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Aaron LaLux Sep 3
State Of Affairs

Pandemic still isn’t over,
starting to think it might never end,
searching for a 4 leaf clover,
so I can get some better luck or at least pretend,

but I can’t complain my life is great,
I’ve got everything I ever wanted,
bought it all without getting the cops involved,
got it so good I don’t even need to flaunt it,

as honest as a lost comet can be in all this,
I thought,
we’d finally be free but I guess it’s a process,

it’s 2021,
Year Of The Machines,
seems we're finally one They finally won,
& we didn’t even put up a fight or flee,

Covid gets headlines,
while unnoticed goes cancer & heart disease,
which I could explain it better,
but I guess I’ll leave that to the machines,

every call & text monitored,
every movement tracked,
how many more shots before we’re all shot,
how long until we get our freedom back,

spending more time online than with real friends,
touching our phones more than we touch others,
no one even sees each other’s friendly faces anymore,
can’t even find a friend out there let alone a lover,

as the satellites hover,
AI is in orbit but we just ignore it,
& I know we’re in a game for our humanity,
but I don’t even know what the score is,

pandemic still isn’t over,
starting to think it might never end,
searching for a 4 leaf clover,
so I can get some better luck or at least pretend…

A Lux
Aug 27th, 2021

Mica Kluge Aug 29
“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.
I haven’t written in a long time. It’s for a lot of reasons. Sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m good enough. Sometimes, I lack inspiration. Poetry, as it was once said, “is the spontaneous overflow of human emotion.” And that’s what this was. I’m terrible at meter. I have to break out a dictionary to know how many syllables a word has. But following a conversation this morning regarding covid and human nature, this erupted from me in the space of 5 minutes. I haven’t changed it; I haven’t edited it. To the world, to the politicians, to those I love, this is the only message I have about the pandemic. Take it as you will. And thank you, as ever, to the extraordinary Emily Dickinson.
Anais Vionet Aug 26
No treaty is negotiable with the eager viral assassin.

Doubt the truth of gossip. What's sadder than the unreasonable sucker?

Tribal outcries and worldly conceits are not impenetrable refuges.

May you all be sheltered and safe and may modern alchemy protect you.

May you have what you need and be happy.

We will rise or fall together.
yeah, I said it
David Adamson Aug 10
Seeing someone every day
is not seeing them,
not in the way of knowing
ourselves, marked by a milestone on a rocky trail
or a spring growing back with azaleas and pollen
and a canopy of elms.

Instead the confetti of moments we’ve traveled together
whirl into the patternless vortex of now
and we don’t know where we find ourselves.
Yet I thought of you the other day
and a painting you gave to me when we first loved.
It showed a man diving into the ocean toward mermaids
Who sat on an island, watching.

Next to the image were words from a Jerry Butler song,
“Isle of the Sirens,” about a ship’s crewman lured by temptation.  
"The voices got louder
They sing beautiful things in my ear
I must go to that island of women
I must see these creatures I hear
Love is blind and desires have no fear."
The captain warns him that surrendering
to the siren song is a betrayal.
"Keep course, cried the Captain
Ignore them and let them be
Straight ahead, cried the Captain
Set on by and stay free
Remember laws of mutiny"
The man jumps anyway.
"'Old man, you know nothing
Of temptation
And desires are heaven to me.'
And off he leaped into the sea."

When you showed this to me, at first I thought I
was the man, giving in to temptation.
Only later did I understand that you were the man,
A black woman hearing a siren song
from a white man who lured her with desire and love.
We know the fate of those who leap at the sirens’ lure.
You broke the laws of mutiny.  

Something in my daily cogito has kept this memory close,
reminds me that you leapt
And you’re still here.

Here we are now, in the time of COVID-19,
alone together, shut out of the world,
sleeping in each other’s shadow
bored by each other’s demons,
walking past the blank of each other’s  mirrors.
But I still hear that song.  
Can you still hear it, love?  
Would you still make the leap?
zrskii Jul 20
Hidup dalam "zaman" baru yang terasa di dalam sangkar,
Terperangkap seperti binatang buas,
Hampir dua tahun umur dibazir untuk menatap nasib,
Imaginasi permulaan tahun baru kian terpudar,
Halus di udara menjejas kehidupan,
Manusia masih mengharap agar "kamu" terhapus.
Neelam Jul 17
A ray of light
pierced through
the uncertain sky,

The shallow dread
evaporated slowly,

Streaks of hope
strewn across
the streets
in the midst of
the silent wraiths
scurrying hurriedly
into oblivion.
manlin Jul 16
God is not human.
Only humans can **** and
mourn in the same day.
Shruti Gour Jul 8
Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not huddled together, holding hands,
as a meteor races towards us.
But quarantined separately in rooms,
as a virus eats you slowly from inside.

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a single gunshot to your head,
as you revolt against bullies on streets.
But from a slow drowning in your guilt,
as a voice asks you why didn’t you?

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a bomb exploding in the mall,
as you buy a new summer wardrobe.
But from a slow burn deep inside you,
as you ignore the haunted eyes around.

Maybe the world doesn’t end after all,
Not from guns, bombs or stray meteors,
as you wake up to sunny blue skies.
But how will you face yourself tomorrow,
with all this death festering inside?
Francie Lynch Jul 26
620 000 is Unjust
620 000 + 1 is unjustly better.
The passing of a don. 😎
I first wrote this when the death toll was 500000.
Àŧùl Jul 4
My new novel
Is now available
On the online circle
Of Amazon Kindle
As a soft copy eBook
And as a traditional
Hard copy novel

It set it in beyond COVID19 days,
Read what I write as a PhD scholar.
I know that China modified it,
Naturally, CoV won't affect us so much.
China altered it in the Wuhan lab,
They made it a novel Coronavirus,
They called it nCoV19, ask why,
Because they engineered it in 2019.

My novel talks about it,
This sin is punished,
Not just by India,
But also by USA,
And everyone sane,
There happens WW3,
The Negative Axis powers are:
China, North Korea & Pakistan

Indian Army has HuSaVe's,
Human Safety Vehicles,
Robotic suits that the DRDO creates.
China copies them,
Removes the human part,
And makes GHOST's,
Global Human Omission Safety Transformers.

The story is built with a lot of action, some technology and a bit of romance,
A lot of red shades make the story, some blues for it and a bit of pink,
For writing it, I wasted not a microlitre of real ink.

Indian Army comes up with TASIP,
Terrestrial Army Soldier Improvement Program,
And the protagonist, Ravindra Thakur is selected to be one of them.
He becomes a genetically modified soldier,
The DRDO has a specialist scientist Dr. Malakar who does it with his team,
CRISPR-Cas9 is used to elongate all his telomeres,
And now he has stronger chromosomes.

Ravindra & his batchmates can handle extreme doses of hormones,
Adrenalin, human growth hormone and testosterone to name a few,
These hormones can otherwise **** people in such high overdose,
But his sixth sense is strengthened and even the seventh & eighth senses top with those,
You begin to read it and if you can't put it down, blame it on me,
Cross-references to my previous novel help bring your heart closer,
Yes, the novel is sci-fi, army, diplomacy and hypothetically viable too.

My HP Poem #1933
©Atul Kaushal
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