Poems by Mike Berger

New Paradigms
We send probes into the mysteries’
great abyss; they come echoing back
devoid of information.
Breakthroughs are but new metaphors;
different ways to slice and dice what
we think is real.
Constantly massaging reality with
stiff upper lipped observation. Crunching
symbols and numbers until they fit.
Scientific knowledge dances on the head
of a pin.
In an ironic twist of fate it was an incidental
flaming that became the great insight of
modern science. Probing the quantum world
they discovered that we find exactly what
we’re looking for.

Wrong Perspective
Complexity weaves a convoluted web;
the human mind is drawn to the complex.
We break thorny problems into their
constituent parts. We spend years
probing the interrelationships until we
think we understand. This is a fools
It isn’t that complex that needs our
understanding; it’s the obvious. Light,
time and space remain deep mysteries.
We say the same things the Greeks
said 3000 years ago. It’s now dressed
up in elegant language.
For these eons of time our focus has been
all wrong. Science isn’t about light, space,
and time or the complex. We will never
solve the deep mysteries until we have a
clear understanding of the human mind.

I’m fascinated with voodoo though
I’m not into zombies and the walking
dead. Living gargoyles as such leave
me totally cold.
I often wonder what part of the human
psyche conjure up werewolves and
vampires. They seem to arise from
dark corners of the mind where fantasy
I have a fascination in a special branch
of voodoo. It’s called modern science.
It has a cult claims to have discovered
They delude themselves into believing
their findings are real. They have
“proved” that charmed quarks really exist.
When in reality they haven’t the foggiest
idea of what’s going on at the subatomic
level. They find what they’re looking for.
What is it called if your findings depend
on how you beat on your drums. I call
it stiff upper lipped voodoo.




The city is laden with delightful sights,
to tease and titillate. Glitzy storefronts
line the busy streets. They beckon you.
Mannequins wildly dressed adorn a
dozen shops. The pastry shop displays
a bagillion calories in its windows. The
quaint art gallery displays only modern art.
Quaint little boutiques line the streets.
No wheeled vehicles allowed, foot traffic
only. You can browse for hours and
never buy anything.
The only problem is that it is impossible
to see much of anything through the smog.


Quantum Hour Glass

I threw my watch away twenty
years ago. I really don’t care what
time it is. The Sun and the Moon
are my timepieces. The exception is
my old hourglass.
It’s been in the family for who knows
how long. I use it several times each
week. I don’t trust my judgment when
I’m boiling eggs. I turn over my
hourglass and watch the white sand
trickle down .
It’s fascinating to watch but it’s perplexing.
The hour glass presents a quantum conundrum.
It would drive a quantum physicist crazy.
How does each grain of sand know when
It’s his turn to fall.
I refuse to trifle with such heady things.
All I know is my eggs, come out just right.

Poems by Mike Berger

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