
Of rhyme and meter, stress and flow, stanzas and free-verse
No matter how slight or great – all of it can be traced back
To numerical as well as artistic foundations
I may never fully embrace pure math but I will admit now
There is a certain elegance to numbers I’ve come to admire
Morbid Math
That’s what my son-in-law called it.
I’d asked his advice about
which life insurance I should buy.
Having reached the venerable age
of seventy, I discovered
my life insurance payout decreased.
I didn’t die soon enough, I guess.
Since it’s “term life,”
I still pay half but only get one tenth.
What’s worse, those cemetery plots
I have already paid for
are located five hundred miles away.
The expression, “Buyer’s remorse,”
seems remarkably apt
in these particular circumstances.
In jest, I’ve told my family members
and friends, “I own the plot.
Just drape my remains across the top.”
Otherwise, they’ll pay for the grave
to be opened. But I suspect
some law likely prevents my solution.
I didn’t think of cremation when
I was grave shopping.
In my family, no one’s done it yet.
But now I wonder if my remains
could just be heated up
and sprinkled over that location.
Probably not. Not much profit there
for burial purveyors.
They’d round up all their lawyers.
Thus, my quandary. Should I buy
insurance, a burial plan,
or auction off a couple grave sites?
A Numbers Sestina
Some things are meant for only one
Couples are required to be two
A triangle has angles, three
Fingers on a hand are four
Add a thumb for a fist, five
Half a dozen is a carton of six
Hotdog buns with two missing is six
A sun for our earth, just one
A bill with Lincoln, that’s five
Buckle my shoe, say two
Knock on the door, say four
Wheels on a tricycle, three
Legs on a tripod, three
Pick up sticks, that’s six
A double date would be four
A lonely number, that’s one
A pair of shoes, that’s two
Golden rings at Christmas, five
Arms on a starfish, five
A couple plus me, that’s three
Socks for the shoes would be two
A pack of soda would have six
Me? Well, there’s only one
Sides of a square would be four
My arms and legs make four
Toes in a half pedicure are five
The first is called number one
Singers in a trio, three
Legs on an insect, six
Sleeves on a shirt, two
Legs on pants, there are two
Legs on dogs, there are four
A guitar with strings, count six
Rhymes with hive, that’s five
Goldilocks and the bears, three
The first, the best, it’s one
Three people and six cookies, they’d each get two
Turn a dollar into quarters, you’d have four
Gimme five, take two, you ‘re left with three
Seven Down
I was on a roll. A poem a day.
Then. What happened?
I had seven all written.
Was it eleven-eleven-eleven?
No.
I got off track before that.
Seven days. That is my limit.
Then I get distracted.
Now I am writing five all at once.
Which way is better I wonder?
One a day, slow and steady.
Or a manic episode of five in a row.
Math would say it does not matter.
As long as seven and five make twelve
instead of eleven.
Prove your truth.
Get the answer.
Why did I decide I like English
Better than math, anyway?
The Journey in Numbers
On the first day
I will prepare
Gather all I need
Two, one, three
Make a plan
Six, four, five
The second day
Will be for dreaming
On the third
I begin on the trail
Three, two, one
Enjoying each step
Five, four, six
On the fourth day
I will check my map
The fifth will find me
In a new place
One, one, two
All will glitter around me
Six, four, five
The sixth day
A list of all I see
The seventh
I will rest in tall grasses
Scatter the numbers before me
Put them in order
Give thanks
For the journey thus far
One, two, three
Four, five, six
Zeroes and Ones
They say large numbers become meaningless
Commas and zeroes traipse across the page
A trillion has more of them than a billion
More of nothing leads to so much more
My life is measured in tiny numbers
Hours in a day, minutes in an hour
But time cannot be marked down
Only lived through
Zeroes and ones across the days I have known
The moment we met cannot be found on any calendar
I carry it around within me
A one to hold against all the zeroes
Zeroes return
The time between phone calls
Billions of empty moments
Zeroes waiting to become a one with the ring of a phone
The day after the wedding
Waking next to the person
I had agreed to spend the next billion trillion days with
The empty feeling that life had gone awry
And I was grasping at zeroes
So many zeroes on the day we broke up
Billions and trillions of seconds
Filled with the nothingness of being alone
A line of portholes parades along the side of the ship
Plane window zeroes run from pilot to tail
Travel takes you to other places
But you are always the one who arrives
Carrying your zeroes with you
We communicate in ones and zeroes
Binary on and off
Carry our messages as if they had substance
The leap from zero to one
From zygote to fetus
Requires mystery and the unknown hidden only in the void
When zeroes get together, they really aren’t there
A line of ones gets longer, points in space
The coming together of the forces inherent in the void
Two ones merge, but never become two
Their product, their progeny
Is still a one, emerging from the void
There is no such thing as two
Two separate ones are still ones, and two merged ones are one
The Square Root of Misinterpretation
A dividend’s the derriere
of ‘divids.’ And if you should care
a logarithm’s known to be
a beat that’s kept by every tree.
A tangent is a dude whose hide
had nada SPF applied.
Trinomials are folks who claim
three monikers (that word means ‘name.’)
And triangles one calls ‘oblique’
are gifted with a great physique.
An ordered pair, is pre-arranged
with math or marriage vows exchanged.
Radius? Objective, see?
Subjective case is Radiwe.
If you find math is not a plus,
…please stay polite. Don’t abacus.
###
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A Child
Gentle with his persistent smile
Born eleven, eleven, eighty eight
Divide by eight and
remember the day, his birthday
eleven, eleven, eleven.
A birthday for my son and
a remembered day
Free to enjoy
Eleven, eleven, eleven
How do I? So many sons
Celebrate his birthday and remember none
A contradiction in my brain to
celebrate a birthday and remember death.
This Fellow Who Thinks I Doubt My Poems Too Much
He says
If you have 50 poems, you have a book.
Is this based on my age—
a poem per year? Is it
some numerology thing
or publisher’s tradition?
Of those 50, what if
17 should never have been born,
20 need intensive revision,
4 reveal my need for psychotherapy,
1 is accidentally plagiarized?
I’d settle for 8 decent ones right now,
8 finished ones.
Or 5.
Or 2.
Pamela Murray Winters
Thirty Pieces of Silver
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
When I was seven, my family would drive miles across the desert flats of northern Arizona to various destinations. It was on these outings that I would beg my father to sing. You must understand he was an intensely private man, so on the rare occasions that he would oblige me, it was considerably a big deal. I loved the sound of his singing voice, the tone of which was not at all like his regular speaking voice. My father was not a large man, but when he sang, it was a surprising deep baritone pitch that you’d swore was coming from someone the size of a grizzly bear. Four of us crammed in a tinny Datsun pickup, I would lay my head against my father’s right shoulder as he drove and just let the song reverberate deep within his lungs across my young face. It had a beautiful warmth that made me feel safe and protected and incredibly proud.
His song repertoire was not extensive, (“Big Rock Candy Mountain,” “On Top of Old Smokey,” “Your Cheatin’ Heart”) but the conviction with what he sang acapella more than made up for it. My favorite by far was an old gospel tune, not for the lyrics per se, but more for the way it sounded whenever he sang it. I imagined my father on a grand darkened stage somewhere, a spotlight baking his balding head, his voice echoing serious and forlorn…. “Thirty pieces of silver, Thirty shekels of shame, was the price paid for Jesus, on the cross he was slain.”
Fifteen years later, I would marry a man who would likewise, sing solely for me.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
November Snow
First
day of
November a
snowflake fell on my
cheek, looking up, counting
a galaxy of glittering dancers,
falling to remind me, count
your blessings dear
before they
Melt.
A Day to Remember
Eleven, Eleven, Eleven
at eleven:eleven a.m.
A day I won’t repeat
in my lifetime.
Only look back on,
remember where I was.
I was beside my husband
while he slept, checking
for fever or any change,
wondering if I’d notice
something important,
something that went awry.
This day has become
a day I want to forget.
The day after his surgery.
The day we heard cancer
applied to our life.
Ode to ÷2
My life is sad and lonely;
I’m not sure what to do.
Whatever stands before me
is promptly sliced in two.
I might merely be clumsy;
perhaps I have a curse.
But when I follow something,
it’s less, and therefore worse.
A pair turns solitary
yet I performed no tricks.
A dozen eggs are swiftly
cut down to merely six.
You’re sad about eight planets?
With me, there’s only four.
Enjoy your seven wonders,
as 3.5′s a bore.
Can’t drive down Route 66;
I’m stuck with 33.
And 20/20 vision
is just 10/10 for me.
I’m destined to be lonely;
There’s nothing I can do.
My only consolation:
at least I still halve you.
Into Ezeiza
From the air, the Plata’s muddy mouth,
spread with a long ahh, seems to stretch into its own sea.
My statistics are practical ones: too wide to swim,
too long to row. So we cross by plane, looking down at
rumpled tannic water; and though there are
blue-black cables looping down its banks,
the Plata’s thick clouds will not be defeated. Here are
things I know:
thirteen million souls, give or take;
four pesos to the dollar, more or less;
five hundred colonial years of practice. Or nearly. We are
imprecise in the face of grandeur, and I am also
difficult to impress. So when
the slow bristled quilt of the city unrolls beneath us,
it is something to say
I am lost for numbers. It is necessary instead
to rely on the press of shape and color:
terra cotta tiled roofs as populous as ants,
jacarandas finishing in countless flecks of spring evening fog,
asphalt onramps making Q’s on these pages of unending,
indecipherable text. A mathematical mind
serves no purpose when sunken into this glory
that takes hold of you with tall fingers (apartment blocks,
tipas, towers) and gently drags. We come
low over the poorer barrios for our landing:
they will charge one hundred forty dollars
upon entry. I will pay it gladly: and after that, I will
forswear all numbers
in favor of being lost in the snarling Platense tide,
in favor of moving and wandering,
halfway down into the light.
***
the parent house
***
i.
tin bowls
upturned
in the backyard
two dogs
under
the kitchen table
identical
ii.
six bagged newspapers
in from rain
Still hanging in there…only down 4 prompts, jeez…
Pamela
“Counting Life From Different Views”
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GREATER THAN
Flat tire. I work the jack.
Lost. I follow the sun.
No food. I fish.
Cold. I stoke the fire.
Obstacles add up every day.
But I am greater than.
Day 11
Catching Up
Days 6 & 8
10, 11, 12
not done.
Days 14, 16,
18, 19, 20
not done.
all the rsst
except for 25 & 26
done…poems accomplished.
Skipping around-
it’s a little bit
like hopscotch
Wait…this is # 11.
How many left?
15!! I’m 1/2 way finished.
This is like some
time and motion problem
haunting me from 9th grade
If a train leav a station
at 2pm on Nov. 1st
and another train leaves
from the west coast
going as fast as it can,
Will I ever catch up?
11/11/11
11/11/11
Never again in 100 years
12 days before my birthday
11/23/11
11/11/11 = 6
11/23/11 = 10
6+10=16
Divided in 1/2 = 8
Then there’s 4
Next comes 2
Break that apart 1 sees you
No idea what any of these means, I just like numbers that eventually goes back to 1
And wanted everyone to know my birthday was is 12 days
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