"operate" poems
In your power.
My heart and love is yours.
I am submissive by choice.
And not by will.
Some men lives in this universe.
Under the impression they rule over women.
Even quick to pull out the scriptures.
Except I am submisive to you by choice.
And not by orders.
Some women operate on leadership.
Where they sit back and let the man rule?
Even if his decisions makes them seem foolish
I yield to you.
Out of love.
I surrender to you.
Out of love.
And only to you.
And no other one.
Be thankful you're the lucky one.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
A yellow ladybird waiting for the light to turn red.
Patiently awaiting what's to come.
She knows better than to make rude gestures at the light.
It won't make it change any quicker.
She knows she can spend her time better than being an angst-ridden insect cynically hating phonies.
It's true patience is a virtue
and she sticks by this principle.
No matter what they say,
a principle's a principle.
The yellow ladybird knows a lot of things.
A delightful delinquent who enjoys reading eloquent literature
and can tell you who painted that pretty picture.
But she is still just a yellow ladybird.
Still only learning how to operate in this world.
But when the light turns red, then she will know.
Know more than she does now.
Soon the yellow ladybird will see the light, be it the light she would've liked or not, I can not say.
Only she can decide if the waiting was worth it.
And for her poor soul, I hope it was.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Windows high or low, windows sing or woe (if they could effect sounds)
Windows are protestants of peace; often the mediator between the inside and the out
They tirelessly shield us from the rain and sun, the dust and even noise, sometimes the wind itself too; so things don't topple over
There are times you open them, when you look out and think of an adventure out
There are also times you close them, when you seek some respite
Windows, if anything, are the forgotten heroes of time
They are your guides, your decision-making helpers, as is the Spirit
Their panes (pains) are to be taken care of, wiped regularly for absolute clarity
They nudge, with the help of wind sometimes, dying not to be ignored
They crave interaction with its user, oh if only our owners knew they cry
Knowing how to operate them for full utilisation is truly, a skill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
When we think about the choices in our lives
When we fight and we bicker and become bitter
When we think there is only power or powerlessness
If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness
Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness
In that instance haven't we began the process of choice
That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness
To those who have only lived powerlessness
And know nothing else
Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness
That you have ceased to be one of them
Or your mere power has denied one of them
That there is no choice for them
Because they haven't birthed that consciousness
And if you choose power they'll remain powerless
Because within you there is no loyalty, right?
It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation
It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense
This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer
Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering
But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness
This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power
That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to
That a mind and body can cultivate power
That can be harvested, shared, communal
For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self
That that can survive in this world is impossible
Its antithetical to the modes of production
In which our societies operate and thrive
How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts
How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor
How can any community in any corner of the world escape
The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism
When will we reclaim our escaping humanity
When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor
How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine
And don't think that you are safe when you have made it
When you have entered the circle of dominance
Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die
It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes
Just as dispensable as that of the powerless
Because to maintain that circle of dominance
Requires a total conversion to misanthropy
The rigor with which your power will be required
To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break
And when you become useless, it will replace you
So that we must realize that the modes of production
That we allow to exploit us
In powerlessness, or the semblance of power
Can never safeguard our humanity
How much further will we allow power to be concentrated
So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice
Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
What if your brain
was just a small packet of popcorn
that desperately needed
a microwave.
What if it refuses
to operate
until you show it some love-
Let it open itself up.
What if all it wanted was
to feel a little more lightweight-
'pop' away the pressure of being
confined to a head-cage.
What if our brains
Were just raw popcorn pieces
That needed some heating
To melt away the pain.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
It’s like some beast
whose roar startles
drowsy landscapes
from a mechanical planet
where veins leak oil
where organs deoxidize
where bones lay scattered
unburied like discarded rods
homes are garages
churches are factories
cemeteries are junkyards
where all organisms operate
toward a singular optimum imperative:
EFFICIENCY
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Life is like a suicide hike,
Although it's a beautiful trail
It's scary to think one day we'll fall.
We fall because we walk on edges,
Some worth walking on, some not.
Ultimately, we learn from both.
Be careful who you choose to walk with,
Be careful who you choose to sit with.
Because they may just push you off
And way down you'll be falling down.
But sometimes it wasn't them who pushed you off
But it was them you thought would help you up.
And when we've hit our lowest point in life
We start looking for the root of our pain,
But it's dark and empty, it stings we feel lost.
It's no paradise down here, the pain feeds on our strength.
It's a tragic accident that breaks all of our bones.
With no paramedics or anesthesia, we've got to operate ourselves.
We don't know which injury is killing us more,
But we know a slow death is coming for us.
Our blood no more, regret is what the heart pumps now,
We scream and cry away our mistakes
But down here is a curse playing our fall in a loop,
I don't know when it stops
I'm drowning myself in my pain.
I've stained my soul with too much hate
I'm no longer the person who I used to be.
I've been down in the dark for too many days
But when I start my hike again
I hope to go further than yesterday.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
spring’s breath hums on your face
sits upon a fencepost, hawk-like and stoic
its infant rays nuzzle, organized and coded
its beauty, slightly bothersome
to the man who mistook god’s warmth as permanent
all planets in space operate between two foci
and ted hughes wrote “crow” as a bedtime story
for the lovers he abandoned
what I’m trying to say is this:
spring will leave earth
like a two-faced lover
but never forget the monday you shared with her
as she breathed winter’s hangover
down your holy throat
for that is something memorable
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
the plants I use for trauma
are **** and aya
but the feds who are not aware of God who values Equity
think their 'views' are superior to the Torah
the Tanakh, The Old Testament and the Good Book.
God gave us all the herbs and all the plants
he created the seed
he created the sun
he created water
He is the God of the Hapless, the Widow, the Orphan
He is the God of Equity
who do the Feds/ Cops/ Gov think they are ??
to interfere with Gods laws?
I tried to get **** to get rid of my trauma
the ops that ***** me
made sure my **** was laced with Fetanal
No thanks
it does not stabalise my moods to spray a Sacred Healing Plant with noxious addictive and dangerous chemicals
It is infuriating being ripped off again, and again, and again, and again, again and again.
God never gave noxious chemicals in Genesis, he didn't create Fetanal or what ever 'rat poison' they sent this whistleblower
I do know how vice squad operate
they control vice
like Priests pimped kids who had 'fallen'
fallen meant they got ***** 'once'
so now they hoes....
God cried tooo
you would cry too
if it happened to you
Sep 24, 2022
Sep 24, 2022 at 9:25 AM UTC
Sometimes i wonder,
Wondering wonders of wonderful
World,for i living in this awful
World,spiral of life with terrific
Surroundings.
Unholy acts to the victims of
Xenophobic attacks,violence
Turns an everyday speech.
Government revolts gathers.
Towards poverty-stricken.
Diseases classic collide,remittance
Assassins rendered for intensely
Militancy.
Objection!!my lord,
Shysters bailing out
Evil-doers,juridical system
Not pertained.Poverty-trap
Pounding,chemical gases
Filling lungs of little
Ones.
Somebody play nice to
This,God play part to
This,denote dualism of
Good and evil.
Yesterday they gang banged
One of your children.
Drugs co-operate infection of
Young minds,youth gangsterism
Uproar.
Father herd your sheeps
To the right path,we seek
Guidance from above.
Family horror-strucks unites,
Matrimony rending day by
Day,onto religion segregations
Strickes by ??????.
Keep holy to this life *Life
Testimony* and paste
Amen...
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
I don't need a lawyer.
Or need to stand before a judge.
I admit my guilt of love.
I don't have no need to be offended.
No need for a defense.
I operate not upon pretense.
Cause what I'm accused of makes sense?
They offered all the evidence.
Even used fingerprints written to you upon a letter.
Yes, I'm that guy.
Yes, I'm that fella.
Accused of loving you.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Wal, Thanksgivin’ do be comin’ round.
With the price of turkeys on the bound,
And coal, by gum! Thet were just found,
Is surely gettin’ cheaper.
The winds will soon begin to howl,
And winter, in its yearly growl,
Across the medders begin to prowl,
And Jack Frost gettin’ deeper.
By shucks! It seems to me,
That you I orter be
Thankful, that our Ted could see
A way to operate it.
I sez to Mandy, sure, sez I,
I’ll bet thet air patch o’ rye
Thet he’ll squash ’em by-and-by,
And he did, by cricket!
No use talkin’, he’s the man—
One of the best thet ever ran,
Fer didn’t I turn Republican
One o’ the fust?
I ‘lowed as how he’d beat the rest,
But old Si Perkins, he hemmed and guessed,
And sed as how it wuzn’t best
To meddle with the trust.
3.3k
* * *
Is a DJ - a "DJ", really?
Do we not operate in tunes?
We joggle with joy them and freely -
To ease our listeners' glooms.
Methinks -
We are ought to be "TJ"s.
For, truly, we pluck the Soul's strings.
And hearts care only for wings -
To fly with vibrations of music
And into their sanity fuse it.
(с)kRu, 11.12.2006 - 18.06.2007
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:12 AM UTC
The hurdles I must *******
gauze against breath
within this gripe
of well patrolled
polite sobriety
What clarity can I operate ?
take a breath
expel a myth
pattern a thought
create an action
reset and repetitude
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
The realization that you had gone
Hit me harder than ever before
Pulling the air from my lungs
As if I had just taken a vicious blow
Every muscle in my body froze
Nothing had the desire to move
For fear that I'd slip even farther
Tumbling down this dark path
I pressed pause, looking for rewind
But life doesn't operate that way
A desperate cry for help escaped
As violent rivets cycling through
This broken and unwilling soul
Searching endlessly for someone, anyone
It was then that I sadly realized
No one was ever truly there
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Under alcohol umbrellas
We'll seek shelter from the snow
This street is icing over
Sliding sleet beneath our toes.
This place keeps getting colder,
They predicted our bad luck
But the globe is growing warmer
Choke me down, I'll get choked up.
It's like Wharton is your neighbor
And McCarthy shares her bed--
We've got plenty Pretty Horses
But no Room, here, for Old Men
Tickers spit out headlines
Half of us can't even read.
But the other half's no better,
We're cannibals eating dreams.
So you'll keep your smoke and mirrors.
And, reflecting, stifle coughs.
Operate under assumptions:
Overrated's good enough.
But I'm taking bets, suggestions,
And donations, West to East.
So, from minor indiscretions,
I might try to beg release.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
Whether it's an eight/twelve hours or more shift.
I SALUTE all men and women that daily places their life in danger.
Behind walls of correctional institution enhancing rules and regulation to inmates.
Of course you find that familiar one professing like it's an honor to be called convict.
Over phases of offender or inmate.
Unlike those street enforcers with weapons.
The only one you have is your vocal tones to control.
A prayer said daily, if you are of faith to calm your day.
Hold truth that any second, minute anything might happen.
While many families failed to comprehend you didn't make their child apart of the correctional system.
That was their child decision.
It takes strength and fearlessness to operate behind fences.
To be that honest officer following the rules.
For even some co-workers eventually ends up behind these same various walls.
RESPECT is an earned trade and trait.
Like your word is your bond.
But in a place that operates twenty four seven.
Your work is never done.
So to all correctional officers I SALUTE YOU!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
I almost died the other day
And I came back to this place just to say
That you never know when it all can get taken Away
All your life's lessons suddenly play
like a highschool production through your mind's electric grey clay,
a mind managing to keep itself oxygenated enough to operate even as consciousness fades
A body lying there, blue as a mid summer's day, gasping
For breath, and for a chance to stay
Alive.
I woke up, having almost died the other day,
To a room full of strange faces, whose eyes all aimed my way.
A room full of strangers,
My vision regaining clarity,
I see equipment of many types, lying around a well decorated living room, it seemed out of place,
devices dreamed up by engineers a few hundred miles away,
At an elite institution, of mechanical engineering and science, engineering devices that now lay about my horrified friend's living room,
Then the puzzle regained its shape, and I was graced with the understanding that it was all going to be okay,
this time, anyway.
the first responders,
My saviours.
Real heroes,
Who wear no capes,
Nor spandex,
But who know their job well,
And do it without delay,
And these people who saved my life today
Are out of my life now forever, and onto saving another fragile life, on some other street,
On some other day.
I saw people in blues, reds, and greys, yellows and oranges, and then the light of the day.
The light of the day on which I did not die,
But I could have, had it been another time,
Another place.
My stretcher was bright yellow, by the way...
I almost died the other day, and its implacable oncoming rush scared me.
The fear of not having lived a worthy life, an unobserved life,
Of dying too soon, with things left to do
Of leaving people behind,
Of wrongs left to right
Of lying here blue
On my dear friend's plush carpet,
And her child witnessing it as he comes home from school. Innocent as day, then scarred for life.
Luckily I have a few friends and modern miracles on my side.
I almost died the other day, and I came back here, having missed all the poetry, that makes life worth living, day after day.
Beyond the biorhythms we must feed
In order to stay
Alive.
Peace.
Love.
Breath.
Focus.
A good enough mantra,
Wouldn't you say?
I almost died the other day,
But I didn't. I breathe
in with gratitude,
And I exhale with relief,
that I still got the knack
for it.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC
Laying in an ice cold room,
IV in my hand,
I close my eyes and plead with god
Trying to understand .
" im sorry we cant save it ,
But theres a chance that you could die;
I know your in a lot of pain
And Its ok to cry ".
I feel my husband squeeze my arm,
Im trembling in fright ,
Im sad and im defeated
And I dont have that much fight .
" Your bleeding into your belly
We need to operate right now ,
Continue to be strong for us "...
.....But i just dont know how.
A foggy conversation ,
And their whisking me away ,
My eyelids get real heavy
And i just start to pray.
Waking up to quiet ,
Im tired and im sore ,
Depressed without a baby
On the maternity floor.
God must have a plan for me
That i just can not see ;
Even through our struggles
Whats meant to be ...
Will be .
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
My hands are trembling more than usual,
so I have altered my coffee to a camomile tea.
I administer everything as if it were medicine;
a chemist punctuating his day with
guilty cigarettes and vague homoeopathy.
*It's all ******** I know-
but whatever gets you through the day...*
In the season of advent, my fingers are bitten
down to the quick; throat seared with
half-functioning lighters and fragile matches;
I can scarcely operate either in this state.
The fairy-lights turn the high-street to a runway.
*But all I see are charity shops
interceded with bookies and coffee houses.*
This home-town exists to keep up my interest
in finding some purpose. A path to eventual escape
from all of these old bonds and ties,
pinning me down with memories of ***
and all of the street-names I have learned by rote.
*I'm treading water here-
living in the comfort of a sink-hole.*
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC