Tag: science

#PoeticAnswers 32 – Why Does The Earth Look Flat If It’s Round?

It could be described as
“A short-sighted view”
Which has caused the resurgence
Of the flat-earth theory.

For years, we’ve been saying
“The world is round”.
From Pythagorean proclamations,
All the way to Parmenides and Hesiod,
Scientific and mathematical minds
Across all of time have
Looked and succeeded to prove
That the world is spherical.

But now we’ve come full circle,
And we’re sinking in a downward spiral
Because it’s more than just gravity
Getting us down.

Logic has given way to celebrity
Scientologists and other idiots
Create endless conspiracy,
From the fallacies of evolution,
And vaccines ruining those in infancy,
We are in a world where progress
Has become the opposite of congress
And politics and facts are alternative.

Through combinations of science, mathematics,
And literal space travel we have literally seen
That the earth is a sphere.
I’m sorry if the correct use of literal has confused you.

Light travels in a straight line,
Despite who you are as a person,
I know you see straight.
Place a mark in the ocean
And swim to it while we hope the sharks get you
And then look back.
We won’t be there, because the land rolls away,
And, to be honest, we’re just not supportive.

You can search for the edge
Like a desperate U2 fan at Glastonbury,
But it will not be there.
You still haven’t found what you’re looking for.

But if you keep swimming, you might come around to the right way of thinking.

Question from Denise K. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 53 – Why Is The Sky Blue?

Some things are best explained by science
But today, it would be more fun if it wasn’t.
I’m not denying the truth by any means,
I understand the logistics of
Light particles and molecules
Traveling through the air
But I’ve already used up my
Metaphors regarding the visual light spectrum,
So today, let’s pretend nothing is real

It’s because in the beginning,
God used all the colours of the rainbow
To paint a world of many colours and cultures,
Radiant and vibrant, with so many hues and views,
Only to realise he forgot to use the blue paint.

Or maybe it’s because God
Tried to make the birds blue
With oil-based paint,
But they flew too close to the sky,
And it dripped and smeared
And that’s why the sky is blue

Planetary orbit is a lie,
And the Earth doesn’t go around the Sun,
Nor does the Sun go around the Earth.
But we yoyo in and out of
The inky black and blue of space
Which gets a bit brighter when it’s close to the Sun.

Because the sky is in a
Constant state of sadness,
But it’s not sentient enough to
Take the blue pills,
So it doesn’t know how to feel better.
It just feels clouded all the time.

Or are we all just colourblind,
And it’s not blue at all,
Just a colour that only the
Special and unique can actually see,
Secretly so much more,
Only visible during art and existential crises.

Question from Lynn P. from Facebook

Machine

(This is the first poem I ever wrote all the way back in August 2016, written in a combination of rage at the ever breaking printer in the office and depression. While it’s served me well, I’m deciding to retire it from slams and shows, but it’s nice to look back and see how far I’ve come)

If I was a machine
I would be the office printer;

Trying to connect to people
But I get that pop-up message that says
“Would you like to add this device to your trusted network”
And I say “I don’t know”.

I churn out work day after day
I do work for other people who then
Don’t give thanks or
Recognition.

I spend the days overused and underappreciated
And I’m walked past every day
And the most interaction I get
Is someone pushing my buttons to get a reaction.

And I copy the same things,
Going through the same motions,
And I wear out and no one seems to notice
That more than once a day I’m running on empty.

And no one notices the marks on the paper
That shouldn’t be there.
The vertical and horizontal lines and random ink spots
That look like nothing until you really start to stare.

It took a while before someone even noticed.
It wasn’t until the the paper was wrapped in
Red, blue and black ink that someone
Thought about calling technical support and didn’t.

Because it was beyond anyone else on how to try to fix it.
No one wanted to fix it.
“It’s not my job”.
But that wasn’t the point.

It shouldn’t have gotten that bad.
A printer can’t speak.
A printer isn’t heard.
It’s pushed until it jams and freezes and angry ink
Erupts across the paper.
You keep pushing the buttons and complain that
“It’s just not working”.

But that can’t stop you from troubleshooting the problem.
Ask the questions,
Find the fault,
Stop a problem before it gets worse.

Have you ever seen an inanimate object
Book itself into technical support?
It can’t be done.
It’s so paralyzed with
Confusion and fear and
Plastic.

But it cries into the fax machine,
Desperately hoping to make a connection,
Desperately hoping to call metaphysical technical support
To finally get the help I need but
I’m rooted to the ground
and routed through the ground.
Going through the motions,
Breaking a little more each day.

#PoeticAnswers 84 – Why Is 42 The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything?

Physicists and philosophers
Have pondered the expanse of
Life, the universe, and everything.
They have been searching for an answer like
Addicts about to crack while hunting for
An honest needle in a haystack of politics,
Like the answer is a holy grail or
A point on a map that no one ever drew.
And then when a man said it was 42,
They didn’t know if it was the real answer
Or a note of latitude or longitude,

So instead of trying to take it further
They accepted it like
A man broken by a barrage of religion
As it battered down his door accepting
It’s doctrine as his lord and saviour.
Stooping and not stopping to
Question truth and reality until
It was too late.

But yesterday’s later is today’s now,
And we’ve began asking questions of
Why and how and when and why not,
Questioning the world and what we’ve got,
Acting like the status quo was just a band
And nothing more and now we’ve got
A lot more to stand for.
Like the truth.

So we asked and stripped down forty-two
With interrogation and maths,
Breaking it down into God Particles and
Jesus Lizards and quantum paths through
Space and time and time again,
Seeing what we want to see and
Finding we’re wrong and we’re right.
The constants are constantly changing
And the more we break life down,
We discover that maybe
Life isn’t made, it’s what we make it
Or life isn’t worth it at all.

But the truth is hidden behind a wall
Of uncertainty and fear and
We won’t look behind it because
Maybe it wont be the answer we’re looking for.
So I’ll move to believe in the great fourty-two,
And I won’t ask questions anymore.

Question from Hanne V.B. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 77 – When Will I Be Better?

I am sick,
I am sick of being sick.
It’s been six or seven years of
Things being in a constant state of wrong
With my brain and my body and
Being used as a punching bag by bugs and infections,
Leaving bruises, scars and lesions and being beaten
Black, blue and bloody by my immune system
And I am sick of it.

I spent seventeen years in education
Yet my blood, brain and urine
Have been through more tests than me.
And they don’t get it easy because
There’s no pass or fail,
Just sets of numbers I don’t understand
And positives that can have negative connotations
And negatives which could be the best thing for me.

I’ve spent the last five years,
Going in and out of doctors and hospitals
Leaving barely enough time for the revolving doors to spin,
Travelling between wards and beds like
Hotel rooms on the worst overnight stay of my life,
Never staying still long enough to sleep
Or see the latest test result.

I’m treated like a science experiment,
Laid bare for doctors and nurses to test
Both myself and themselves.
I feel like a broken vending machine,
With pills being poured into my mouth
Like pound coins of imprecision
By professionals who can only pray for
The right result.

I’ve spent far too long
Being a rebel crying out for change
Being told that my version of better isn’t the best thing for me,
I’m sick of waiting for eventually and tomorrow and the next day,
I’m sick of wasting my life away in
A busy hospital terminal, waiting for my
Flight number to be up.

Question from my good friend, Courtney.

#PoeticAnswers 72 – Do Amoebas Feel Love?

Love is a divisive subject
Especially for amoebas.
They won’t look for love,
There’s no personal ad saying
“Single cell organism
Seeks single cell organism
For walks in the park”.
But they feel loneliness,
Forever single
Feeling locked in a prison cell,
Feeling sorry for itself
But still never looking for love
Because, to them,
There is no single selling point
To incite, entice or incentivise
Them into trying to
Spice up their lives.
They want love without the effort
So they’re split down the middle
But ultimately,
The single cell organism
Needs to learn to love itself first.

Question from Michael Clark from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 71 – What Language Do You Want To Learn?

What Language Do You Want To Learn?

I want to learn the language of love,
But there’s no class I can take
That can teach me how I can say
Exactly how I feel about you.
I’ve learned that it’s more than just words
Because English, French, and Italian
Cannot begin to express what I need to say.
No Biology, Chemistry or Physics class
Can begin to explain what, how or why
I feel for you the way that I do.
I dont expect you to teach me
But I’m learning from you
A little more every day.

#PoeticAnswers 66 – What Is The Meaning Of Life?

Finding the meaning of life,
Or trying to find and
Understand what life means is something that
Readers, writers, scientists and philosophers have
Tried to do for but failed because Life’s meaning is something only the
You and I’s can truly decide on.

The meaning of life is to do:
Whatever you want, whenever you want, with whoever you want.
Otherwise, life has no meaning.

Question from Gabriel McC from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 62 – What Do Clouds Taste Like?

Clouds taste like journeys,
Travels and memories of
Places they’ve been before.

Evaporation,
Water dying from the heat,
Heading heavenward.

Condensation, the
Droplets come together like,
Soft, cold, sad choirs.

Precipitation,
The weight of emotion makes
Them want to fall back.

Fall back to the earth,
Recycled as rivers, seas
And oceans from raindrops.

But sometimes, they’re lost,
Dripping onto your tongue to
Hydrate and help you.

Then lost forever,
Lost in a thoughtless moment,
Tasting like sadness.

Question from my best friend and favourite kitten, Courtney G