With a decimal representation
that never ends or repeats
it’s a mathematical constant
that infinitely retreats
beyond memorization
it has no bounds
an irrational number
that to many, confounds
the mind
defined as the ratio
of a circle’s area
to the square of its radius
it causes some hysteria
when you’re an amateur
mathematician
like me
who’s not the best at geometry
or MIT euclidean non-elliptics
this fix
is transcendental
instrumental
to science and engineering
non-algebraic
numbers that keep steering
appearing like a tori
and sounding like “pie”
approximately equal to 3.14159265…
but best known as Π.
Pi
Our father who art not in heaven
The fattest fairytale ever fed
fixes a folly to foil ones head.
Flattering its host with features to attract,
it forges a fiction flavored like fact.
It’s firm to force that flesh will fade
and fibers internal are forever in grade.
Made in faith this figure does flower,
framed as the most famous, favorite, phantasmal power.
Our father who art not in heaven,
figure in yet another seven
days or more
to free us from each and every war
scored in your shifty label,
your fading film like fraying fable
feeding on man’s fear of death,
a fog, lacking face and breath.
Fumbling upon only what is said,
this fairytale fantasy foots to wed
man with prayer
at his bed.
Giant waves follow
tremors that crack the surface
- radiation leaks
Incomparable
How dare you liken her to the brightest star
or her scent to a flower
she is not an old cliche
she’s not yours to shower
with sugary metaphors that misrepresent
or similes that do not suffice
She isn’t sweet as the sweetest candy
she’s not your dad’s old Old Spice
Her presence provides it’s own justice
Her value is hers alone
It’s something that even I cannot defend
a beauty that can only be her own.
Sparkling soda fizz
Today, an essay,
on how well I can relay
these words into a jam
a self exam
I do this for me
superfree
expressions
of poetry
or not
It’s all I got
to keep it true
impromptu
an attempt to woo
because I loved you
enough
to not cram
an hour before
this slam
golden grams
of poetry, I am
not a whiz,
just sparkling soda fizz
right now at least
so feast
your ears
on the gears of Kim
where words bounce
off the rim
of my lips to yours
each one scores
and settles in your mind
down your spine
as words do
faster
stronger
lighter than any
running shoe
I recieved a request from “Kim,” for poem ideas for a poetry slam that would also make use of props. So I wrote this poem and suggested that Kim compliment it by having an unopened soda and at the “just sparkling soda fizz” part, open the soda can and hold to mic. Basketball and running shoes optional.
Homeless
Had a good job, a wife, and a home
obeyed all the rules careful to not roam
made a decent living with what I understood
empathized with others the only way I could
little did I know I too would lose it all
everything I had into a never ending fall
sent to the curb without a call or a dime
success was nothing but a taller past time
now forgotten rottn’ without the riches
everyday rhyming these hard knockn pitches
shoebox lyrics found in an old sock
swiped from another forgotten homeless jock
Disaster
Damn thee and thy greed
in speed thy hastes to exceed
surpassing thought to consume
all the planet to lay to tomb
sabotaging towers
tormenting the sea
exploiting resources
ravaging me
Battle Wounds
All I have left are these knee patches
and some scratches on my face,
battle wounds from some rusty old nails
where gods mercy was misplaced.
Erased is more like it,
like the color from the sky,
when the stars were extinguished
because the wars would not die.
My love, sweat, and tears,
dead silent as she,
Sabrina,
still sleeping, weeping within me.
Do you hear the bells?
The cows aren’t coming home
it’s just another swarm of locusts
the rose thorns of rome.
I wrote this poem in response to a challenge where I was supposed to use one of many titles. I ended up combining all the titles to create this poem.