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Mark Wanless Aug 2021
two beggars on street
asking for dollars and change
tapping on cell phones
actually saw this one
Juliana Apr 2021
A grid of nine, trapped behind
the locked box of cyberspace,
unavailable, calling for me.

The pink hues of stories and pictures,
the celebrities announcing another ad,
an AMA, capturing the repeated days.

A robotic stage, the marvelous mingling
of strangers, of friends we’ll never truly meet.
It’s hard to stay away for long.

The green and blue bubbles of simplicity.
Of how was your day. Of excitement. Of plans.
A concert of lyrics addressed only to me.

The bird which sings for all to hear.
The nerds who look up from their book
to smile a hello. The chaotic certainty
of community, calling for me.

After a day away, I’ve arrived back home,
the rectangular refuge of a reimagined reality.
Max Neumann Sep 2020
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you

where's my mobile, without you, i'm not global
if i'm not global, i'm not really mobile
good heavens! it's twenty-four to eleven
i have to call shannon but i can't find my mobile

what can i do without my mobile? life is trite
don't know the difference between day and night
without my mobile! i freak out, suffrin' from a black out
i'm prayin' to god, lightin' up a candle, hopin' to find it

where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
Sally A Bayan Aug 2020
(me and my shadow)

<o>  <o>

The evening air was cool
that rainless night in June
on the street, i looked around
my backward steps were measured
i needed a right spot,
i needed a good shot
for, up there, a creamy full moon
hung above the neighbor's roof...

the pavement was moonglowed
whence stood me and my shadow,
no noise, not even a soft wind's blow
as if God had stilled the world,
a finger on His lips, to stop all sounds
and call my attention, waken my perception...

then, i heard a hurried crash in the dark,
i thought, perhaps, a bat made its mark
in my mind, and up my spine, fear sparked
a cold wind swayed the branches
followed by thumps on the ground, a crunch
of footsteps, confirmed all my hunches,

God, both my feet refused to cooperate,
'til i felt something in my pocket vibrate

thank God for my phone, it shook my limbs,
until.....fear no longer kept my mind dim

i whisked...away from the pavement,
enough of these moonglowed moments!


Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 30, 2019
(Friday thoughts)
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
It's said
Behavior is learned
Especially thru close association

This explains why
My cellphone is also depressed
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2019
We now return
to your regularly scheduled dream.
Do the math: ducks in the pond
swim upstream to spawn supreme.

Then pay it forward
as a string of numbers.
Continuous in series,
strung out and unencumbered.

There's some **** saxophones
lifting off in tune to the rhythm method.
Save the soft jazz for when you're really in the mood,
and read a bedtime story instead.

Vision begins when the lids
are closed and threading the daisy chain.
This is where we
place the refrain:

Caution--unstable, but microwavable.

The lines blur
where the vertical and horizontal collide.
Can't stand the swimming in the head,
yet enjoy the peripheral ride.

Hypertext Transfer Protocol Secure,
even as far deep down as this chasmic seabed.
Living with technophobia,
But married to sensory overload instead.

Making new babies in safe mode.
We lose sight when plugged too long into this hub.
Just another anxiety in need of a pill
--join the club.

We meet where there's free Wi-Fi
so battery life doesn't drain.
This is where we
repeat the refrain:

Caution--unstable, but microwavable.
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
Jeff Lewis Sep 2019
I have a universe
in my pocket... and some
lint. The world
at my fingertips,
all knowledge awaits
and forty two cents
in change rattles next to it.
I have a universe
in my pocket and what...? I
use it to watch cat videos
and trade petty barbs
with fellow trolls under a bridge.
Jodie Davies Sep 2019
I feel guilty when I go to church.
Not because of Saturday’s misadventures
or the bottles that scatter my bedroom floor.
I am not burdened by the cake I had for breakfast
or the bed in which I woke up that morning.
So why do I feel this guilty?

I’m a prisoner of my own device
though the four corners of the earth sit in the palm of my hand.
When the world starts to scream too loudly
I can turn the volume down.
I can put the world to sleep.

These days I lounge ever more than I work. I fret
the number of likes on my profile picture
as if I didn’t just roll my eyes when my Mum told me I was beautiful.
I scavenge for validation as if this screen will be my best friend forever
though for now I mope alone and eat fried chicken in bed.

When the pastor tells me I’ve been saved,
hurricanes conjure their fists.
The ashes of the Amazon grimace.
The oceans and their few remaining fish wish that they could drown themselves
while the clouds above the Sahara cry the few tears they have left to cry.

I feel guilty when I go to church
because the only world I’ve paid attention to doesn’t exist.
Species raise their arms to surrender after years of brawling with extinction.
Yet, I only lift my thumb to scroll.

Beyond my screen I see
grey skies perch upon grey buildings
which tip-toe on grey concrete.
I’m lost in a grey sea.
Its currents rip and scrounge at my feet with hands that are wrinkled and veiny
and grey.

I dreamt about a crystal blue pool.
I felt stupid when I saw the ocean.
Criticising modernity.
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