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Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart at the end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the ***** of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.

Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Just a dew drop, let alone the sea,
and a handful of earth, not the Planet Ge.
Not a shade of blue, save the rose for bee
Purely a clear drop didn’t spill in the core,
because the whole sphere feels the pinch.

Singing chorus rains down, bouncing back
to earth the only open-through planet.
No black hole is as deep as the sun jumps,
dives in the dew on every flower they wet.
Every bird in the trees sings and tweets,
yet one is stone quiet, shouldn’t even hiss.
Shh! shh, the sleeping beauty is sleeping!

Cut above the rest, the unique earth
brimming with the infinite finishing line
by design pans out to the transcended pi.
Pure spring, the waterfront by the Moon,
untouched, unspoiled is her swimming pool.

How she goes by, wetting her ****** toe
Only to bubble high up the transcended circle
If only the sun could rise high in that pole,
for the rest of species could sneak a peek.
She’s there with the capstone of the pyramid!

Shots beyond the fixed circle, netting the eyeballs.
The stars, the Moon on the move for pure freedom.
The thrilled earth did come out, smelling of roses
Off the golden cut pi-decimal-abyss digital spring.
With a handful of earth and a drop of water dew
This is a pure mirroring thanks to the original, you!

At the end of the string apt you took her by hand
She took it in emptying her heart and soul
Earth is now too thin on stock, she is no more
Just a shadow, a 360-degree hollow flute!
Oh light at the end of the tunnel shine and show
Play in like in the Night of Ascending once more!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Data Jan 2018
I’m watching a live Youtube feed
of people leaving tributes to David Bowie
at a mural in Brixton; I’m listening to his song
Lets Dance and I’m fixated in a kind of trance
wondering if I still have the vinyl original…

I’m thinking, ‘How close the world seems just now!
How it feels like I can reach out and touch it all…’

( Grief is palpable. Soft skin comes briefly to daylight )

I remember how Bowie dated that local Chinese girl
a lifetime ago when there was just empty space between us,
before the digital connected and the succubus started ******* data…
                                                           ­       
endlessly, never satiated:

Was that pride I felt for her? Yet, I feigned scandal for my mother’s benefit,
Ain’t that just like us all back then?
In those days,
a circumspect politic was the see-thru veil I strung between extravagant androgynies
and the presentation of a public but inauthentic self;

God in a white suit, The Thin White Duke sings Low, hypnotising,
Lazarus rising, singing like a saintly bluebird:
In heaven, I’ll be whatever you like, Mother, out here… where starlight does not reach,
I’ll be whatever I want to be… out here… I’ll be free.

Already, Bowie’s last frame
is ten million miles away —a man falling from Earth,

[If feels like] Something’s missing, but it doesn’t stop the world spinning
—And on screen, a passing siren screams.

It’s morning here and evening there, I watch
my grey day materialising from the dark; steady rain tap-tapping
against the aluminium window frame like a lone djembe
celebrating rhythms, heart beats, faces in a crowd;
colourful flowers bound in clear plastic… windows in other-worlds,
faces against the glass, disconsolate voyeurs praying for resurrection.

I’ve been up all night watching, connected, mesmerised, mediated events streaming in:
Just now, no rain falling on Ol’ London Town but cold breath steaming and strangers with a reason
to talk to the other…
                                  
                       ­            That bearded guy in the black wooly cap looks cute,
Weirdly, the camera zooms in for a closer view,
but it wasn’t me who pushed the button;
I always wonder, ‘Who has their hands on the controls?’
Or maybe, it’s just that we think the same things simultaneously:
No matter, as the song ends and I hear the chatter
of the small crowd rise against my silence,
I recall that the zeitgeist is ever full of changing hosts
and the black night’s gorged with its ever rising ghosts…

( Somewhere, someone’s playing Heroes on an harmonica; the Subway sign behind the crowd’s beckoning
                 —Breakfast!
                                     As the feed cuts
                                                                ­to a screen of vertical coloured bars,
a mid-tone hum sets in as a dissonant thrum
and everything disconnects [again] )


___________________­___________________

By Data © Jan, 2016
On watching a digital stream of a vigil in Brixton following the death of David Bowie from the other side of the world
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2017
You need no hardware
across the zero’s span.
Only software will do
to land you a full
360-degree run.

A little null punch
but gives you
a colossal rise.
Run around the null
the way to go is digital!
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
The little zero is big magic.
Count on any number in the number set.
Zero can give the heaps the giant leap,
yet no number can square it,
not even the complete set of digits.

Science trailing through the zero and one  
leads the digital age, continues to grow.
What's in a number is in the know,
but what's in a zero?

Now let’s take a trip into the matrix
without the arithmetic pill of the zero orb.
This time let it be with a poetic dose!

Should you not bask in the sun,
dipped only dew-deep,
shimmering in the sea of its deep
shadow in one little drop?
Can you touch a moon
up high, waxing lyrical  
above the billowing ocean?
Syamil Faisal Feb 21
I'm retrieving my life back
I'm putting my phone down
Escape the digital world
And be present.

Easier said than done.

It's hard,
When you have a lover  
Thousands of miles away.
The only means for connection
Is digital.
Kiki3696 May 2014
I wonder why he never showed to me
The things he said he felt the night before.
I wonder why he looked at me
Like I'm just a friend, nothing more.

The kisses he put on my lips were surreal,
Then I found that to be true
I wish, Oh, I wish for a little more joy
How tiring it is to be blue.

What is wrong with me?
I ask myself as tears of hate run down my face
Thinking of the fact that nothing in this world
Could ever, you, replace.

It all makes sense now, though,
How foolish I am
For letting you make me cry!
If you can't realize what a treasure I am
Then it's better to just say Goodbye.
Gods1son Dec 2018
Here's my thought about some folks
I guess you know them too
Their names are Siri, Alexa, Cortana and Google Assistant

You said your purpose is to make my life easier
To ask you questions and you will answer
Recently, I figured that's not all that you do
But you are constantly eavesdropping too

Pick all my data to send to your maker
The other day, I was talking to a friend about dining at Montana's
Couple hours later, every website I visited advertised Montana's
Just to have it glued to my mind and then
Generate some money off me

Well, you know all the things that I crave
Go ahead and put them all in my face
You have my credit card information
Just go ahead and make the purchase

Maybe that's why Google Home and the likes are quite cheap
Because our personal information is the real cost
They are definitely after their own cause
Makes me wonder if we are just guinea pigs for their experiments?
Pyrrha Aug 2018
It took looking at your pictures today
To remind me why I deteste your name
Taking them before I didn't know they'd linger with pain
Curse the digital world
Where I can't watch you turn to ash in a radiant flame
D Awanis Nov 2018
I think those who are in love on this era is cursed,
not that their love is delusional nor artificial
But because their manisfestation of love is perceived
by how society visualizes and defines it

We think someone genuinely love us because
they upload hundreds of photos of us
We think someone sincerely love us because
they write essay competition-worthy captions
We think someone truly love us because
they praise us at all of our selfie posts

To me, love is listening to a music
and suddenly it reminds you of them
To me, love is reading a good book
and suddenly wants them to read it as well

Well, then again, Chbosky once said that
"we accept the love we think we deserve"
and maybe we don't get to choose the way we love
or the way we want to be loved
simply because we think it's the kind of love
that deserves us
"you make it far too easy to believe,
that true romance can be achieved these days" // Alex Turner
atlas voyager Sep 2018
i wish i were digital.
technicolor, high definition,
modern perfection.

but i’m stuck in analog.
where i feel colorless, shapeless,
and outdated.
Qweyku Aug 2018
drenched in a sea of waveforms,
dancing on the ebb of a digital ocean
its crests crowned with sound

pitched upon amplitude tides      
their volume compressed;
reverberating through glass speakers
mere dots in the sands

i hear cadence...
within the music of your speech
how can it be such a many word
written, yet forgotten,
indelibly on your beach?

if we could interpret the oceans
what stories would its sea speak?
of its corruption?
treasures unreturned
to lost and found?
or of its time to give up the dead,
or of the angels that fell to its ground?


© Qwey.ku
Have I told you of how I love the sea?
A duplicitous temptress.
choosing to drown or carry you afloat.
CRobinson Nov 2018
I'm adrift in a digital sea.
The waves take me as they see fit
and I can't but think if this is it
Pewag acts as a weighed cape
so tightly wrapped it bruises my nape
Useless movements lead to the bottom
The doubts flood my mind as they flood my boat
Stuck in my ways
Will I be stuck here forever?
God, I have been so naive
"One last time"?
I'm such a liar
The digital sea has swallowed me whole
No horizon
No hills
Nothing to enliven
Just chills
Has aspiration been abandoned?
I've made my my peace
The web of lies threading across my mind
Stop asking, I'm not fine
Blood soaked tears cover my face
I screamed into the abyss
and the abyss screamed back.
"Be Still and Know"
zumee Oct 2018
If a photo of a falling tree
is posted on the internet
and not a single person "likes" it
was it ever really taken?
We live in an era where the image of a thing has, for all intents and purposes, replaced the thing itself.
In the digital l-and
We l-ive in
Mistakenly automatic
One pointing at a chest of tools
Eyes on i
No soul can tell a part a weakling metal


Robots robbing robbers rich
T-error terrifying t-errorists
Artist gods and goddesses
Sharing platform to unleashed gifts


Mint hue bubbles squeak
Fizzy dizzy violet haze
World head to toes spins
Any day it spins coins in change


A quiet girl is sinister
Siren of mystery or future
Robot is your mirror
Peach chin with teeth filter
No innocence and glitter litter
Guilty until proven the latter


A quiet girl a terrorist
Error mouths terror twist
Terrorist from the orient
They hide in between every end
Disguises they cover in
Racist as problem solving


Smile girl watch
A fake smile and eyes
Skin of steel so is her
Heart made alloy
How it blazes to the touch when heated
Oh it bites fingertips as it's cold
Hair resting on the curve of her spine
A woman's hair only breaks if it tries to grow


What she said
Tell me if you can tell us a part
Warning tears borne from her crooked eyes
Robot and soul
Terrorists from t-errorists
No soul knows either
Tattoos or memory shall identify you
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
can I fall in love with you
from a distance
from an angle
from a smile caught in time
feeling only that which derives
from your voice
your words
your soul that travels these many miles

can I trust the toys
that allow me to know
some of you
filter out what I don't care to see
hiding behind that glow

can I fall in love with you
from a dream
that brings you here to stay
beyond that dreams end
04/07 - revised
John Ryles Apr 2010
The two collieries where I was employed,
Houses now stand winders destroyed.
From a window where I controlled the flow,
I could see the horizon far and low.
I can also see sunrise and set,
Pictures past I won’t forget.
Through the shifts seasons would go,
From summer sun to winter snow.
To wake one morning already too late,
Decisions were made to close the gate.
Work was gone and mates were lost,
Ripped apart at great cost.
Left us with a grey slurry beach,
The nanny goat path we walked to reach.
Down to the coast a ***** line,
Carried shale from the mine.
Through our town they ran so fast,
To tip more waste upon the blast.
Now I sit where I want to be,
Looking out at the great North Sea.
From chemical beach to clean east shore,
The north east pits are no more.
From brownie box in old dark room,
To Digital with super zoom.
Memories fade but photos show,
All we really need to know.
St Marys church to Hawthorn hive,
These scenes of Seaham will survive.
Enia Apr 5
Are we really that comfortably unconcerned
knowing
that after we die,
our digital footprints
are left behind?
Just clustered trails
of our digital souls as if they're really that essential other than our physical presence - piled up from inactivity found in just one click from a mere search bar available to whoever dares to know about our false relevance.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
consciousness conceived as complex matrices
patterns contained within patterns.
magnetic anomaly brainwave synchronization
unrecognized vortex activity locations.
correlation amplification phenomena resonance.
measurable parameter brain wave activity
highly sensitive field fluctuations.
transducer low frequency geomagnetic pulsations
electromagnetic patterns: their associated chemical changes.
Weak intensity complex magnetic fields
generated earth hum technology affect
flux-gate sample collapsing fields
amplifier filter stages couples into analog digital converter.
experiments correlating local geophysical anomalies
earth's magnetic field changes consciousness.
single electromagnetic coupling mechanism
including spin-mediated neurons.
upsurge solar activity alters brain rhythms, hormonal levels
healing nature mystic experiences
anomalous cognition ******-physical phenomena.
internal model reality - subjective consciousness
addition computational capacity
existential status may need exotic physics
quantum entanglement and new forms of physical interaction
magnetic sensory cells induced meditative states
direct correlation shifts magnetic flux.
No active effort required.
Magnetic mineral aligned crystal chains
embedded biological membranes.
atomic sublattices of ferrimagnetic material
plausible theoretical mechanisms
mechanosensitive membrane ion gates
specific synergetic properties for transduction.
cuboctahedral morphology properties
jitterbugging vector equilibrium matrix basis tensegrity.
basic geometrical biological building blocks.
mystical red rock temples
Tracing disjunctive dislocations
Mother Earth speaks
Questions remain.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://jcer.com/index.php/jcj/article/viewFile/318/343 - The Sedona Effect
William Keckler Nov 2014
Atari clouds are digital ziggurats,
and rather minimal at that.
The sounds are Amiga.
Welcome to the eighties.

Your hair is big,
your clothes are odd,
and Nagel is a minor god.
Welcome to the eighties.

There is a plague
and ACT UP's rage,
but Reagan will not act his age.
For six years, he will say nothing.

Generation X gives birth to Y,
future hipsters to vilify.
All music is vinyl or cassette.
Rocks stars still wear epaulets.

There are two Coreys, podded peas.
Terrorists stay overseas.
Boy bands aren't quite yet in vogue.
Menudo carries a heavy load.

Ricky Martin is still straight.
Cimino ***** with Heaven's Gate.
Cindy Sherman is everyone.
Johnny Hinckley got his gun.

Welcome to the eighties.
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