"pings" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
Military Bill -your solid soul hold still,
Flashes, pings, cracks, echoes…
And solid soul hold still,
And solid soul hold still,
Our military Bill,
The war it grows, the war it grows,
And military Bill,
Your solid soul holds still.
Solid soul hold still.
Our military Bill,
Flashes, pings, cracks, echoes…
And solid soul hold still.
And solid soul hold still.
Our military Bill,
Solid soul hold still.
Solid soul hold still.
Our military Bill,
Solid soul of Bill,
Of military bill,
Our Military Bill…
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
buffalo head cloud
rawhide drums
saline rollers at tantalus cross
ominous light
forms a short mile away
head lice
and peckers
tap the metal track
shovel train pings
the night quiet
moonlight
shines in
geometric form
arches and skiddles
and skirting reflections
(a vast connection of
grand design)
7 horns
at the passing
(oh that cold metal joy!)
stirring the blades
and ground cover
you better not turn old friend
just nod,
and cut what you need
it’s a bitter run
on the winter line
(with the finest
of wheels
and runners)
hold tight
on the pulley
the canyon wires
are clipping
there’s a gateway
to the copper town
*with a key held
by coveted few*
you can spot the
riders in their
box cars
watching closely
at the chunnel’s
dark turn
we’d walk
the lines often
(and put an ear to the ground)
the mine town still
and barren
hidden treasures
and pocket *******
settled deep
in a tranquil, stolid place
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...
The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.
The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.
Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
I could call you Molly
With the way you came into my presence
as an orchestra that played the melancholy lullaby of a cello and the sweet pings of a piano
with the velocity of sound waves filling up my head
But as the grains of sand fell and the seasons brushed along our skin
you became a drowned out child’s rhyme
A whisper in the eve
Truth is all perspective
As is friend and foe
But to say,
at best,
your words could be perceived as anything less than the hot air of an air balloon would be a stretch a contortionist would struggle to achieve.
(C) Tiffanie Doro
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly
When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity
Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme
Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm
You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically
You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously
The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic
Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Push off of the cool cement.
Gravity eases his grip on me.
Suspended in air,
I swallow mouthfuls of the night sky.
With stars in my lungs,
I course their light through my veins.
Between me and the moon,
my small world is drenched
in a hushed, wavering silvery glow.
The still, black surface
breaks into a thousand glittering pieces.
I’m told those little diamonds make
the most melodic tinks and pings,
but I don’t ever hear them.
By then, I’m fathoms below—
where I’m enveloped in quietude,
where time is an extinct notion,
where even the heaviest heart
can beat
for whatever she chooses
without
burden.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
The imperfect sunrise of mourning
Tears glittered by sugar and spice
like regretful words of self tormenting
My tounge of coals is removed twice,
Silenced from former end fights,
Forgiveness is found in remembering
She'll never know how my heart pings
FM static wet windows and cold
lost in moments of sun shards shimmering
All the way down the road.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Green-apple pings off of a shelf,
just misses his ear,
watermelon scores a direct hit
to the back of his throat.
*… askin’ for it... the ****
short ******
Woken mid rant, we don’t hear the rest,
not yet.
Straight-faced to the telly,
feeling confusion
pierce the backs of our heads-
dontlaughdontlaughand
dontlookatme.
Silently we pray
to the gods of Friday night
and sour candy, that
he’ll nod off and start snoring
before one of us pops
into a neon-snot-mess of giggles.
It’s taken too long
and we’ve eaten half our ammunition, but
he’s at it again. We grin.
Retrieve pink and green missiles
from 'round the chair legs,
listening
to what he’d do to her.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
Have you ever wanted to do something just once,
Only once and never again, and then have it be as if
You'd never done it at all?
It was summer, like now:
Hot, hazy, sweaty--even in the evening.
The brook ran low, between banks covered with alders,
Overhanging, tall, immense;
The mountains were purple, indefinite through the mist;
The pines looked almost black.
You could smell the summer--scents from the marsh--
Things in their prime--you could hear them,
Tweeting and chirping and buzzing and peeping and croaking,
And barking and hooting:
Dead mid-summer--hot, sticky, buggy.
After the sun set, but before it was dark,
When you can still see, but everything's a different color,
I stood on the old bridge
Where the brook runs under the back road
On its way from the marsh, down through the village,
To the big river and the lake beyond.
I was looking up towards the plateau, trying to lose myself,
When around the bend, banking against the alders,
In formation, like separate missiles shot from different cannons
At the same moment, at the same velocity,
In the same direction
With systems to navigate and turn, elevate and descend, dart,
Follow the stream bed,
And stay exactly the same distance from each other,
Like an entity with an awareness
The no one part could experience,
Came a flight of bats, moving too quickly to count.
They rocketed under the bridge,
Appeared on the other side, raced
Down a straight stretch, veered right
And disappeared with the brook into the meadows
Headed for the dark pines, the rapids and beyond.
You could hear the swish of their wings as they passed
And their high-pitched pings, like the highest notes on a harp.
In a blink they were gone, in their ecstasy flying on,
And I wanted to be them, all of them at once--
Just once.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Lauren has returned from her doc
with a portrait of the future
engraved on her spirit.
A collation of sonic pings
etched on a computer screen
reveal her new legacy
lying supine in an amniotic cradle
limbs and digits outstretched -
reaching for tomorrow.
Hands and feet to
touch and navigate the earth.
Inquisitive eyes and ears
to map and explore
the wonders of the universe.
Emergent life suspended today
within a mother's womb
but destined for future liberty.
October 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
I don't have anything to say
But please don't leave
Just stay here and we can sit quietly together
That's all I want, anyway.
If you were any more
Of all of the things I'm looking for
I wouldn't believe it.
You say goodnight
And it pings at my heart
Because your presence is gone
A little bit of loneliness.
My emotions are jumbled
And I can't express my thoughts
None of the words
Understand how I feel about you
All I can say is I like you
And you're wonderful
And you're mine.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
It starts at the bottom
Of my belly,
Right above your
Favorite spot,
Then it pings
And pongs
From elbows to knees,
From toes to shins,
From heart to biceps,
And from head to fingers,
Taking it's final bow
On the parts of my back
You sculpted-
This is how I miss you,
In every bend, crack, snap, and creek
In every bone, vein, muscle, and tendon.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
I get these headaches that start right behind the middle of my eyebrow, swoops down into my nose and then swings up and pings off my forehead.
They call them “sinus headaches.”
The word sinus in italian means canals. And when I think of that, I can’t help but think of little gondolas with Italian men singing to me as I look at the stars. It doesn’t make the headache go away but it really makes me wish I were in Italy.
It’s funny how when things get rough, we instantly gravitate towards escaping to foreign lands. A headache certainly isn’t the roughest it could be, that’s for sure.
But escape…that’s a double-edged sword. Escape isn’t what it promises. While the idea of sipping pina coladas poolside, or meditating in a forest far away may seem like perfect, what does that really resolve? It means that whatever made you leave is still waiting for a resolution. Even worse, it probably grew in size. Bills become bills plus interest and late fees. Arguments turn from “how dare you say that?” to “how dare you leave after saying that?” When you leave, you leave behind a mess with the assumption that others will take care of you, but instead, frustrations rise and you break ties.
Whenever I get sick or nauseous, I immediately start thinking of my own personal Nirvana. I visualize the image of myself in this beautiful place relaxing and breathing in that maple tree air and hearing the river waves around me.
That’s nice, right? And that’s ok. I think we’re all allowed our mental escapes once in awhile.
But actual physical escapes? Those hurt others. And no amount of river wave will fix that.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
the city's moon
fixated in its peoples tics and behaviour
crass and mentally fractured
traction acts
the loony satellite makes sway for rude construction
padding our ego psychology
nothing simple allowed
we are all a manic reference of each other
the city weather is steered
by currents of gossip
withhold your info
culture clutches
misguiding alliances
treasure your details
it is your only insurance
this city
it's a view to thrill
but it odors me til ill
****** privacy and get undressed
too much time here harbouring thirst
quibbling hurt feelings
signals ; Life Emitting Distress
so
lock up the night city stars
mar-glaring bulbs of pity-me
staring about for vagrancy
i flip up my hood
lucent pandery eyes span the communal routes
search us out merchandise and mood
i turn down an alleyway
and am confronted
a vain and voyeuristic fan tail
varieties cocktail of sales and entertainment
ad lights send out sonar 'pings'
wing-ed ; fencing judgement
i wear pricy contacts to veil my retinas
and my hood is lined with aluminium
i cough and concentrate on breath
commemorate each step undertaken
weaponize my walk
eyes low
my being is voided into guise
heading further from the city centre
i can straighten from my defensive pose
in amongst the dwellings
the urban effect dwindles
kindled instead by the dosey soup wash of streetlights
delights; the holy crop of them
webbing outward retching past our boundaries
shored back upon natures breath
(so i imagine)
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 9:03 PM UTC
My inner tongue trips
over her yesterday
morning’s extemporaneous
homily and its retelling
rains down on me
temporal anomalies
through which I’ll slip the bleached
monotony chasing me.
Turn key,
return me
to the upturned
glee of a midnight macadam.
Unmanned, it’s where
the manholes open up to me
their traps of sunken yet
stacked wire-mesh baskets.
They’ve been left
to catch a refused few
turquoise-beaded strings
mixed with ash
feather-dusted by the lime,
tangerine and grape
wing beats of exotic birds
too meek to fly upward.
There the tensile tip of a sweet
and fecund smell grips me
and it squeezes out
visions of too-soon
dying in that bed
where a stripped truth lies
tenderly with the on-putting
of my put-off lies.
A low hiss heralds happy heat
and radiating pings rap me
down the shrinking-shadow hall
away from Hedone’s keep.
In the singular
pleasure of this rhythmic pluralism
my nouns and verbs find
their final agreement:
*All we’ve known
is what a wanting wind’s foretold,
but its chilly, willful voice
can no longer hold us.*
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
I peel sweet potatoes.
My phone pings.
I check it.
Messages of pride flood my eyes.
I feel loved.
I put it down.
I peel the sweet potatoes.
My dogs sniff my legs.
I am distracted, searching and anxious.
I feel loved.
I peel a previously peeled potato.
I stop.
I lecture myself.
"I focused and worked hard.
That’s all I did."
I focus on my potatoes.
The work gets done.
I feel proud.
I feel loved.
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
Girl of imagery, of MacBook and Photoshop.
In a Skype conference with designers and
Project Managers across
Europe,
Smiling to me when I enter the room
Quietly; she's working. I was in Sweden
With the guys. Bragging. *She's good for
You,* they said, raising
Beer cans around the fire. *Woman
Accepted, dear brother!*
A little too drunk, I felt, to phone her from
The hill with reception. No need. She'd
Texted me: *Sverre, I am perfect for you;
As you are for me. I adore your energy
Around me. The thought of you
Dances around in my head
Like my last marble, playing pinball with
My insecurities and confidences,
Scoring, then dropping, being
Thrusted back out, making PINGS and
PONGS, and my knees weak. I love taking
Care of you, between all your cares taken of
Me. By Odin, I love you, my one true
Man.*
Woman, you turn down all other
Volumes, leaning back with eyes closed
When I read for you. Naming me poet,
But I see now; there's not a medium in
This world you cannot tame and utilize.
I've painted with you, now write with me.
You are a rock star superwoman.
All I can teach you, is that attitude.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
i'm not interested
in living anymore
i don't want to die
living just doesn’t hold much interest for me
i don't feel good
i don't feel happy
only tired
tired tired
always tired
i live in a perpetual nothingness
i can never find words
they lodge in the back of my throat and spiral out flat
may as well cut my vocal chords out
and replace them with yarn
maybe i’ll be able to string sentences together then
i’m buried in layers of ink and skin
they allow me to close my eyes and fall away
into my own personal oblivion
where it's dark and jazzy elevator music plays in the background
and there’s no sharp pings under numb detachment
there's a different breed of darkness to my oblivion
it's soft and shadowy
rippling over all my anxieties like a velvet tide
light shines in dusty shafts from no set direction
it doesn't illuminate anything
it’s nicer that way
i forgot what happiness feels like
not this halfway happiness that’s induced by comfort food and fuzzy blankets
but real happiness
that comes from deep inside of your being and spirals and glows
this is just a long complaint
hem hem
observation
about me
my life
is it really mine?
i feel so detached from it
i spend more time in dreams than i do in it
sweeping castles of words and swing sets that swing themselves
can i just leave?
fade away
into my oblivion
the one with the jazz music and the infinite velvet walls
i've come pretty close
may as well go all the way
i'm an inadequate mess of negativity
i can't function quite right anymore
unfunny angry pathetic boring
i'm me
and i don't hate me
hate is a strong word
i'm just tired
a slowly graying towel
long used and recently wrung-out
hung up to dry
dripping mediocracy onto a standard tile floor
ha
i'll show myself out
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Dark Posters of Skeleton Brides
Video Game pings, and Overflowing Drinks
As Unusual People lay on Hand Me Down Couches
with Tobacco strewn all over my Mom's Old Coffee Table
Barely Voices , No Conversation. Just
BOOM, BOOM BOOM! before I sing aloud
Screams of Joy, "Traplawd Rules"
Kisses on my Nose, Giggling a Little too Loud
Laughter Proceeds Coughing, Funny girly high kicks
***** Get Drunk"* They tell me, Ah the friends I have
Ragged Carpets over Soft Broken Love Seats
Rough Tobacco stuffed Into Cigarette Tubes
as He Softly Kisses my Arm
**** stubble, tattooed skin**
***** Stings, Tabacco burns
Leaving even Baked Goods with a Smokey Flavor
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
My heart pings at memories of you.
Memories like
Cuddling on the couch
Watching tv all day
Taking drives to old neighborhoods to look at old beautiful homes and wonder
about the people inside and the lives they lived; or at least I did
Memories like
Hugging, kissing, talking, touching, loving, laughing, cursing, living
Memories like
The way you looked at me when we made love
The way you made me feel wanted, needed, and even loved
Memories like being up for days on end, working by day, dancing to the lights at night
We would dance for hours in matching phedoras with the backsplash of stobe lights and mystical laser light creations
We would dance to our shadows even though my heart was full of light then
My heart pains at the memory
of us
of us being happy
of our laughter in the home we created
of a love eight years strong
of a love that made me feel on top of the world
of a love that grew as our ages climbed
of a love that brought us to mountain tops during every season
of a love that became burdened with the past that kept rearing its ugly head
of a love burdened by feelings that I couldn’t mask anymore
Why is love so hard?
Why can’t it all be sunshine and glimmering stars?
My heart aches over a love that is in my past.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
What’s that creak-crack in the house?
Was it a person or a mouse?
What’s that shadow on the floor?
That Monster through my closet door?
The fear of it I must contain.
It’s started to drive me insane.
I can’t take it anymore!
That monster through my closet door.
I can’t stay here home alone,
It starts to chill me to the bone,
It’s making me a total bore,
That monster through my closet door
The closet keeps making loud pings,
It keeps me from doing routine things,
I now keep clothes in a drawer,
That monster through my closet door!
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 9:27 AM UTC
My Heartbeat is like
"Sonar"
Each beat radiates out,
"Penetrates"
The surroundings
It pings of others beats,
Repelled back to mine,
Secrets revealed within each beat
Friend,
Foe,
Hater,
Lover,
Each has its own reply,
With each beat I release
An essence of those who are
Looking,
Wishing,
Smiling,
Upon a look, each replying
As beats fasten,
Knowing the Sonar has
Penetrated deep within each ,
Showing there feelings,
That each beat echoes out to there hearts.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC