"dinging" poems
Oh the enjoyment
of full deployment
in lines of unemployment.
No more paper,
To cut a caper,
Might as well go ride a tapir.
No more phone calls
driving me up the walls
Ringing dinging until my skin crawls.
Freedom is my new motto
Gonna drive down to the Grotto
And have me a margarita until I'm sotto.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:08 PM UTC
Bustling activity,
Frenzied brief energy,
Noisy beepers beeping,
Doctors, nurses, calling,
How are you?
How did your weekend go?
Echoes of friends and beaus.
Friendly voices chatter,
plans for weekend matters.
How are you?
Calm Code Reds cut the air,
urgent, requesting care.
Elevators dinging,
Loved ones heard exclaiming,
How are you?
Not given privacy,
Stripped of their dignity.
Phantom guests, masks they wear,
nurses ask, no one cares,
How are you?
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
Humanity is at the ****** of connection
Connection is plastered to our bones
It’s on our wrists dinging reminding us to take our steps that will apparently make us one with nature, it’s latched to our arms so while we are so spent attaching ourselves to nature that we don’t have to attach our phones to our hands, it’s our sun rise, it’s our evening prayer, heck it’s the only thing reminding us to wake up in the morning and connect with these people that we can only reach through these dull technological connections. Facebook says we’re here to help you connect! The Bible app dings remindign you, “keep in check!” You’re surrounded by connection, it immerses you and embraces you with its WiFi streamed arms and blue tinted light
But shouldn’t you be embracing the connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to swallow connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to amplify connection?
Humanity is at the ****** of connection but we are disconnected.. Shouldn’t the rate of depression fall not rise with every purchase of an iPhone. We are disconnected
From ourselves from nature from the spiritual realm and from each other because we connect our souls to these arguable objects of connection. Seems like we need an intervention from connection. Shouldn’t connection flow within our bones and not simply be plastered to it? Connection is around us, but we’re not making the connection
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 9:26 PM UTC
clanking clank slurp, ka-boom
the slop runs down a throat
merrily merrily terribly chilled
the gunk rolls down a throat.
the
forks spoons knives
plates salts salads
and wines
ding and echo like
soft butterfly tea parties
all gone rabid.
throughout the walls of pictures of food
and the butterfly echos echo
and dinging cups splash
and forks click and clock
(and and,..and!)
hold my breath.
clanking cubes of ice
bing against one another
Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with
a spoonful of spicy French soup
Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of
his piggy chops.
he stares at my forehead
they see my odd selection
she's laughing insanely at a joke
I'm holding my eyes inside my head
while
all on my plate sit the legs
of baby spiders
all on my dish are darting
sow eyeballs
pitcher plant garnish
and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant)
I gag outloud
the Fat Pigman scoffs at this
my heart pops inside its cage
and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
I’m lying down in the ground
as the sun shines its rays
right inbound
on me.
hounding me
(surrounding)
Without a sound
Or is there?
A ringing
or dinging
a pinging
maybe a constant stinging.
I wouldn’t know.
Could be the blood pulse
or the sea dulse wrapping
the seashells doing their sins
or
a pair of siamese twins
trying to
dance and
lance and
advance on my grave
(how brave! how brave! i hope they cave)
germinated spouts
and terminated doubts
with exterminated outs.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
The side of things
The want the while the things who ding
For you
They smile
For you all the while
I see the things
They make us sing
For you
For you
The purple thing rings
All in my head
The music springs
And while it jings
We get up and sing
About the things that make us ring
For you
For you
I want the jing
For you
For you
don’t let us sink
and we will keep singing about the things keep ringing and the words keep dinging, forever jinging
for you
for you
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
a great return, as I predicted,
like a king. With your crown, your laurels,
your broad shoulders and back,
your hands in your pockets, your face
hard-browed and blond as an SS guard.
*he is a slave to his masculinity
he has you, he has had you
and still, you’re no necessity*
Some sort of resurrection,
less like spring and more like remission.
A disease that I had chased like a rat
deep into my bones, now
creeps back to its hole in my chest.
*you’ve seen his big artillery
bombs dropped, missiles flew
and still, you’re no necessity*
Like an old rag dinging out of
a player piano. Off-key and tinny,
on an endless loop for the better part of a year.
I know the words to this song,
they go: he wants you not, he needs you not.
*he owes you no apology
boys will be boys, it’s what they do.
he is a slave to his masculinity*
But I have written him stories.
I have given him children,
a flat with tall windows and sunlight,
I have given us breakfasts and coffees,
funerals and weddings, I have given us.
*he gave you one perfect memory
his pale skin in the pre-dawn blue,
but still, you were no necessity*
I have taken them away.
Perhaps his room is white, cell-like,
empty walls. With a mattress on the floor,
for the king with his pride and
laurel wreath, no use for memories of me.
*Let me write you the last story
he had you once, and now he’s through
he is a slave to his masculinity
and girl, you’re no necessity*
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?
Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?
I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.
I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"
I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!
But ****
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).
Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
There's sounds around me
but they're almost muffled,
distant...
My brain is louder.
Thoughts bounce around
All too quickly
Like a ping pong ball
in an old arcade game
Up. Down. Back and forth
To every side
Hard to keep track
Of which way the ball
Is going to go next
Swirling around all the knobs
and fancy buttons
Faster, and faster,
Till I can't keep my eye
on the ball anymore,
Or gather which thought is which,
And suddenly, the ball falls
All too quickly
Through the little space
at the base of your game
The base, of my brain?
And I lost my thoughts,
the ball is gone
What was I even thinking..?
But the game starts up again
Right away
Before I have time
To slow down my brain
Or shut down the game
A new ball
With new thoughts,
Ideas
My fears,
And desires
Too much paranoia
And fabricated scenarios
And some other *******
that makes no sense
Cause the ball is bouncing again
In every direction
Pinging,
and dinging,
With all the flashing lights
And funny little sounds
That no one else can hear
Cause the game is in my head.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
i swing from the chords of your voice,
in your last message.
the one where you said you'd be by later
your skin smooth and subtle
the stark lights flickering
i held onto your hand
until mine was as cold as ice
my phone left behind
filled with echoes of birthday wishes
a incessant dinging
ding
ding
don't go
i light a candle when i get home
there's no cake but i still blow out the flame
i make my only wish
to have you back
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
The coffee is bitter and full of grinds
Still I **** it down hoping it will wake me
Skimming through the morning metro paper,
Hoping for a seat at the next stop until the next stop is mine
The train creeps along the tracks,
The doors dinging at every stop.
I prepare myself for the worst because then
Everything else seems like nothing.
Walking into work I pour myself Another cup of coffee, surprised
That it is better than the usual sludge.
Hoping that today will be better than the typical trudge
Through the mountain of paper work.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
I hate it
And I say that probably
About a lot of things
But
This is the truth
Yet I am attached
Always in my hand
Ringing
Dinging
Chiming
Noisy little thing that it is
Silence
Never silenced for a fear
Of missing a moment
It is cumbersome
Facebooking your life
Tweeting your seconds
Showing your life in still photos
Every email
Spam at three am from the store down the street
Work
Friends
Friends of friends
Acquaintances
Family
Friends of family
I know what they do from
My newsfeed
My dashboard
Twitter feed?
Instagram
Vines in short videos
Pintrest to know your interests
Check in to know where you are
Who you're with
I hear it all
I don't want to
I hate my phone
It gives me updates on everyone
Everyone except you
My phone can't connect me
To the person I need most
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Within the confines of the office building
is a dark and dusty stairwell.
Used less and less by those unwilling
to take a trip no longer fulfilling
as the elevator is easier and does not smell
and it moves too quick so one can't dwell
on the feelings that flow like an ocean swell.
But there's a fear a machine is instilling
for if there are a sudden halt and no dinging bell
and one is stuck when the power is killing
itself; would one think of those stairs so very chilling
and what their day would be if they took the stairwell?
Would they even survive to share a tale they can't tell?
Or will the cables break and they'll arrive faster in Hell?
It'd be too late for souls to know they were unwell.
The lack of control is frightfully thrilling.
No one tells them why they fell.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
I know that phone number all too well
The burn of metal all to well
Your speedy driving
Knowing something is so very wrong
I know your yelling like a witches spell
So loud and there's a dinging in my head, a bell
October has it out for me
Get your drinks and your music,
I'm hiding under the covers
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
these words retained, their authorship lost and unresolved,
but their siren sounding ringing, ding ding dinging;
resoundingly and unresolved:
we do not always, indeed, hardly ever safe harbor the true origin and
the true meaning of our memories, but they come returning to us with accompanied shrouded shuddering, so oft, for frequent "EX'ing:"
Excellent exhilaration, expiration,
exhalation, variant explanations,
and unsatisfactory excitations but
never any finality of finale
exiting
the memories and the meanings
return modified, encumbered by
prior visionings, and the meaning
further twisted, their import
un lessened, until some resolution
is reached required retained
and a new memory is formed,
perhaps imagined,
perhaps not,
nonetheless
the siren sounds, the mind alerted,
we commence daily, nightly
to reimagine what we once imagined...even
endings...
nml
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:42 AM UTC
They say the silence is awkward
when it consumes an entire room.
But the thoughts are almost palpable.
I'm surprised no one has noticed sooner.
Thoughts of inequity.
Fear of rejection.
A concious sedation of self loathing and envy.
Faces running on auto pilot
in the few moments before everyone reaches for their phone
to drown out the quiet.
You can hear the girls comparing thighs
and hair
and dresses
because although we know the media is a generous artist
of flaws for the human form
we still worry that they are right about us.
Guys watching every twitch of lips
and fingertips
half of the room wants to scream
while the other half wants to run
but everyone is confused as to why.
Awkward silence is preferable, though,
to deadened conversation.
The ones where we mention the economy
or the war
or the friend that died last week
and no one knows if it was really an accidental suicide.
Where we paint a picture of bleak servitude
and lament our meager lots
So we stay quiet
except for the dinging of phones
until its time to go home
so that we can study for school
and get a degree that we think we have to have.
If only someone would question
just how much pieces of paper
dictate our lives
Money
Degrees
Concert tickets.
But no.
We all just linger
in the Awkward Silence.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
Friday, March 7, 2025
8:47 AM - part one done
exactly at 10:31...
Action taken while sitting still…
"spukhafte Fernwirkung"
working far ah hafte liability
liable(adj.)
mid-15c.,
"bound or obliged by law,"
from Old French lier, liier
"to bind, tie up, fasten, tether;
bind by obligation" (12c.),
from Latin ligare
"to bind, to tie"
(from PIE root *leig- "to tie, bind").
With -able.
Working ties.
A gnosis knot's holding thought.
Reliable religious gnosis complex,
where the path past now appears,
in all possible out from on,
thorough affirmative ready, set…
let go, leave be, fie leap to charge
across the gap elemental to shine
like the stars
using laws so simple Hydrogen obeys,
with out a thought,
transitioning
to Helium and everything
radiating waste reactions at us
while our swirling core shields us.
Thank order
for so high a call, seeing
as we seem to be the only, so far,
seeing
makers
of sense enhancers, hollering
across ever between us, hey hey
look this may catch this thought…
does it keep its worth, make it's point,
piercing action past final velocity
thunk.
However, If one has, umph to act,
and if this same one acts, unbound,
or unheld as having umph still tied
velocity wise as reflected radiance
in posed still state,
in waiting, still
precogitating
any thunks thunk.
Right. Done's Donne's bell, still today,
dinging for you.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC