I am the Wind

I stood still on that windy day,

When the trees around me shivered and the sand around me spiraled to encase me like a cocoon,

and I stood still on that windy day,

when it tried to nudge me from behind so I land on its feet, headfirst.

But I still stood still on the windy day,

As I watched the water pulled into the sky and engulfed by it to engulf the sand.

And I stood still on that windy day,

Till I became it, and I could not stand still anymore.

Singularity

I started writing; I made a dot, a dot of infinite possibilities.

It could be the tittle to an I, the top to a L or the cross to a X,

Or simply a period to nothing.

It could stretch anywhere in two dimensions and write a story,

Or spiral around in blues and greens and paint a Monet.

It was all in a dot, the potential to expand.

So I let it stay within,

and let it be a dot of infinite possibilites.

New Start

A faith forgot, a fear evoked, and passion may have lost

And all she did, was sit amid the tears that were but frost.

She wiped her hand, on their iceland, and tried to rub them wet,

But like her hope, her warmth was but, loaned to her on a debt.

And so she cried, and froze her tears, and built her own sad town,

And hung mirrors of crystal tears that were candid of her frown.

But one day, her tears just froze, in a shallow concave tile,

And when she frowned in front of it, she saw it turn a smile!

And though her face was upside down, she liked it well that way,

It made her laugh, it made her blush, she swore for it to stay.

She laughed with joy, and stored that tile, inside her gloomy heart,

Her body warmed, her town got washed,

She got her fresh new start.

Bottle full of Music

He was happy with me, I believe. Once, though, when I came back from MIT—I'd been there a few years—he said to me, "Now," he said, "you've become educated about these things and there's one question I've always had that I've never understood very well and I'd like to ask you, now that you've studied this, to explain it to me," and I asked him what it was. And he said that he understood that when an atom made a transition from one state to another it emits a particle of light called a photon. I said, "That's right." And he says, "Well, now, is the photon in the atom ahead of time that it comes out, or is there no photon in it to start with?" I says, "There's no photon in, it's just that when the electron makes a transition it comes" and he says "Well, where does it come from then, how does it come out?" So I couldn't just say, "The view is that photon numbers aren't conserved, they're just created by the motion of the electron." I couldn't try to explain to him something like: the sound that I'm making now wasn't in me. It's not like my little boy who when he started to talk, suddenly said that he could no longer say a certain word—the word was "cat"—because his word bag has run out of the word cat. So there's no word bag that you have inside so that you use up the words as they come out, you just make them as they go along, and in the same sense there was no photon bag in an atom and when the photons come out they didn't come from somewhere, but I couldn't do much better. He was not satisfied with me in the respect that I never was able to explain any of the things that he didn't understand. So he was unsuccessful, he sent me through all these universities in order to find out these things and he never did find out.

-Richard P. Feynman

I had a little bottle inside of me that was filled with music,

Made of crystal that wouldn’t let it escape

It would try, but reverberate, and only when I opened my mouth to sing a tune would it come out in melodious liberation.

I was scared to open my mouth.

I didn’t want my bottle to run out.

So I refrained from listening to Beethoven or Mozart,

And focused my attention on paintings and art.

One day, I held my baby in my arms,

I wanted to sing for her—she was too young to understand Monet.

So I sang and sang and sang and sang, ready to sing enough to empty my bottle.

But it never ran out.

Instead, it dug a hole at the bottom and sucked my sadness,

And made it into something beautiful.

Be an Ant

Brittle was the spider’s web,

When scissored by my fingers,

And yet the ant got trapped within,

Where that spider lingers.

What if I did not have the strength,

To snip away on its rims?

Could I be so big and yet,

Be prey to a spider’s whims?

I may be big, I may be smart,

But if I think I can’t,

I’ll probably end up in that web,

I may as well be an ant.

One Line

I could see the light as a bundle of strings that followed my every movement.

So I played music on it.

Being a Sphere

I decided I am a circle,

I start and end with me,

And encompass a part of the world within,

Enough to buttress my form.

But when I transcend into the third dimension,

I add smaller circles on either side to depend on,

I eat myself

To end in two dots

That float in an independent dimension.

I don’t feel like I’m in control anymore.

Damn, I guess I’m a sphere now.