"bios" poems
Sometime this spring, when all
the cobwebs have been dusted,
and all the cold and dampness
has gone away, I'll sit on my
front porch and watch the lazy
clouds go by.
Sometime this spring, when there
are no more dreary days, 0r long
and silent lingering nights,
I'll sweep my front porch and
sit so grand in my rocking chair
and stare and howl at the
sumptuous moon.
Sometime this spring, I'll hold
my child in my loving arms,
and will stroke her hair and whisper
to her about all the adventures to come,
and dream and fill her head and heart
with all the joy that nature brings.
Sometime this spring.
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Copyright © 2010
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Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
All Apps Un-installed
Hard disks wiped out
Operating System lost
System Shutdown
RAM cleared
BIOS destroyed
Object Id Retained
ROM info Retained
Hardware burnt to Ashes
Or left for Micro-organisms
Scriptures say, Sages re-iterate
Believers believe, others disagree
Object ID may be Reborn
With new OS and Apps
Or there is another possibility
Object ID gets destroyed
And witness Moksha
Free from further rebirth and deaths
Sorry this poem is not on Computers
But I am sure, it's about Humans
Smart Humans, Mortal Humans
Bound to follow the System of
LIFE, DEATH, RE-BIRTH
Until Moksha comes for Rescue
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 2:25 AM UTC
There is contemplation to be done
That will be left undone, again
Screens scream for my adoration
Demanding pixel friends await my liking
And a cute cat video and a political meme
Mimic my ideas into me
Providing for me
My thoughts and views
In screen time
And time again
Lapses through box and frame
Search to query
Filling the blanks of inquiry
Finding me glancing between profiles and bios
Building walls of windows
Leaving no space
For me to wander quietly
Among my heart…beat
And breath…taken
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Change is necessary.
Change is require.
But is change sufficient?
Change is a diversifier.
Change is a niche filler.
But is change transformative?
Change is not good.
Change is not bad.
But then what changes do we keep?
Heuristic small change we like?
Perpetuating idiosyncratic Absurdities?
Selecting traits for "survival"
in a world of our own creation.
Do you understand the Michael Jackson trap?
Real Evolution is easy.
Diversity + Mobility = Survival
But cosmetics is much harder.
What will the monkey see in the mirror?
Will he like my face?
Will I have diversified my humanity,
change my BIOS for faces,
to an arbitrary Facebook,
Unrecognizable to a nostalgic monkey?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
I am here
I was there
when you died
a handful of yards
from where I stood
on the most perfect of days
I now stand
on a seaside boardwalk
reciting your names
reading thumbnail bios
you liked the sun,
sea, surf and shore
you deeply loved
your family and
carried this place
within you as a
sacred sanctuary
But for that awful day
I would not know you
The day that bowed
Trinity’s holy spires
the clattering commotion
the destructive noise
tumbling, collapsing, splintering
our civic civility
consuming you
dashing many
seashore dreams
Yet your love
was not consumed
in the flames of acrimony
Your names
forged in bronze
etched on boards
written in sand
nursed
in wounded hearts
of those you loved
and blithely spoken
by a lifting chorus
of ever present waves
Music:
Righteous Brothers,
Ebb Tide
(double click image to read the names)
Lavallette
Holy Saturday 2017
jbm
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Insulate to the sharp needle of insulin – as this pan
creases over daylight frying a canopy of trees, left
with skins that smell of mould; moulding us into forms
that don’t fit, following titles without ever playing the role.
Models parade as model citizens, while forests fall around
their footsteps; smiles reduced to emojis, connection flat
as a screen. Each impression feels like a coded message –
profiles lined with Bible verses in their bios, good at quoting
scripture, but so not good at keeping notes on The Message.
But we fashion ourselves into “the latest,” but our dreams
arrive too late, departing long before we catch them.
We are all stories inked together from the sharp tip of the
pen, injecting more time into our veins, yet living diabetic
to our morals – _sugar-high on indulgence, starved of truth._
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 3:37 PM UTC
My Instagram and Twitter bios read,
‘Your friendly neighborhood garbage can,’
Maybe it’s because I'm afraid to be human,
Because being human means being somebody,
And being somebody means needing somebody,
Because no man is an island,
Therefore, if I am a can,
Specifically of garbage,
Then its ok to be alone,
Lately being alone is like being home,
An empty house full of empty rooms,
A place that I’ll be leaving soon,
Because just like this house,
Being alone can’t last forever,
Because everybody says that things get better,
And whether or not that's true is still up for debate,
And to every friend I’ve ever told that I am worth nothing,
I’m sorry for lying,
The truth is,
I’m scared of the truth,
If I admit that I’m worth something,
Then all the sudden this nothing becomes something,
Expectations, aspirations, goals for me to reach,
That I fear I never will,
I’m short you see,
And I’m only seventeen,
Yet it still feels like the world’s weight is on me,
Like I have to carry my family,
And I don’t understand why,
I’m still a child,
I still have a while,
To decide who I want to be,
Why does it feel like I need to know immediately?
Mom, I don’t want to be a lawyer,
But a poet’s paycheck won’t put you in a retirement home,
I’m on my last leg at seventeen,
I’m drowning in a sea of life,
I can barely breath,
And I am a child,
And honestly,
A child is all I ever wanted to be.
So past me,
I’m sorry for growing up.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
Some victims end up in a ditch somewhere
bullet holes in their heads
Others are buried six-feet-deep
in neglected pastures
or end up drawing
a last breath
in a seedy motel room
They become falling stars
their brief bios featured on
crime shows
their sad tales
filling the airwaves
their names forgettable
histories unremarkable
victims whose renown emerges only
from their sudden shocking demise
They become fodder
for the crime junkies...
curious insomniacs
watching docudramas -
america's nightmares
playing out on millions
ot tv screens
You can sense the sheer terror
victims feel...
their eyes flickering in the dark
when someone's hands
silence them
their screams muffled by
dissonant music swelling -
a crescendo of shrieks and sounds
building toward
that awful
final fade
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
Buy a computer it's like a baby
It has a bios I guess we do to
You can load both with info
Good or bad
You only get out what you put in
Remember that when you blame a child
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
United they stood
Fighting till they no longer could
Destroyed everyday on the battlefield
With only small weapons they wield
The girl stood alone
Her confidence shook them to the bone
Her wondrous hair shone through the haze
Their world up in a beautiful blaze
The poor humans cause such chaos
Programmed by their own Bios.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
One thing I'm tired of reading in bios: "Poetry is my Life!"
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
I read but can't remember
the characters
and or
in what order.
BIOS,
that's who I am
clogged up with redirects
string code and spam.
A sometime module in
a bigger module
misunderstanding it
for a mid life crisis
But I'm bits and bytes and
hot serrations in
sweaty nights on cold glass
screens.
I post this in the hope that
out there
there is someone
to help me
cope,
Is there?
The logic gate
stops to wait
and then a green
light flashes go.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
She bush-pushed past jammers,
sent bodies spinning like bad coins.
Farm boys waved their caps from the stands,
hoping she’d choose them next
for mercy or violence.
In your dreams, limp-dick!
She would shout,
Molly Magdalene taught her first:
if you’re going to be bad,
live your gimmick.
Juliet listened.
She was Demolisha:
roller derby queen,
brick hips and hair like barbed wire,
lips black as tar,
eyes smoked in coal,
women’s names inked on her ribs and shoulder,
like wounds she chose to keep.
I was just her groupie’s part-time boyfriend,
I was the tool she kept under the seat:
her tire iron,
used in a crisis.
I rode shotgun in her vintage truck
toward Waco,
singing Sinatra off-key
to keep her awake,
scribbling bios for the program:
Queen of Quake! Derby darling of devastation!
Empress of impact, Siren of slam!
"keep at it", she said.
We got to her father’s house
to take the bureau.
Crossed the ashtray living room,
threaded through a cave of trash bags,
yellowed sheets, broken lamps,
into a back bedroom, a hoarder’s shrine
stacked high to nothing.
The heirloom sat buried in the dark,
hard oak, grain heavy as muscle,
the one honest thing in a sour room,
something Juliet respected.
Her father stayed sunk in his chair,
TV glow staining his face,
cigarettes ground into carpet,
nicotine walls dripping beer sweat.
He barely nodded,
muttered bitterness,
as if we weren’t even there.
I knew then-
he had made her a villain
long before Molly Magdalene
polished her into one.
In Baton Rouge, gas station past midnight,
a boy appeared,
a Baby Ruthless shirt stretched across his chest,
skinny arms, John Deere cap.
His mother, pink barbie sweatshirt,
a purse full of pens and candy bars,
watched him hold out
a crumpled receipt to sign.
Juliet bent low,
almost tender,
Then shouted:
In your dreams, limp-dick!
And the boy laughed,
laughed like he’d won a prize,
while his mother burned with fury,
damning her to hell.
**** you, ***** Juliet countered.
Back in the truck
she sipped coffee bitter as ash,
rings rattling on the wheel.
_This,_ she said,
is what lasts.
Not when you’re bad.
When you’re the dirt worst.
Behind us, a past that forged her,
the oak piece rode, ratchet strapped,
to whatever she swung at next.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 8:55 PM UTC
Bios, portfolios and resumes oh my!
Where am I going? Where do I stand? Who was I?
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC