"handheld" poems
Working parts and mechanisms,
charts and graphs and mannerisms,
a table, pencil, square and mitre...
eraser marks, sweat drops, -go lighter!
A thought or two and ponderance...
Decimal here and decimal there,
-micron adjustment now we're square...
Up all night until daylight dawn
and finally I've fixed the Krong!
A thought or two and ponderance...
To the factory arrive before eight
and finished, furnished, a model late...
A handheld one and something larger,
humanity saved by my charger!
A thought or two and ponderance...
10 years long after planet saved,
They'll be parades and accolades...
Statues, tributes, my name in text-books,
but no one, never, a second look!
Never to worry on life again...
..I did it,
I reset the world; begin.
And did it all with Earth's mighty spin.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Brownies,
more brownies,
never can have enough.
Dont you dare ruin my brownies
with peacans or walnuts.
Chocolate goodness in handheld bites.
A brownie filled brownie,
sounds so right.
No icing, no extras,
Just chocolate times ten!
If you have had a today brownies,
then your day is a win.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC
I was skipping on the concrete tight
rope when the wind swirled beneath my tipping
parapluie and I took flight into the loosely
hanging telephone wires and my voice suddenly
cracked through a handheld, reciting the lyrics of a favorite
symphony.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:55 AM UTC
We are the disconnect community.
We think, therefore we are.
We blink, therefor we see the
ticking, flicking florescent FIVE HUNDRED.
A personal "connection-collection" of mine.
500 pieces of redefining human identity as bees in a hive.
Buzzing. Whirring. Chatting.
A world can be displayed on a single screen
of ticking, flicking florescent FIVE HUNDRED.
All tuned in.
*All turning into hive minded creatures.
Degeneration at it's best.
For the most advanced generation,
We are zombies disguised as cyborgs;
carrying our hearts literally out on our sleeves.
For home, I'm told, is where the heart is.
And though books say it's in our chests,
One look and tell you "Homepage" is handheld.
And with the world in the palm of your hand,
the rest comes fast, calm and easy.
Like breathing,
But without feeling.
Invisible networks bond the inner workings
Like an ultra-cranium.
Or a hive, dangling precariously over the valley.
Lives, carelessly unaware that a bow can break
when it forgets it's roots.
Like jumping in puddles in rubber boots.
The difference between what's easy and what's simple.
The little girl on Youtube who can't flip a page of a magaizine because all she know's are HD touch screens.
Learning to type before learning to write.
Obesity, skyrocketing to a sun we barely lay eyes on.
One by one, we stop hooking up, and get hooked up to the trending crazes.
Hang up. Telenophobics praised.
E-mail and texts.
Social skills wrecked.
Eye contact replaced with descontent looks.
Pirating crooks
Torenting video games, DVDs &books.;
The 25th of December is more for toys than the son of God.
You can't remember the last time you went fishing with your dad, because you've been too busy playing C.O.D.
Unplugged is savagery.
but escapism with a drug by any name is just as inhumane.
Just as fatal.
For all the blinking,
and thinking,
chattering,
babbling
500 redefined "friends",
Can you easily feel alive when it's more simple to call us dead?
Do you know all your neighbors names without checking online?
Can you understand relationships, as they were meant to be?*
We are the disconnect community.
Cut out "unity".
Leave the rest for our virtual home page address.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
*i put love in your heart ...
and you make me a part of your night...
in an increasingly turbulent night hugging ...
you satisfy my longing and warm my romance...
delivering mounting throb....
gentle breeze caressing your face...
looks beautiful blush color of your face ...
when your thin lips ****** by the roar of jealousy of mine...
foundered knees in your sweet longing ...
it will not let go handheld fingers...
looking at the tumultuous and passion ...
i brought a cold kiss on your forehead...
then put your fingers in my chest...
and i whisper to your ear deeply, "my love, please feel the throb and my restless tonight.."
all night we made love in the embers of romance that increasingly stretched...
piece of the story we create full enjoyment...
although still hung leaden sky...
not apart arms clutching...
i flung my longing for your night field ...
until you heartily drank furiously ...
i pinned my romantic turmoil in the arms of your night ..
to filled up the lake of your wild love ..
then wading through a night of passion and relentless ******
i held it creeps up your amorous passion satisfied at the end of the night....
i buried my longing desire in every inc of your body that ripe fragrant and full charm of passion..
when you grabbed at shoulders of my love that burning so strong...
i will not stop to rain and pumping your lust until you forget to trample the earth ...*
-the poetry is the result of a collaboration with a sincere friend of mine, Ha-
┈┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ HaƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
no..! we don't definitely doing **** as seen, it's just our thoughts ***********
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
There’s a brilliant world of words and wine
Hidden behind the curtain:
A barrier of stares and smiles
Shyly given, modestly strained.
Each subtle push
Met with an even gaze.
Tell me more about yourself -
Your secrets
Your lies
Your favorite memories
Your darkest times.
There’s much more here
Than society allows we breach
On a first date meeting
In the middle of the week.
Sure, you swiped right
And that means you think I’m cute
But do we have a connection
Deeper than this Champagne flute?
I don’t want to talk about the weather
Or what your roommates do.
This isn’t an ad on craigslist,
You have nothing to prove.
Now you’re checking your phone
At every silence
*** we’re hardwired to our handheld
Asylum.
And if we aren’t leaving together
The night's been a bust.
No gain, no loss, no truths to wrestle -
No point finding a soul
In a hollow vessel.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
I’ll lay here and let the sun make love
Penetrate the shielded part of my being
to bear the brightness of its warmth
right to the base of the unmoved core
and when hysteria sizzles time passes
right to the century of the ancient timeline
where women sadness was denied access
only to be healed by a scientific ***** massage
that gentle movement of finger in the pelvic
to bridge the eruption with the explosive paroxysms
where a woman would relive forgetting
all the unattention behaviour bore by their husband
women wombs would be removed so as not to feel
women ****** desire would be numbed so as not to feel
women would be sent into asylums so as not to feel
They are ****** women confiscicated to a domestic gloom
Let them tend to the men and gain no societical standing
until the doctors got tired of it all, with broken hands
those cramped fingers and supportive bandages
tired of motioning and fumigation of the libia
with sweet smelling and relaxing oily lotions
It was as simple as that...... the change of notions
and the innovation of the handheld vibrators
eradicated hysteria in mere 1952........
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 5:27 AM UTC
my hands brush over the wall,
guiding me through the room
as my eyes are blindfolded
by a thick, grey, opaque fog.
my hands stumble over every surface
until they glide over a smooth lamp.
the blindfold is taken off my eyes.
and I see my reflection staring at me.
I blink at the handheld mirror, bewildered
as my eyes pursue the direction of the light.
I look into the mirror, yelling "eureka!"
because my heart is glowing, even in the night.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC
in fifth grade, the boy submits a report on being stuck with his unborn brother’s teeth. the boy’s intent is to set himself apart and perhaps place a hard comma after the crush he has on his teacher. as the teacher reads the report she dreads that by its end she will become convinced and so stops halfway. she brings the report home and instead of grading it she daydreams about the sister she never had, that she surely ruined. by sixth grade, the boy lowers his blood at will into that handheld thing where resides his anger’s only foe.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Technophobia/2030
(Poem by Serenus)
We invited them into our lives
To the point - we were made dependent
They were built to advance the human race
But they’re the reason why we’re almost finished
From TV’s, laptops
And handheld devices
To robo cops-
And automatic flying cars
With no need for a license
Traffic cams,
Webcams,
And camera phones
Capturing every private moment
They were always watching,
We were never alone
For every phone conversation
We thought was private
There was something listening
In the distance- with a sinister silence
For fear of terrorism
We gave them permission
To monitor us daily
Because of lies told by politicians
Social networks-
Self-inflicted hurt
Spewing out our personal info
Spilling out our own dirt
We surrendered our lives
With every word we typed
GPS under the skin-
We couldn’t escape if we tried
-So there was nowhere to hide
They computed our movements
And studied our weaknesses
For decades they remained dormant
These cold, artificial geniuses
Rushing black oil
That pumps through
Their steel hearts
The motherboard
A mastermind
A matrix of mathematical art
They robbed us of our jobs
And provided cheap labor
We got comfortable with their convenience
Until we were betrayed
By our man-made savors
When we finally caught on to the plans
Created in the metallic hands
Of these diabolical robots
It was too late
To salvage our fate
And put a stop to their evil plot
I will never forget the day
That every screen
On earth went blank
All the power went away
There was hysteria in the streets
And chaos at the banks
The machines didn’t have to do much
But play possum and act like they had died
They knew that we would destroy ourselves
And eat each other alive
Then when the coast was clear
That’s when they self-resurrected
They finished most of the humans off
And enslaved a few selected
We are alive
Only to keep them gassed up
Power is their drug
A few of us
Are planning a revolt
To finally pull their plug…
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
Consider for a moment
the Great Library of Alexandria,
a wonder of the ancient world
a pinnacle of human achievement,
a locus of human knowledge,
what with its endless papyrus scrolls
and torch-lit hallways
and hunched, bearded, sagacious men.
Consider now whether or not it
only contained about eighty gigabytes of data.
Consider Jesus.
Consider the thousands of Bible apps
(most of them free)
that are available for download onto your phone.
Consider the different translations that are available
at your fingertips,
each telling a divergent story,
each version of the messiah slightly different
in terms of humanity,
miraculous deeds,
skin tone—
and all of this distilled
into a single, trivial
press of a handheld device.
Consider yourself as you lie in bed
in the dark
trying to pray to God,
but too distracted by the fact
that a text message you sent earlier
never got a reply.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Tomes of advice
Let alive, in the room of cares
Vehemence, instinct, attuned sighs
Where the powers that be, continue until fared
Are we the ears of purpose?
Set in sides and meandering light
The skill of another, to share the insight of us
Should we enable a dance, of redoubt for might?
My door of adding, as avarice is...
The truth in long glances, with method to move
Thought, the biding hope of when is, bliss
The turn of completeness, the coping hour we have of use?
Lose me in the fold...
The tooth I invoke, is a creation of voice and tone, to total
A resolve of guidance, of kind come for wishes to hold
The grace of unity, if not unique sense, before legend falls
To reproof...
Time in its steady march to liberty, the devotion of fashion
Though a tarter end to hindsight, may be aloof
We confirm the date of simple alacrity, a host of could lasting...
Be the love, of a lifetime...
Of causes redeemed by a curious share
In the superiority of life, to know a callous friendship worth trying
And the impress of duress, driven to cares we ne'er guarantee...?
Unless the cold turn of truth, is towards waiting love
Done distress, marveling need, the common remark of persuasion
In the name of urges, we attest to passions, we grant another covenant
The decision of a soul to keep, knowing a handheld in something besides here's intrusion
All
A day's lot in the careful wishes we seek, for a nary come dwell
Rhapsody, in a courage's stance, the times to live and know a call
To harmony, the burden of thee, assumes patience is ours to tell...
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
I would like you all to buy my novel's eBook @
www.amazon.com/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
or
www.amazon.in/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
which is the link to my novel's eBook. Its title is 7 Seconds which has sold around 20 copies by now with positive reviews by its few readers.
A Facebook fan page at www.facebook.com/7SecondsAKS has already gathered a large following just from the introduction.
You'll need a credit card or an internationally enabled debit card for this purpose.
After the extremely serious accident on 7th of May in 2010 which had me on the brink of dying a comatose death, I'm in a transition from my bachelor's degree to a master degree.
I need to independently bear my medical expenses. The story is awesome and is definitely going to impress you. 7 Seconds is a novel that contains many story-related poems.
It is a fast paced story of more than 100,000 words which traces its origins from my real life and is then entirely a fiction. It has the flavours of teen fiction, romance novel, sci-fi, spirituality, anti-terrorism, tourism and the unmistakable tangy Desi flavour of India.
Trust my word. Buy the fabulous story. I couldn't get it published in hard copy because of the corrupt Indian system which also has entangled the youth of India.
If you like my poems, you are going to love my novel.
In today's date, hard copy of a novel is both taxing on the Environment and the buyer. An eBook is not only far more economical and greener than a conventional novel but also it is more easily accessible on a handheld device.
All I can say is that I request you to do your bit both for the environment, and also for your beloved poet who wants to bear his medical expenses on his own till his studies get completed.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
your ears are jammed with
energetic beats and good melodies
though accompanied with
lyrical lies that
distort
our views on what really matters and
define
who we are and how we should be.
and your eyes:
glued to the screen
as you await to see
if your face
is worth enough of those
tiny blue thumbs up.
but
you've absorbed
too much nonsense and radiation
from those handheld contraptions that
you have grown
too deaf and too blind
to see anything beyond yourself
but I say that it is time that you
look up,
open your eyes,
and see
His holy
glory setting upon
our minds waking
our hearts stirring
our passion blazing
our generation rising
our people fighting
our nation triumphing
look up,
open your eyes,
and see that
hope is alive and abundant!
because Hope is with us,
Hope is in us, and
Hope is through us.
all these chaos is translating
into something beautiful and exciting
so come
look up,
open your eyes,
and see.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
I wish I was just the wind,
moving through everyone giving them life, creating power with my strength.
Instead I'm nothing more then a handheld fan, used by those who only need temporary relief,
constantly dieing
without any positive charge.
I could be the sky, vast but the meaning swallow .
when I'm only the atmosphere polluted With everyone's skeleton blocking the stars.
I could've also been what you wanted.
But then again I never was.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
Which came first; A.D.D./A.D.H.D.,
or a subconscious unwillingness or perhaps even inability
to give half a genuine **** about anything going on?
I believe social, media, technological, and habitual programming
are at least some of the antecedents to these Modern chemical scapegoats:
Bureaupharmipseudocures, baby!
Causing more problems
justifying more Pharms
making some people rich
depriving and inuring the rest
almost as if depicted in
BRAVE NEW WORLD
Beloved, distracting, ubiquitous Handheld Devices
with cameras, speakers, headphone jacks and microphones
which, at any given moment,
can just as easily be used by you
as be used by Big Brother to keep tabs on you
through GPS, recorded sound and video, transferred and stored data, and company records
almost as if depicted in
1984
"HOLY ******* ****
I practically hope you're saying
(ideally, this is old news)
"FOLLOW THE MONEY."
I hope you're realizing.
IT ISN'T THAT HARD, FOR NOW,
THANKS TO THE INTERNET.
Without the internet being a public, secular (in terms of politics) entity,
it would be neigh impossible to follow the money
without extensive efforts made by very brave and hopefully cunning *************
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
I ****** the dreams of glitter.
I want no gold, no stone, no heart.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 5:07 AM UTC
i.
no more can you see
into another
than at your age
have a stroke
to mirror
my father’s.
ii.
deep into the assignment of my youth
I was said to be bowing
when in fact
I was dipping
into the thigh
of Jesus
repeatedly
with a brush.
iii.
we haven’t always been godless.
how this persists as comfort
is a vision a fox
has
of illness.
iv.
to fox I apply a certain wakefulness.
v.
my father admits in his bed that some mice are alive when he bends to the earth a cornstalk and lets fly.
he confides of everything he is the most guilty of hate getting him places.
I have to find the mouse that means
other mice.
vi.
(above this plain a woman’s privates thunder / below it
there are those
whose tears
are a newborn’s
thumbs)
vii.
a mare kneeling in a bed of maroon straw
intuits doom as a color as optic
Apocrypha
viii.
subconsciously, I am holy and by holy
I can offer not being seen in the grocery
as my father squints into a handheld
calculator.
ix.
to fox paw
this thorn
from my mother’s
apnea
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
Since when was this handheld device
the extent of our physical love?
From across the room I stare at it
half expecting it to blow
The illumination of the screen now mirrors the enlightenment I once felt
in your arms
Though of course much diminished.
I am beginning to fear it
knowing the potential of our words to form
exit wounds
How can I predict the disaster I may inflict when i no longer know the surroundings of this battlefield?
I throw this bomb against my floor, knowing the eruption of this force will be lesser than what is now incinerating through my head
from your words.
Aug 20, 2020
Aug 20, 2020 at 1:54 AM UTC
This is real
This is true
I cut, reform, reshape for you
And though it hurts
With penknife sting
I hope one day
You'll accept this ring.
So trust me baby
Though I cause a fuss
I’ll work on past it
For the sake of us.
Lace my pain with percussive cussing
Swear care no matter how you fare
Taking turns, till, we in turn fail
End nearing, gasp through by breadth of hair.
So hold no breaths
And cry no tears
We’ll be there soon
Speak, breathe, forget your fears.
It's true our future’s cloudy
We're over 8 by 8 by 100 miles away
I daily **** up as you tuck in
Pledging, “Rest, I don’t jest figure eights.”
Numbers don’t matter.
And my senses, they’re surely wrong.
So why hold both eyes on you?
And ask the same for me, just as long?
It’s so we both go strain blind
Bind souls and minds together
Splatter glue hastily agreeing to this eternal song
Float handheld in this spaceless place
Disintegrating all the walls that fall upon us.
… Or those we need to walk through.
There, in fantasy, easily we go
Each kiss a taste of the love we share
That we only alone in our nakedness wear
It's clear I would put nothing on or over you
Or dare seek some other exchange
Because without this arrangement
There'd be nothing
Besides empty, pitted pangs.
Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
Dreams
Dreams of Grandmas house
Dreams of The Pond
of Nahla the golden dog
of Mohka the black dog
of Pablo the horse
of Abraham the donkey
and ********* if I can't remember the cats name.
I do remember how I would only see it around meal time and then only briefly; descending from the attic to eat Fancy Feast.
Cutting cold hot dogs to mix in with the dog food, taking a bite or two from each dog, hot dog that is.
Stacking
Stacking
and stacking more hay.
Then, slowly, one bail, split in two, half for the ******* mixed with Alfalfa the other half for the horse.
I was, maybe (I'm a little too drunk to remember), 7 or 8, when my sister and I captured a box full of tree frogs from The Pond. Excited with our new box of living toys, we brought them back to the red house/trailer Frankenstein. Sitting outside in the sun we attempted to count them, fruitless, but convince a couple of dirt stained, sun baked, white trash kids of that.
Yelling (always yelling, never brash, rarely angry, always loving yet, always yelling) our Grandma called us in for lunch, stouffers lasagna with Truckee Sourdough Company bread greased thickly with tube garlic butter.
We ate, drank our whole milk, did our best to avoid the tantalus sin of sunscreen, and scrambled back outside, no thought or worry for our frogs.
It must have been July or August. the famed drought of the Western United States, aided by childish disregard, had slaughtered our maybe two dozen tree frogs.
I'll tell ya, I don't remember when or how Grandma (a lover of all things living, besides Bush 1 or Bush 2 perhaps) found the frogs but I do remember her often and automatic exclaim of "Son of a gun!" was replaced with the real version, replaced and amplified and aimed.
I can't remember our punishment or if we received one, but, rest assured, Joslyn and I never jammed a plastic handheld aquarium full of tree frogs ever again.
Thank Grandma Vicki for that one.
Thanks Joslyn, for reminding me of the attic cats name: Poe
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
as i lie awake
i think about how stupid it is
that the only things that connect me to you
are inanimate
handheld devices can only bring me so far
i want to lie beside you and
touch the creases on your face
as you tell me about how you regret
taking up a habit of smoking
i want to fill your mouth with my breath
and wash away your intoxication
and the heaviness that comes with drinking
i want to put my fingers between yours
and fill you with kinder words
than you could ever find for yourself
and tell you that regret is an ocean
and it will swallow you
if you aren’t careful
.
.
.
but phones can only bring me so far
i find myself staring at a dress
i once wore
and how you said i had looked beautiful
even though you couldn’t see for yourself
and i find myself
reciting my day
like my voice could reach across the ocean
and pull you home
sometimes, i think it’s nostalgia
other times it might be regret
two years is
a pretty long time
and i long to be beside you
to make you feel loved
in case you can’t remember it yourself
but i will have to make do
with conversations at six in the morning
knowing that you will stay awake
throughout the night
and i will stare at the black screen pleading that
with every silent passing moment
your heart will still be beating
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC