Tag: poem

Bladder Blather

To pee is as natural as it is annoying

It’s a healthy inconvenience

Something primal and instinctual

Liquid in, liquid out

Woe to those in long car rides

Or those exploring in parts unknown

Your body is against you

Marking a trail away from home

It’s misfortune for it to be a struggle

It’s herculean to hold it in

This functioning bladder of mine

Is an opponent that always wins

Friendship is a funny thing

Friendship is a funny thing,

The way it changes the rules.

A phone call can be exciting

Mutual interests binding like glue

You’re suddenly willing to do favors

And it’s a relief to be able to complain

No strings, just reciprocating

Fun, games, anti-stressing

A relationship blooming in time

Trusts earned almost painlessly

Through joy and care and mutual secrecy

A found family that is mine

Puzzle Pieces

Men are puzzle pieces, 

Their rough edges point in

Towards cuts and bumps of a pretty inner life.

No piece more important,

no piece unnecessary,

Society is a puzzle made of intersecting pictures

Shaped by space, 

Subject to time

Ever shifting shades of evolving design

Mankind builds a puzzle.

One subject for all

For man to live in harmony,

Both great and small

Ode On Computers

Computers: The modern informer. 

Connecter of nations, 

you who has brought us: relief and stress, 

sleepless nights and lazy mornings; 

great and terrible news.

How long have I spent with you for my own purposes and whims?

 But, Alas I cannot love you!

 I find you cold and indifferent. 

Your monitor displays no inspiration. 

Only icons and data are your priority. 

You aim for perfection, yet you were made by imperfect hands;

 your precious data imparted by imperfect minds. 

You who have no loyalty; 

yet everyone wants to befriend you. 

Anonymous keeper of secrets,

you share to anyone who knows how to press your buttons.

The controller has become controlled. 

The unseen power has caused a sick obsession.

 Are we truly advanced?

If we can connect with strangers then why can we not connect with family?

 Does this world have nothing to offer, that we need to create new ones? 

Is tradition outdated? 

Oh! Citizens of Cyberspace, hit the like button

how dependent are the masters to their creations,

 the Systematic Destroyer.

What I Miss While in Quarantine

An air of intentionality 

A certain gravitas in my working

My reading, my typing

It’s not just leisure but effort 

Finishing goals

The blossoming ideas tended by lack of outings

I miss the noise 

No, not the noise the background

Muted but ever present

With the world and time passing 

As I sit quietly in my corner 

Visiting streams of consciousness 

Close enough to dip your toes in

The Guardian and The Fallen

I live with two angels, the epitome of naughty and nice. 

 One is my guardian,

 the messenger of Divine Grace.

 He is strict and straight and true. 

Nothing escapes his notice, my conscience within his sphere. 

He breaks bad habits, pushing me to achieve.

 The Other, my Fallen advocate, 

lieutenant of the Greatly Accursed. 

My angels fight and bicker and force me to decide.

 No matter what I choose, one is left unsatisfied.

  My angels are not like cartoons. 

They don’t stand on my shoulders and they don’t look a thing like me. 

They just want me to be happy.

 But is it happiness or fancy? 

With the path I wish to take they offer me free advice.

 One cautions to stay, the other loves to stray.

 To wander like a pilgrim, will my desires be mine alone?

 Have I been fooled by the fallen or am I fooling my guardian?

 My guardian so wise,  sweet and guiding, 

the Fallen is sweet too, honeyed words oozing with temptation. 

I know they tally their scores of who I listen to more,

 it’s like a mini-championship, the winner brings home my soul. 

I know my every decision affects their score, for the grand final on Judgement day, 

to bliss or condemnation,

Winner takes  all. 

Cry

Cry for Humanity,

heaven’s tears are falling down gray skies
on dirty land always littered with man-made debris.
Wash away our transgressions, our apathy, our graceless planetary care.
Our world, our home undergoing greedy renovations.
Man’s desire for greatness marking every surface
The ice breaks, the walls close in.
Our vast and sprawling land decimated,
Crammed with Leaders of Unjust Progress.

Cry for your country,

Your tears water the barren fields of yore.
The man at the plow has ran away,
chasing whispers of better opportunities that his forefathers left unheard.
We endanger life, we feed on lies
Trapped between extreme thirst and flood
We starve for attention, for recognition, for bread
Our dreams but grains of rice, we count them one by one.

Cry for family,

the one great love
Bound by blood and strife.
When confined and without distraction, we can grow no closer
Too close not to fight, all bark and bite
Volatile chemistry, sparks of creativity
Bitter words, Bittersweet memories
Man is shaped by his family
He is molded by those he draws near.

Cry!
For yourself,
For your calling
For your freedom in the light
Cry to your God, to the being that will answer
Cry till the tears turn to blood and wash away your insufficiencies.

Passive Listening: A poem about podcasts

Podcasts are so much easier than conversations.

The measured and thought-provoking ideas that speak to you

with excited nerdiness and self-assured expertise.

Intro music and manufactured giggling,

a dash of Casper, Quip and Audible promos for

a rainy day companion with a pause button.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could fast-forward social niceties?

Skip the bolstering and rumor mongering like peddlers selling ratty washcloths.

No more missed calls or tired exaggerations.

It’s easy to listen when it’s on your own terms,

but it doesn’t make you a good listener

just a content one

Podcasts aren’t a strain on my social battery.

There’s no nagging or whining, just

Revolutions and Planet Money

with a dash full of Criminals.

They’re useful, informative, and minimal

and they don’t get mad when you fall asleep.

It’s getting personal without the people.

Listening without commitments as the sound vibrates

in your head-shaped works in progress.