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HTR Stevens Jan 9
Under the Christmas tree
Are toys for you and me:
First we have our personal phones;
Now, we can each have our own drones…
They fly high – they fly low –
Hovering to and fro.
Like eerie will-o’-the-wisp they fly…
Appearing like dust specks in the sky…
They fly high…they fly low…
We can’t see where they go…
Suddenly here! Silently there!
Like ghosts, they show up everywhere!
Like aliens, out of a nightmare –
Disappearing, ev’n as we stare…
Under the Christmas tree
Are drones for you and me…
when the heads of nations forget dignified tones
we are well on our way to that „clean“ war with drones
eleanor prince May 2018
same sketch
cloned day
sundown station
schema

office workers
signed off
shuffle
numb

curbed chaos
train clatter
shifting gears
clashing sound

noise assaults
savaged senses
lulls into
stupor's rhythm

cardboard sentinels
stare blind
frames fixed on
blanched orbits

disjointed huddle
inciting life's
vapid
echo
scenes from an urban station at rush-hour...
Samuel Hoffmann Jan 2018
Mindless drones who cannot fly,
who mutter, mingle, and mosey on by.
Asking, “What do you think?” and, “How was your day?”
in their slightly high pitched, oh so annoying way.

They worry, worship, and whisper their thoughts,
congregations in unison pour out their hearts.
Listening to leaders with purpose and power,
a flock full of sheep, God’s words, they devour.

Unable to stop, to pause, to wait,
they ask a question and immediately say “great!”
Politely cartoonish, bland, and boring,
they talk on and on long after you’re snoring.

They get up in your face, in their sneaky sly style,
staying there to bother you slowly for a while.
But then you leave, go on with your day,
and you wonder, can they wonder, in their unmalleable robotic way.
Sorry, no recently written poems. Here's one written for my creative writing class last semester.
William A Poppen Jan 2017
Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night

Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams

Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet

Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes

Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience

Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline

“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”

affixed to the cubicle wall

Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving
My wife wonders where the idea for this poem came from.  My answer - I have no idea.
Every five minutes they come
whirring like copters for war
slashing through immaculate peace
you crave to blanket your day with

Those speeding three-wheeled
gadflies
are kings of small streets and
act like you must pay them to

Extricate you from a cluster of
doomed and dusty eggs and bacon
deliver all that racket

in your head
every time you think
about buzzing
drones

on your meatloaf
in your heart
in your dreams
on your hopes
on your thoughts

about how marriage
should be
a man and a woman
now one soul in
two bodies
living together
committed
fighting for stable
“everydays”

The roses look damp
bouquets of mums
on the kitchen table
you pouring hot coffee;
the mug you took two
hours to pick out
is punctiliously stained.
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