"communicated" poems
Overthinking is toxic
A torturous endeavor
To find all the pieces
That will solve the puzzle.
"What's wrong with you?"
I try to control my thoughts
Talk myself off the ledge
Convince myself it's unreasonable.
It's not rationale
Not based in facts
Because the facts are missing
Gaps in a story not communicated.
What cures overthinking?
Communication
Transparency
Honesty
Trust.
"What's wrong with me?"
Nothing.
I am simply searching
for the puzzle pieces
that you have decided to hide.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 8:01 AM UTC
I can't wait till I'm awake..
Plugged into the wall.
Nothing noted until the shell of the capsule
collapses under the weight of your trembling hands.
No there is no notation for what was said between us, just figure-less voices and a strenuous pain that strained our throats for the fear of nothing being communicated between the exasperated gasps of what was less than incommunicable silence.
Ugly is not a word but a feeling applied with meaning, applied to a certain truth about that metallic taste in my mouth, that tearful pain jostled in my chest and that consuming fear.
I know little of what this ugliness could mean other than it harbors shame in my corners. This shame is not inborn in anyone, but it builds it's presence as a drunken braggart who shouts obscenities and believes he is a prince of highest regard.
His ugliness is in what he slings from his tongue and his criticisms of all who in his mind toil about. But he is simply a angry troll with no heart and delusions of grandeur, frittering away time.. for time stands as an eternal judge and measure.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
......was a freezing morning.
no rooster woke me....i opened
my eyes at first light of dawn,
sipped hot coffee....my thoughts,
recalling....traveling, with the swirling steam...
turkey wasn't done yet,
but, hours before, table was already set...
while awaiting guests,
I leant on the counter...my head, to rest,
i looked outside the small window
and was greeted by a full moon, aglow...
there was so much food on the table...weariness
was healed by laughter...conversations touched
on weather, politics, food...they refused to end,
glasses sparkled with bubbly wine....sliced meat
was arranged on a big tray...baked sweet potato
with caramel smelled, tasted good...broccoli rave
was green and spicy...i didn't know potato salad
could taste good without meat!....coffee and pies
came next.....the dogs, communicated with their
eyes and paws...socializing, too, like their masters,
i saw what was left, after slicing the plump roasted
fowl...a skeleton, still with thick strands of meat, and
the palatable stuffing made with onions and prunes.
dishes were washed, kitchen was back in order,
after showering....everyone rushed to their beds,
yet, i had to peep out the window, one last time...
the full moon, still was upon us...confirming its
presence....a long time witness to the moments
we celebrate........encouraging our moods,
our thoughts.....our hearts.......even when
it's not a thanksgiving night..
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 23, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
First Kiss (Manchester to Miami)
Rachel was a 19 year old student who attended the
Royal Northern College of Music, located in Manchester UK.
Manchester was considered the arts, media, higher education
and commerce mecca of north central England. Bordered by the
Cheshire plain to the south, and the Pennines mountain range
to the north and east. The famous River Mersey ran along the
southern side of Manchester. Rachel was packing for winter
holiday with some of her classmates, to the warm beaches of
Miami Florida, for a week long stay in the sun, far from the
often dreary weather that settled over the UK this time of year.
Not only was Rachel looking forward to the warm weather and
sunny skies but she was looking forward to meeting up with Daniel.
Daniel was a 40 something musician, beach bartender, handyman,
who lived just outside of Miami. They had met on a poetry website
seven months prior, and had established a warm friendship.
They communicated almost daily threw emails, chat sites
and through poetry exchanges. Their friendship had become
more romantic in the last month or so, talking that silly love talk
that new lovers used, and Rachel finished off every meeting with the
initials AKTY at the end. AKTY stood for angel kisses to you,
as Daniel liked to refer to her as his angel. they both were very
excited about the chance to see each other, face to face.
Rachel knew that the majority of Daniels poetry was slanted
toward the romance side, and she knew from their conversations
that he seemed to be educated, gentle and romantic. She was,
they were, both looking forward to spending an evening together,
holding hands,caressing each other, looking into each others eyes,
and..... that first kiss. Kiss kiss kiss kiss
hard rock guitars, lights and smoke
Kiss, that first kiss, this is what, loves all about
kiss, your sweet kiss, makes me go crazy, scream and shout
your kiss, that angel kiss, can't live with out it, you drive me mad
one kiss, just one kiss, from your sweet lips, blows my mind real bad
don't know how I got by before you
never want to try it no never again
my darlin angel I adore you,
since I met you you know i've been
crazy, I've gone crazy, just can't get enuff, of you sweet baby
dreaming, got me dreaming, every night baby, I don't mean maybe
every kiss, like your first kiss, sets me ablaze, you know it takes me higher
another kiss, I want another kiss, turn the flames up like a funeral pyre
don't wanna try to get along without you
never want to try it no never again
my darlin angel I adore you,
since I met you been waiting for that first kiss
Gomer LePoet
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
iNever Been iN A Relationship With A Human Being.
Only With My Drug,
Crystal ****
IConsidered iT My Lover.
My Baby, My World My Everything. iFell inlove With A Substance,
Felt So Real.
Created A Strong Bond
That Seemed unbreakable We Were unseperable.
This Stimulant Kept Me Away From Reality And Everything in it.
Blocked Me
From Having An Actual Boyfriend and Catching
True Loving Feeling.
iWas Blinded By These False Euphoric Feelings.
A Rush Like iF ive Accomplished A Hundred Things.
iWas Concentrated And Focused On Getting High And
Just living The Addict life.
That iHad No intrest At 16 Towards Boys or having a love life.
My Mind Was Just Set On The Streets And Dope Game,
Riskful Missions And Hanging With Friends. Guys Would Holler,
But id Give No interest.
Just Me And My Drug iS All That Mattered.
Throughout My 3rd Time iN Rehab, My Neighbor Would Call.
A Guy Friend.
Daily Conversations, Laughs And giggls, something so rare and unexperienced.
As iBegan To Recover & Emotions Started To Untie,
iBegan To Feel Some Strange feelings ive never experienced 1st hand.
Once iGraduated My program. We Communicated More,
I liked This, i liked him.
Was Hard To believe that after all he knew about me?
He was into me to.
My supporter, My Friend This Guy Became My 1st Boyfriend <3
041314
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
My eyes, python-like, swallow the sky,
greedy for the wrongs in me to go right
at the sight of your gleeful greenery
spilling over creek beds and hills.
The wind, combing out my worries,
blowing away the blockage built
by the fumes and filth collected in city gutters.
I want to be
let wild, made free.
But one wrong turn in your winding maze and I am gone,
a place like this will chew you up and spit you out.
You should leave, something tells me.
No one ever leaves fully intact,
the longer you stay, the more you will fall apart.
“On the contrary” I scoff.
“I am becoming more myself, not less.”
But this is what everyone says
just before they leap in joyful pursuit
to tumble headlong down hidden gullies.
But I am more careful, I assure myself.
I hunt the way crocodiles do,
watching patterns with keen intention,
offering my hands and eyes.
But what should I do if, when the time comes,
You resist?
Disregard me, like an unworthy suitor?
And what if that is what I am?
I see, I take note of
the way the wind blows and the shadows fall,
the way the trees twist clockwise
or counter-clockwise.
The way animals flee when I approach and
the way they keep perfectly still
hoping they are invisible.
And there are times when I see all this, and more.
Like heat distortions above a fire,
something peripheral or liminal,
almost outside the spectrum of what can be perceived
or communicated or defined.
All these trails, the ones seen and unseen
and the ones somewhat seen
lead me to a terrible suspicion:
that the likes of me lacks to tools
to understand the likes of you.
that in harmony with one another
we would both cease to be what we are.
that you will never regard me with love and worse—
you will never regard me at all.
Then I, in frustration, stop going with you.
Start to go against you.
And keep going, finally on my own.
Still myself, but less.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Soulmate.
Found too late.
You already have a mate.
Our eyes meet from across the street.
Instinctively knowing we were meant to meet.
You feel entirely whole, healed and intact.
You cross, closing the divide.
Both of you knowing this cannot be denied.
Right there in the middle of the road.
You touch and the air explodes.
Eyes locked, all life's experiences communicated.
A soft smile, a nod and a goodbye.
Another time another July.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Pythagoras taught that reality was
but one among an infinite number
now u've got the quantum multiverse;
& Pythagoras thought of it first, saying
all it amounted to was a line leading to
& through a point, like a thread through
a needle; & so the Universe was
stitched together like a multi-directional
dream catcher; excluding no area
in space & miracles taking place
when the strings
are manipulated according to preset
patterns or improvised designs;
what else did the ancient ancients
do that make ur high-tech gadgets
look like the simple-minded toys
that they in truth are; the ancients
told time by the movement of the
sun & shadows & communicated
w/ unseen higher spirits, conferred
w/ still higher spirits, higher than
those both above & below; spirits
taking the form of sacred prostitutes
& poets, geniuses every one of them
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.
John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”
You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say
Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
Deadly pestilence came to distinguished Florence.
Spread east to west, roamed sickness without human cure.
Divine and human authority disappeared,
God’s wrath prohibited remedy and good health.
Families emptied, gentlemen fell to corpses.
Evil free to **** men indiscriminately,
Ignorant doctor’s advice left medicine like
filth. Day or night decomposing fortune is death.
Sick set aflame in neglecting infinite fire.
Disease black with misery, wicked affliction
with livid spots. Medicine removed anything.
Contact to dead or sick doomed a person sad death.
Every part always died. Abandoned all the laws
rightful behavior a fallen plight. Faithful shame.
Plague is a noble executor’s careless deeds.
A woman with no necessity of required
morals communicated upon death. Healthy,
beautiful, and attractive multitude consumed.
Avoid no very past pestilence in the fields.
The sick had made servants of the required dwellers.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?
Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.
Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?
Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.
Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.
The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.
Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.
How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
~~~
perhaps.
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery
leave that to the better ones.
cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming
the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.
these exteriors are comprehendable.
don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.
Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant
question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.
can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Juxtapositional Refinement Redefined (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
== JRR ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Credits to: Angelina Lopez (HP Poetess)
(Copy the link below to your browser)
Juxtapositional refinement redefined:
When you meet beautiful souls we have been taught by the society to confine them. Like "I love you" but what does that word really mean. Does it mean "sharing in openness" or does it mean " been confined in expectations and obligations".
The paradigm that we live in as society is delusional. We have learnt to analyse the "in between" based on our analytical and logical systems. But how about going to the individuals involved and creating an open dialogue to talk about what the situation may be. This is a thorough and more accurate way of attaining acuity.
To flow in openness is like listening to 'harmonious jazz music' ...... it is like inhaling the beauty of the ginger scent in the breeze.
Life itself speaks to us and we don't have to make it complicated. If we only were able to have an open platform..... hearts that are blissful and not tainted by fear then we can redefine the contrasting views of dichotomy that we have as mankind.
In essence, If you haven't communicated to someone openly about something ...... we should never draw out conclusions. They will only be pre-judgemental notions oozing with constraining predefined and predetermined assumptions. Give everyone a chance and the world will smile!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
I remember bodies more than faces
which in his case was beneficial
I liked him because he let me down
even more than I let down myself
and in some demented way
it was comforting
to have a relationship based
on mutual self disrespect
If you're both being used
can you really use each other?
you wanted to cuddle,
I wanted to watch you shower
you liked the smell of my hair,
I liked the roughness of your palms
alone together; together alone
but I'm not sure you noticed
that the most meaningful way
in which we communicated
was through clicks of our teeth
and the rustle of sheets
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
Unmovable Unchangeable
A worthiness a standard is deposited in your inner being all other elements in life will ebb and flow but
Your essence will be darkened by sorrow but from this tragedy and sorrow riches will tower a streaming
Blessedness will flow it will instantly engage another who has just suffered loss seen unseen words and
Actions will with the deftest touch a kindness soaked in mellowness will be communicated in silence to
The heart who has just suffered the bitter harvest of sorrow the gripping real a special irreplaceable
Someone has departed to walk on a different plane for them purest light your circumstance darkest
sorrow cold as Everest you are left ripped not only of all outward cover but inward has there ever been
Such savage destruction the healthy norm now ravaged the spiritual heart ripped apart it was complete
It was formed by love alone no other sculptor is more honered to work with such substance he makes
Their face those eyes the transfiguring part of human connection truly souls merge together here in this
Special stream vision multifaceted feelings weighted the heavier the deeper the depths where
Emotional ties are created from pleasures these springs of the heart you come in emptiness you leave
With these volumes ballooned ever stirring thoughts the very impulses that make them the person you
Know this feed of expressions do they not cause an unending joy that spills at different times sometimes
Just a slow pleasant entailing then at other times a roar of engulfing and at times it happens when your
Tide is low they instinctively trigger this from their register of mercy a unity that is boundless truly you
Have small oceans within I see it in the workaday world but like the song behind closed doors magic
Fire you reach heavenly heights explorers rewarded in human feeling that can’t be bought and are never
Sold truly kings and queen of a great domain in the hidden soul you have truly roped the wind and
Touched stars as you hovered under them holding hands who can doubt God when you exhibit his very
Essence through the love you found and it causes unfathomable assurances holding hands is the same
As a great dam holding water but yours is holding never ending love
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
Music is a complex language communicated bye the heart an soul of its performers.
Beats and rhythms communicating emotions that we have lack of words to describe.
someone who can understand music
In all its forms and beauty
Is someone who can understand me.
And the deepest parts of my soul.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I've forgiven myself for these nights of endless sleep
Till the sunrise and the moon showed size
I was sad.
I've forgiven myself from excluding of humanity, starving myself, drinking alone, and drugging my soul
From talking to God in that violent tone
These days of depression, oppression and disgrace
You would try to hold me but empty I was
Made me coffee every morning
Held me tight while I panicked, always keeping yourself cool
Writing is how we communicated, reading how I excluded myself
This summer I read so many books
I don't even know how the world looks anymore
My God is gone
My skin is white
My chest in pain
And you, right there
I'm sorry I didn't let you embrace me, I needed to myself
"We are in this together"
I'm sorry, I forgot.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
Mama I've done wrong
Did it again
Swallowed the red sun and burnt my tongue
Now I talk in caustic prose
As I watch precious friends erode into stories that were once told
Missing the elastic howls that died in the sweet summer time,
our mellow procrastination that became an erratic fascination,
hopeless meandering in the forest grove
where we found Cherub rock and communicated in implicit thoughts
Merely stowed memories in a paper boat
Drifting towards a somber moat
formed from the friction of splintered convictions
The chords of thunder roar
Black clouds of war wash ashore
It's time to fall on my own sword
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
little yellow teeth
stained by years of coffee and cigarettes
layered like sedimentary rock
wire brush mustache
on a face that betrays his years
a reflection of a potential that went unrealized
such an angry man
even his words are burdened
with equal parts guilt and rage
"do as I say kid"
"because I said so"
he must view himself a tough, strong man
despite being an upper middle aged diabetic
possessing a physique
that calls to mind a woman in her third trimester
his bitterness, his depression, his emptiness
permeated every layer of life
imagine a son
who grew up confused, frightened
not knowing when, how, or why
a display of aggression would occur
wildly disproportionate to whatever perceived transgression
my sins weren't fictional, i needed better representation
a one-by-two
a measurement of lumber
wrapped in athletic tape
an display, a warning readily available
a disciplinary tool for any occasion
when broken across my ***
a lesson was given but rarely learned
we never communicated then
we barely speak now
if only for the lack of something civil to say
should platitudes serve as a father and son bond
then our collective stubbornness is worth a mention
if blame needs placing
and i was taught this behavior
can i learn to forgive and love
such a below average model for God?
right on cue
his catholic upbringing screams in my ear
and my irish rises
an irish familiar to him
the only thing we share
he could have kept that to himself
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
The murmur of the sly hours seize
Panting the breath into violent grief,
Love that disdains
Leave anyone in despair.
True link thus detests,
All things in the world disdains
Other than dear ones loving heart.
Love must ever be known for sincere
That sincere love looks upon
Mutual striving towards each other
And the intensity of love looks upon
Being upfront in and out
With no taboos
In sweet surrender.
And the language of love looks upon
The cravings to meet each other in the eyes,
Desperately seeking to tell the love
And stare at each other until communicated
And love be spoken as they meet
And retreat in sweet dreams
Like shining stars.
Love is of the kind related to mind.
Falling in love is such a wonderful feeling;
It shines like a diamond
Inside of the mind.
When heart is broken, love is more cruel
Than diamond particles slowly gaped in
And times merriment forsaken.
If love is not timely sought,
Pain will never cease
And pangs of death imminent.
Love is not a gossamer in dew’d grass
But a magic web of encircled kindness.
Love is of the kind related to mind.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...
But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..
The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones
We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.
It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .
Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out
Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!
May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?
We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages
We have become mute.....
So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?
Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!
Bina Mukherjee
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC
I remember all of the stupid things.
The gap in my first love's fringe
that appeared only when she was flustered,
or torn between *** and G-d.
The nursery teacher who resembled
Jane Goodall and sat with me
whilst my hayfever was too potent
to play out in the sun.
I remember the exuberance of heat
on the concrete slabs in my first back garden.
How my mother would take
boiling water to the empires of ants
that would find life in the cracks
and crevices between my footfalls.
I remember how silent they were
through oppression and death.
I remember my first sight of the ocean.
How serene it looked in the distance,
how unforgiving and cold it was
once I threw my whole weight into it.
The shivering donkeys on the beach,
agitated by the ice-cream crowds;
the man who handled snakes for a living
and persuaded me to touch a killer.
I remember my first guitar
and how I stared at it helplessly
for two hours, like a teenage boy
on his first sight of a ******
The first sad song to deliver a feeling
never experienced, but communicated;
how adults failed to answer the questions
that music gave forth effortlessly.
I remember when you started leaving
kisses at the end of your messages,
the formulaic gaps in time
before I would hear from you again;
your costume of nonchalance.
The way you appeared in the wasteland hours,
playing the therapist with your kind words
and history of neurosis.
I remember the sheet of plastic
that shielded me from the rain as a child,
the rubber wheels of my carriage
buckling through puddles and gaps;
the first exposure to nature's lullaby,
as I fall asleep through storm and traffic.
I remember how easily sleep once came,
and how I resisted it all the same.
I remember my recurring nightmare.
A big red button and the doors of hell;
some spectre of infinite density
that caterwauled for the destruction
of all things human, all things new.
The way my mother's arms were infallible,
the priest's glare, omniscient;
the revolting concept of a cigarette.
I remember all of the useless things.
The rings around my grandfather's eyes
on the only occasion I saw him cry.
Kissing Rebecca on the lips,
cementing our love with tree sap
and the promise of an endless summer.
I remember the first time I felt sad
without having a reason to be so.
I remember the shine of the room
when I took pills for the first time;
the incorrigible thirst for water
and the racing confessions that followed.
I remember how it felt,
the first time I trapped someone in a poem;
how easy it was to forget them
once reduced to words and half-truths.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC