Poetic Short Story

Past Connections

May I have your attention?

I make mention, as is convention, of a retrospective memory:

Once I wandered in a wordless world.

I could not read or write.

All I knew was what I saw and heard without reading words, only reading minds of different kinds of people as best I could. That is to say there was a way of communicating by emulating their speech of spoken sounds—hisses and a click, clack percussive pounding in their mouths.

There was an obvious rhythm in the tune of their tones, as if their ancient ancestors beat big stones with strong sticks drumming the

tick-et-a tick-et-a tack,

tick-et-a tick-et-a tack

smack! into their DNA, making what they say easy on the ears but hard for the head.

What they said was hardly comprehended in my shallow-minded shell but I could tell they were sincere. My fear was that inferior hearing was interfering with my cleverness; nevertheless the unwritings which I audibly read led me to believe in their wonder worlds.

In particular, I remember the shaman mother from a shanty town. Down and down she took me to a valley drenched in desert where there were baobabs by the way we walked. She talked of some sickened tree-stalk bearing the fruit of the morrow—the beginning and the end of sorrow.

It had a name; I had heard it once before and what it held in store for those who chose to count it for naught. To this day, I still can’t say it correctly so excuse me for my nameless nomenclature. She spoke it, though, and spoke of it—intuitive to her native tongue and culture. Kind and caring she showed me the tree and branch still daring to live, still living to dream. My fingers felt the feeble wing whose ever singing song of hope helped me to cope with uncertainty and pain.

Then it began to rain.

The shaman mother said it was the spirits of the dead, their tears searing the soul of the branch to the roll of the thunder.

My mind in wonder finally understood.

The land was alive and thrived on hope, with past generations influencing present nations and kingdoms of nature. Shaman mother showed me what words can’t communicate. Our unsung ancestors are among us, sending us blessings of rain to soothe the pain of life.

So as I wandered in a wordless world where I could not read or write, I learned the language of the lost and found the connection to my past at last.

—DGM, 15 May 2015

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Poem: Copper Jungle

Copper Jungle

HyperTexting in a Markup Language

Made-up Language, Make-up Language

which populates our world with indigenous data

search engine beta and studies in Stata.

The sounds in the Amazon are filled with Tweets

near copper currents of Cascading Style Sheets

where high-level Pythons and gems called Rubies

demand a tribute of Jamba Juice Smoothies.

This is the jungle of yes and no

where currents flow and data grow.

We want to know where it will go

so we can learn things we don’t know.

Endless developing by spreadsheet monkeys

Excel junkies, donut dunkies

please continue to show us how capable you R

birds above par ever raising the bar.

It’s perspiration of our project nation

JavaScripting in Object Notation

that spawns a species of data generation

which comes from the feces of private information.

This canopy of algorithms we can’t see

covers up the sun with each binary tree.

We search and oogle and Google up a storm

respecting the rules of a complicated norm.

WE are the jungle of yes and no;

our currents flow and data grow.

Information tells us where to go

and many other things we don’t know.

That’s what I call Jungle Fever.

Yes.

That’s what I call Jungle Fever.

—Derek Miller, 21 March 2015

Poem: Convergence

Convergence

If I just go far enough

I’ll find it.

I set my mind in transit

augmenting vision with revision.

I begin to see the things that be

between each step past from last

to first where I began; and spanning

a seeable path now behind

I fathom

into the infinite.

If I just search long enough

It’ll be found.

Continuously searching for each bound

that frames endless names,

I begin to see a profoundly

repeating divide where I’d

make visible the invisible

realm yet ahead, contained

and spreading

into eternity.

And just enough, I stared at it

and found the limit.

Now I carry it

in my pocket.

—Derek Miller, 4 March 2015

Poem: Dense

Dense

One step here and there.

My move and you’re still

but I can’t find you

or the path to where you are.

(pause)

You are not isolated

and I’m on my way

to whatever gate draws the line

of your restricted neighborhood.

(stop)

Behind the walls around

that keep me out of bounds

I invent myself through the open interval

to acceptance among your own.

(pause)

Now I’m here, but where?

The fullness which you fill!

Yet nowhere in sight

from any point of mine.

(stop)

In becoming acquainted,

unknown neighbors pass away

the confines of your connected circle

one by one must narrow in.

(pause)

Although you’re sought, not found,

gradually I can hear your sounds

and unmoving by will, not force

you are the limit of my need to know.

Don’t stop.

—Derek Miller, 10 March 2015

Poem: The Infinite Root

The Infinite Root

We can indeed

commune with the infinite;

the dedicated heart and mind

in effortful pursuit of truth

will find it.

And so he did, this man:

he made a claim which claimed his life

taken from him by his own kind

who thought not revelation

more powerful than convention.

A square triangulated

uniting two entities

with just one line,

so the legend goes…

Measure the line joining opposing corners

asking is it possible that a fraction

could describe the length of the line in question

after we square it?

Choosing very carefully numbers, letters

representing integers of a fraction

fully reduced, simplified into lowest

terms, we continue.

Note that with more algebra, we can show that

one of these two numbers, the top one, will be

even since it’s equal to twice some other

integer out there.

With this information, we know this even

number can be carefully crafted, squared and

then by two divided; the bottom number

also is even.

What we just discovered has led us to a

simple contradiction since both the even

numbers make a fraction which must again be

simplified further.

Measure the line joining opposing corners

knowing that there cannot exist a fraction

that describes the length of the line in question

after we square it.

Suppose it is true.

Can you find the contradiction?

We can indeed

commune with the infinite.

—Derek Miller, 24 February 2015

Poem: Cancer

Cancer

Cancer

has changed a lot of things

but most interesting of all it brings

a multiplicity of perspectives

and an increased propensity

to use my hells and damns.

—Derek Miller, 19 March 2015