"blogged" poems
*The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*
The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ************ sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.
The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.
No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.
The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
I wove my own web and netted my prize,
I cold-pressed my words and refined my disguise.
I goggled at life and faced up to that book,
I tumbled and tweeted and baited my hook.
I blipped and I blogged, I bantered and blushed,
I followed and friended, I grovelled and gushed.
I doled out the instant, ten grams at a time,
To fuel my addiction for caffeine and rhyme.
I reshopped my pic, I swiped left, I swiped right,
I pinned and I posted deep into the night.
I gloated and gossiped, I chatted and cheered,
I logged in and logged out without favour or fear.
For is it not fun - this mad media storm?
Viewing and voting from dusk until dawn.
Yet love me or like me, let it never be said,
That despite how it seems, it’s gone to my head.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
cicadas quiet
internet down
phones dead
can’t tweet
nor yelp
4 Square
won’t process
my payments
bluetooth cavities
iTunes tuned out
blogger blogged down
web surf ain’t up
G+ Circles broken
defriended on FB
Outlook e-mails
stuck in outbox
G-Mail postman
not making
appointed rounds
apps won't load
YouTube on hold
my e-commerce
bankrupt
Myspace empty
tumblr stumbled
LinkedIn disconnect
digital blips ain't blinking
not sure if I’m alive
I'm in a virtual
existential crisis
uncertain if
I’ll survive
Donna Summer
I Will Survive
Oakland
6/27/13
jbm
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
**It's 5:00 pm,
any poems to share?**
*my watchwoman, Seamless Siri,
my conscientious conscience,
gives said inquiry daily,
at the precise heure de rigeur,
with the perfection of a
mechanized soul attending to her
imperfect human programmer
poetry, a sometime thing,
comes when it comes,
what the query,
my godmother faerie,
truly seeks knowledge of is
something she cannot measure,
like my counted steps and distances travelled,
what this overseer mine truly seeks to know*
why am I here?
*Here. On this earth. On this site.
have you any new written proofs,
your existence on this day to justify,
were your failings and flailings,
surpassed by any acts of kindness,
this new, freshest penmanship, a reflection,
an accounting of grace and worth,
blogged and logged here
as if only I had
one day,
one poem
left...
at tabulation time, the incisor bites,
are you juiced or morbid,
this, your essayed life,
are the words,
deemed shareable,
is their value,
calculable palpable?
Siri inquires but you are jury
at the late afternoon
trial by fire,
wherein my singed bunt offerings
are produced
at the
wake of when,
my nom I do append
am I deserving
of your recompense
of one more day,
one more poem?*
~~for Harlon~~
5:13 pm
November 21, 2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Last night
I picked up a self help book
I drank some "meditation tea" whatever the hell that is
I listened to an awful song
that wouldn't remind me of you
I tried yoga
I even prayed to God
God knows it's been awhile
since I felt existential
I went to my favorite grocer
and talked to the most inviting cashier
I thought it might help
I "channeled" my energy
I lifted weights
I flirted with my trainer
I put on red lipstick
I weeped.
I blogged
I analyzed myself
and my family
and mostly my dad
I "ate my feelings"
I googled "how to get over someone"
I ripped your love letter
in a million pieces
I reminded myself of all my "blessings"
I drove an extra time around my block
I stayed up way too late
watching infomercials about beauty
and vapid mind numbing consumerism
I tried to learn the guitar
I called my brother
just to hear his voice
before the beep
and just to hear mine
after it
I smiled and stared out the window
and pretended I was in a Hitchcock film
I went outside to smoke a cigarette
and I don't even smoke
I just wanted to feel the biting cold
against my hidden skin
I went shopping and bought an overly
expensive sweater
that won't fit me
unless I grew about ten inches
I read the Catcher in the Rye eight times
And I made this ******* list
that makes me feel so utterly hopeless
and chaotic catharticism
what a messy heart
staining my perfectly
neat life.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
*sharing all seasons -
international home of
earthling family.*
this is life lost -
deaths of brothers and sisters
cut me, raging tears
rage of tears at dawn
--how are you?
my beloved strangers...
earthlinghood revised,
blogospheric species-hope.
first day
adless surfing -
wet my pants.
the old concentration back,
i breathe relieving sighs.
infotainment age -
authentic journalism
revised and found
#riseupoctober -
"The Souls of Black Folk," asks Du Bois,
do you have a soul?
my white-washed education
didn't give me one; love did.
Trent Lott's lot:
a segregationist, blogged
into mississippi's mud.
Coltrane's music
fire in my chest, *supreme
love-train* of Cornel West
*Chimamanda sings
inclusion and awareness -
what do you sing?
untimely autumn
frost, grinding into duff
a bigot's words.*
.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
PEOPLE ACTING AT EVERY PHASE .
REGARDLESS OF CASTE , CREED ,COLOUR OR AGE !
ARTISTS CHOOSE THEIR SUBJECTS AND CHARACTERS
CREATING MASKED SLAPSTICK'S , OUTRAGEOUS , RIOTOUS ACTORS.
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE !
AT THE ONSET PLOTS WERE SIMPLE , STRAIGHT AND PREDICTABLE , INTENSELY FOLLOWED BY
DISGRACEFUL INTRIGUES , CLEVER TRAPS , FIREWORKS AND SHIPWRECKS ,
ANYTHING THAT PROVIDED PRETTY ACTRESSES TO GO HYSTERIC ON STAGE AND POWERFUL HEROS TO NEVER AGE .
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE !
NOW THE WORLD IS SET ON FIRE ,
NOT WITHSTANDING NOSTALGIC DESIRE REPLACED WITH DIPLOMATIC DRAMA .
MOMENTOUS STUDY OF THEIR PARTS ,
MELODRAMATIC , GRADED PLAYERS REPLACE ARTISTS WITH NO HEARTS .
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE !
PACK OF EDUCATED PERFORMERS TURNING INTO PROFESSIONAL TROUPES.
NO MORE EMOTIONS , NO MORE COMEDY . OH ! IT IS SUCH A MALADY .
HATRED , COMPETITION AND TRAGIC ENDS ,
MARK WORLD'S STAGES WITH THE LATEST TRENDS .
ALL THE WORLDS A STAGE !
POLITICAL FURY , DIPLOMATIC JURY CEASED THE ARTIST WITHIN .
THE STAGE IS GRIM ,WITH TEARS ROLLING IN A STREAM.
MERE PUPPETS DANCING TO THE TUNES,
MAKING DRAMATIC SCENE AFTER SCENE .
FUTURE IS AT STAKE UNCLEAR AND UNCLEAN.
EACH PLAYING A MIGHTY ROLE ,
EACH PAYING A HEAFTY PRICE
LEFT TO THE MERCY OF THE WISE ,
CREATING A VERSATILE ATMOSPHERE FOR ACCOLODES TO A DYING ARTIST , BLOGGED WITH FOG AND MIST
WITH PEOPLE ACTING AT EVERY PHASE ,
ALL THE WORLDS A STAGE !
© Mrunalini .D. Nimbalkar
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
I despise social media.
It's ugly, to state the obvious
Our lives are posted, re-tweeted, altered, re-blogged, perfected, and photo shopped to exactly how we want to be perceived
We have the freedom to be exactly what they want us to be.
It starts with a few edits doesn't it,
pigmented our skin to seem smooth and sun kissed,
that would seem most acceptable right?
Maybe an extra like for the skinnier waist.
More reassurance for brighter colors.
Some more filters will hid the emptiness you feel with your friends
Another like
Flashier clothing, phones, shoes, cars, other simple words our eyes have latched on to
Another like
We urge ourselves to portray the life of leisure and effortless beauty, happiness, success,
Another like
But what are we enjoying?
Another like
Views of our changing world through a 3 by 8 view.
Another like
Events pass by swipe
Another like
and swipe
Another like
And when we managed to unlock ourselves from this grasp
We always come back
Like flies to light, more like scratches to a scab
Festering we find ourselves getting ****** back in
To an imaginary world, that if destroyed, would have no physical effects on their fictional beings
For without this world, maybe eyes will open
We will step past the boundaries,
and start to love our beings
unfiltered
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
A blonde from the most expensive public institution
separated keef into sweet, firm rows.
Upon entering the wood-panneled house, you were under the allusion
that none of the go-ers would be doing blow.
Young males huddled against university brick walls
let their fluids go on a-flowing.
Expectation bound phonies make time-consuming calls
to prove there's elsewhere to be going.
And the toilet on the left side, remained fluffily clogged,
the mirrors all gazed into by the dozens.
The cell-phones kept the moments sufficiently blogged
about hazy ladies gyrating on cousins.
Crowds inadvertently bumping and grinding
in their pilgrimage to thee sacred keg.
Four fights broke out, because frat oaths are binding
and their forward almost broke his golden leg.
All dripping with the sour scent of the *****
Make-outs, misogyny, and brawls.
Those in attendance were all said to have perused
the meaningless, the free, and the foul.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
As several samples previously blogged..
(http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=41231) Counting to Ten,
(http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=41341) Prisoners of War and
(http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=41505 - Prisoners of War II)
my new collection ‘Europa - In The Dark Valley Between The World Wars (co wrote with Nick Armbrister) has now been published viva Lulu.com on (http://www.lulu.com/shop/andy-n-and-nick-armbrister/europa-in-the-dark-valley-between-the-world-wars/paperback/product-21540773.html)
With amazon status and ebay status etc to follow or directly through myself viva my email address – [email protected]
For £5.
Next up, as part of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month - http://www.napowrimo.net/) I have created a NaPoWriMo blog for this year which can be read at http://napowrimo2014.blogspot.co.uk/ with a difference where the blog will contain (hopefully) 30 poems connected into the same story called ‘Ghost Story’ which will be about a meet up with a man called Andy and a young lady called Michelle who is not quite what she seems.
The difference with this story, as each poem is released on a daily basis is I am encountering people to send in poems linked in within the world of the story or other ghost stories / poems.
Email me on [email protected] for more details.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
i used to cut my thighs
all the time
it started my junior year
and it was my secret
in forced intimacy
this other boy saw them
and in response he slapped them
making them burn with fury
he left and didn't speak to me
instead, he sat at his computer
like he always does
and blogged about it
while i sat alone in the basement
in choking sobs.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
Some ‘bloggers have ‘blogged thus:
All teachers trample the Constitution
All teachers promote contempt for the Flag
All teachers should be in an institution
All teachers are weird (and that one’s a f*g)
All teachers despise the military
All teachers should be slowly microwaved
All teachers hate meat; they’re vegetary
All teachers hate Jesus; they can’t be Saved
All teachers are evil; the children are harmed
And now they ‘blog: All teachers should be armed!
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
Yes I am upset,
how could I not.
You say you can see the pain, but right now it's all that I've got.
If there's a cure for this sickness of anger in me,
it's either a secret right here or found only if I leave.
And don't act like something new hasn't turned hot every chance I get to breathe.
I am not stupid, but all I can say for you is assuming hopefully.
If I was done with this by choice I wouldn't be dealing with this now.
And every time I re-explain it's all, "Oh jeez, wow".
Maybe all I need is a hug instead of someone to understand.
If God doesn't put on our plate anything we cannot take
then, **** I must be some one helluva man.
If I were done with this **** there wouldn't have been this toilet I've clogged.
And if people heard me more often and all the poems I've blogged
maybe this has all been a pointless idea, something just stupid.
But I guess it'd be okay if it was cause by now I'm used to it.
I have done this for me and not nobody else,
the only one who I know for certain gets this is myself.
I have a way with words and
just like food some people scrap to get it in the streets without love.
it points right back at me.
Though if it goes somewhere else it's a point I don't see.
And that'd be because I'm blinded by my own loneliness,
yes I can own up to that, a closed book, masked with phoniness.
And I know I'm not the only one, and right now's to work on myself,
I've longed learned the lesson not to fix on somebody else.
Foolishness it is, and a fool I've been,
and stereotyped that is to be a defined American.
Bigotry's not in my nature, I try to be understanding.
Cause I've always been somewhere similar,
and my empathy's pretty demanding.
So it's easy to feel your **** and how you can bleed
whenever you're considered "friend in need".
Again I digress cause I'm thinking so tiredly,
sleep is my slave master and at the same time a courtesy.
Something we need and something we never get enough of,
just like the food some have scrapped for in the streets with no love.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
In 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale
I was barely able to leave my house
After getting mugged the night before
Which left me with a major limp
For the next 18 months or so
And forced me to ring around friends
That I knew would normally be there
Praying they would be at home.
In 2007 I got led out of my works
Viva an underground tunnel
I hadn’t known about previously
After it was deemed unsafe outside
To walk around the corner as normal
When a hurricane dragged a bollard
Through the Chief Exectuive’s car
And other cars onto the next street.
In 2010 I ended up leading three women
I worked alongside at the Co-operative
To Manchester Piccadilly Train Station
Like James Bond mixed with the Pier Piper
Avoiding all of the bars laced with drunk fans
Just before Ranger’s Europa Cup final
At Manchester City’s Ethiad Stadium
Just before it exploded into chaos.
In 2011, I was getting drove back home
By a kindly Ambulance Crew
Hours after getting registered with Diabetes
When we drove into a gang of youths
And barely reversed out alive
Looting a shop I used to go in for
A sandwich nearly every morning
On the way into my work.
In 2017, I walked past
Manchester Victoria Train Station
About a half a hour before
A terrorist took the lives off
22 people including children
And left me barely able
To sleep for two days afterwards
Laid in complete shock.
Each tragedy or event
Staining emotions
No matter how close
I was to the action
Cherry-picking memories
Into frozen images
Across feelings
Stuck in time
Reprinting each day
Over and over
Into a compressed version
Of Groundhog Day
Shooting grief from my heart
No matter how close to the front I was
Or whispered in braille rain
Tapping in shadow like tears
Brining my eyes
Pushing my grief aside
And carrying on
Like so so many others.
(also blogged at http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/from-1996-to-2017-emotional-history-off.html)
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
There once was such a love,
A love blogged, out by one so ill,
Stephen you were a hero,
May you rest in easy peace,
Brave up until the very end,
Stephen Sutton, people's friend.
Pray let the money that you so bravely raised,
Help to see violence of cancer erased, obliterated, annihilated.
May death give you blessed rest.
Night night!
(C) Livvi
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC