"triggering" poems
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
Will I find you
in the shadows
looking over me
Will there be you
or it is just the continuation
of recurring hallucination.
It is getting trickier
to place you between
the imaginary and real you
both out to mess around me
your madness is catching me
the shady creature
filling my head space.
Manipulative ways
simply tracking my businesses
connecting into the web
stalking at all time
triggering an all kind
paranoia.
Invading in was easy
but the red light is on
between the scenes
the mask flew away
true colours will come out.
Holes in your plans
aren't as visible to you
the green figures
through the night vision
has come to play too
this exposure to the truth
keeps me sane
you got a new player
in this game.
I am counting the days
waiting for you in the shadows
to watch you
fall into your traps.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
Are you the surge, triggering the flight of the transcending bird?
the ultimate mystery, unspeakable, that liberates the seeker.
While awaiting the wingless flight, the moment of soul's effulgence,
you too are a mystery , like the all encompassing spirit, I am one with
The universe is not wholly cognizable,constant transformation
one to something drastically different, and the story never ends.
Known physics, could tell the story,only halfway, the rest is dark
I understand the helplessness of space observatory at Herschel
peering at vast Magellanic cloud galaxy, a mystery in the move.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?
I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.
The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.
I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.
I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?
With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
I hear a wind whispering from the hills
It comes down tickling the woodland rills
From far is heard the frightened murmur of leaves
As it pounces on them like wayside thieves
It shakes the branches of flowering trees
And their weak petals drop like confetti in the breeze
Over hills and trees it loves to skip and stray
Always in motion, never inclined to stay
It moves unhampered over streams and field
With no resistance to its might, they simply yield
Like a child, it romps over the sloppy meadows
In its gentle touch, dances the gleeful flowers
It skillfully pleats the blue chiffon of the ocean
Sometimes curling waves in electric motion
Over the sea it runs puffing up the sails
And over the sky heaping clouds in bales
Sometimes it steals furtively like a lover
And disappears kissing our cheeks under cover
Often it comes capering with a lilt and a swing
We feel delighted when we hear its merry song
Like a nomad, the wind roams from place to place,
Hiding its mysterious presence from our glance
From an unknown hide out it comes like a spirit
But always making us feel its vigorous might!
At times it gains force and roars like a beast
Felling trees and wreaking havoc with its twist
In rampage, it sweeps the sea and the ground
Triggering sparks of fear and horror all around
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along
Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria
Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs
Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia
They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates
I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!
Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate
I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic ******* hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!
I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
OR
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
If God is the book then life would be the pages in him,
for us to study and turn to each new page of her.
There is so much paper here, but no place to start a fire.
A fire of words and dreams to chase.
Will you run with me, with feet wide awake?
Please do, and I won't be scared to bleed for you
when the time comes.
These words I have don't dream lifeless
or die in corral conversation or in a helpless blind study.
I will help you see it is in fact that God's home is make-believe
with no welcome mat to greet you. Maybe God never
learned to let bygones just be gone.
Maybe this is why you have never seen the glorious
Matriarch or heard her voice, but I bet it sounds
a lot like the space between a gunshot and a black
male's body hit by the bullet right before the screams.
Did you know this is what black feels like?
These pages feel like an eighth-grade suicide poem
written because it is solely triggered by life, and
since life is so freaking triggering and our only
real competition, then I will write words that are
weapons. I will write real-life pages of myself,
that is more jazz than blues, more biggie than Pac
more Prince than Michael. I will write myself out
this padded room call earth, because after all heroes
can dream too, and our thirst can become hunger and quickly
I learned to eat my own words and breathe in endless
possibility in a world where breathing is no longer a privilege
Just a means to be necessary.
Jesus! I got a life with no religion and still, I manage to turn
doubt into rhinestones right along with these pages
of myself. I will turn page after page as if I were Jesus turning the other cheek, and like Jesus, I can take all my
dislikes and burdens and turn the into sunsets. I will teach
my pain to laugh. Ignorance is not bliss, it is kind. It teaches
us to look deep inside of ourselves to see the word of God,
and I have seen it, I have seen I am half human and half star
and my DNA is all angelic. God wrote his first poem in blood right here on Earth. Her pen never felt writer's block. He never suffered inside the ink. Do you know the difference between God and everyone else? She never starts emotional fires to burn pages of himself and herself as we do.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
It is not wrong to be white
and to have dreadlocks
Though,
you may look like a pleb
but you offend me not
Nor would it offend
a black rastafarian man
of a temperate manner
I don't know any women
with white skin and
straight hair that get offended
by afro-caribbean women
wearing a straight weave
You're all just too soft now,
you're all just pet peaves
Stop getting offended
on behalf of other people
that don't even take offence
Excuse me,
whilst I build a fence
around myself hombre
Not to keep me here
but to keep you at bay
Cultural appropriation
doesn't exist
Cultural misappropriation
doesn't exist
You're all just
champagne socialists
You should get over it
Yes, you mate
The one that thinks
he's above
everyone
and must decide what is
politically correct
and whose life matters
In the end all this is
is a series of cultural
exchanges and we're
all wading through ****
Face it.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
What is to come?
From a world where our children are given guns to play with,
It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .
Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .
Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,
Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.
That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.
You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.
Sugared by sin,
Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.
What is to come?
From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.
Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.
It isn’t as pure as it seems.
Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.
There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.
So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image.
The slightest difference is reason for war.
Be it the quantity of melanin
Be it religion
Be it Gender.
What is to come?
Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness
We are our biggest enemy,
Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human
What is the cure?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Two faced
Many minds
Shifter of shapes
Dr. Jekyll
Mr. Hyde
Past lives
Intertwined
Most mean
Few kind
All vie for equal time
All determine to shine
The writer
The fighter
Drama king
*** machine
The revolution ignite-r
The brave slave
One with
Passion and fire
The singer
Dead ringer
One who points the finger
Conspiracy theorist
Lyricist
Soulful swagger
Hip Hop demeanor
The teacher and student
The dude with attitude
And no one can refute it
A brother and a son
The one that has been shunned
One who leaves them stunned
With the selfish things
I’ve done
The secret me
The enemy
The one whose heart is numb
There are a lot of us
No stopping us
And yes there’s more to come
I’ll never alter
My alter selves
Incarcerate them
In individual cells
Even when they scream and yell
All are a part of me
And they refuse to be veiled
You ask me
Is there a pill?
A remedy…?
Because this has to
be
Insanity
Did you disrespect
My dissociative identities?
Do you really want
to make all of us
your #1 enemy?
We’re laughing
Its killing me
We flip the script easily
Me- and all of my
inner entities
Chillingly
You’re triggering
A very sad memory
Oh, what a tragedy
You’re just another casualty
Unfortunate fatality
Of my Multiple Personalities…
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
“Could you ever be ashamed of me?
Sometimes I ask how could you ever want me.”
Lyrics so loud and clear hitting me
Triggering these inner demons that take control of me
I ask myself could you really?
I’d like to think that you could want me
But my demons tell me differently
You’re out of my league
I hope one day I’ll get over these insecurities
Because I’d like to think there could be a you and me
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC
Most of us are familiar with
The escapism from pain.
For an easy and cheap solution
Or because of advices of the
Doctors, psychologs;
Most of us get a cheap piece of matter
Triggering the oscillation of dopamine,
Making most of us addicted to them
As well as being harmed
As the result of their side effects.
Even the teens intoxicate things
Causing these things.
Some of call this signalling matter
Nicotine or alcohol.
Others call drugs as well as
Medicines having great side effects on
Our psychology that means
Our minds, feelings and importantly
Our souls.
How these piece of matter
Deletes your pain?
Simply, by affecting your
Biologic structure.
This causes the cage of
Emotions and behaviours
Freezing your actions and thoughts
As well as mostly
The cage itself.
This stabilization of actions therefore,
Decreases the capability of
Varying the actions.
What you can do,
You are capable to do.
Capacity is the power.
Lesser power lesser creativity.
All in all
Nothing more than robotic step
You all do in all.
By lesser creativity,
What you do becomes
Completely addiction.
No good, no bad;
Only the robotic step
You all do.
So subject becomes object of
External distraction.
In the hellish world,
You are distracted to hell.
A piece of addictive matter
Ends with
Painful robotic suffering
Until you fade away.
But the music, music, music
Is the harmonious effective vibes of
Yourself.
This music can do anything,
Instead of freezing you only if an only.
This music can do anything,
By transforming the self by
Twisting you through making you
Its beautiful voice.
We classify the music
In account of its causes.
But material cause is not the music.
Instead, the elegance of meaning
As well as the shining effect
Is the music.
It is the music that will
Create the best in us!
Make the best of us!
Hold the best of us!
Than you may say,
I want music but this is poetry.
Than I say,
Poetry is the music of the words.
It is the music of life
Will the shining ray of creativity.
It is the music of life
Will the kingdom of heaven.
Its the nectar in form of music
Being the music of nectar,
Becoming the nectar of the music!
Music creating music
In seem of poem.
Catch it, follow it!
Better than any drugs.
Music creating music
In seem of poem.
Say it! Sing it!
Better than anything!
It is the best, you desire!
We call it, you are welllllllllll...
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties
yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence
preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning
hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni
seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?
defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees
needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
When you look at me without
speaking like some doe-eyed
Guatemalan selling watermelons
on the corner of Forest Hill
and Military Trail, your
disbelief triggering in the hinges
of your jaw like a hairpin turn,
reaction time looming
as endlessly as a broken synthesizer,
I begin to need you, darling,
like the axe needs the turkey.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
My city spews poetry like smoke,
In vicious columns of abstracts,
Of unspilled blood, untold hurts,
Unsung love and unrestrained joy.
Neck of an old refill snapped
absent-mindedly,
Sploshes a tiny blob of red ink,
On the table cloth,
And so flows musings and rants.
Smell of twilight rain mingles with
Incense fragrance of evening prayers
Triggering a burst of longing and love.
Electric bulbs and rainbows coexist
And emit more than just light.
My city breeds more poets than
The Lakes ever did.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Oh Bard, wielding a tool mighty and spiky
Mightier than either the sword or rod,
You reign as monarch in fancy’s domain
Sketching life in all variety and mode
Which with pain and strife fraught
Or bright with gaiety and grace
In finer yarn than the gossamer thread
On a fabric of words in befitting verse
You steal away from the noisy crowd
Into the stillness of the cloistered cell
To dwell with Fancy’s mystic charms
Weaving downy dreams at will
You recount forgotten tales of yore
Of ****** battles won and lost,
Of lovers united, amour defiled,
Conjuring memories from abysmal past
You hearken to the moans of lovelorn souls
And sing of beauty in ditties fine
Triggering sparks into flames grow
In umpteen hearts that pine and whine
Babbling with the brook rushing swift,
Racing with the deer loping past,
You wander into mysterious woods
Where flowers, their richest odors cast
Your ears intent on the song of birds
That comes floating from the far off groves
And the whir of cicadas on the bark of trees
Breaking the calm of twilight eves
Alone you saunter the stretching strands,
Watching virulent breakers in fury heave
Often your heart dancing with the tide
And swinging with the rhythm of rising wave
You feast on the gleam of the auburn sun
And the speckled blue of the infinite skies
Watching the day dying in flame
And the night in a diadem of stars vies
All that’s lovesome meets your eyes
And commune to you in profuse delight
Which you turn into rhyme and rhythm
For the whole of mankind to devour and digest
From your harp flow symphonies sweet
Songs of longing, love and lust
Of idyllic happiness, peace and bliss,
Fuelling hearts with vigorous zest
Though outlawed by the great sage of Greece,
Branding the poet, aberrant and a fool
Oft beneath the façade of his wayward thoughts,
Lie heaps of wisdom for the discerning soul.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
Eons of water dripping on a stone
Altered and absorbed into creation--
But I need suddenness of something known
From Epiphany and Revelation.
Realization's not slow and steady,
Rather spontaneous elevation.
My need to learn demands I stay ready
For Epiphany and Revelation.
Show me no small lessons that life presents,
But insight with dramatic sensation!
Life unfolds in a series of events
Of Epiphany and Revelation.
Even silence is thunderous rapture
Triggering profound imagination.
Knowledge springs from the wisdom I capture
With Epiphany and Revelation.
Who I am today is a product of
Awe in my moments of education.
It's these times in life that I've learned to love--
My Epiphany and Revelation.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Everytime I see you,
My heart is trembling, my mind is bewitched
Then triggering me to smile
It’s like making me speechless and stationary
As if I’m injected with a ******
I feel happiness to being bashful when I catch a glimpse
I hate feeling this way.
I want to cut down this sense of insanity
But I am weak to breakfree
You’re such a wonderful thing to be stayed away from.
It’s strange why I had this likeness on you
Maybe your smile, the calmness of your face or so.
I can’t let you get out of my head now.
I think I’m pretty caught off-guard.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
past wavering lights
B. Serrano and Bagong Ilog
love struck us down — sees no votive
clearing of the fog or a word sharper than any blade wrought from frays.
i have a photograph of you
somewhere in the ken of my silence
and on it paints lightsome hue
and sometimes pale when it rains.
KM 24 on a blue alloy and underneath,
a Baguio — some memories we keep
almost left by the last carriage homeward
from too much fire in our hands
only tremors could extinguish both
striking a balance and counterbalance;
the frequency of the electric and the
immense decibel of lions drowning
the disquiet. some places or some
looking back makes you want
to lose yourself in slight wonder and when
a memory comes back with the dreary
weight of its forgetfulness,
we fall asleep traipsing the steeples
of our dreams of each other
all-telling, still dizzy with the pirouette
of some distant longing bracing
the fall, triggering our darkness
and shooting out
ourselves, small,
love striking us down. arraying a triplicate
of hazy trails forking all roads
and we cannot find each other again;
throwing stones rippling
multiplied waves by the sea arriving
at separate mornings beneath
our feet,
bends on the bludgeoned curves
of love and hate ascertaining something
so unsure as a door agape and swiveling
in tense wind, tender is the night
and love continues
to smite us down, locking in, predatory precision,
running away, and away, and away
from the ache of it all.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
I wish the girl sitting next
to me at work would
stop playing with her hair.
It's triggering me so badly.
Unless you have
Trichotillomania,
then you have no idea what it's
like to live with it.
I'm not feeling sorry for
myself, I'm just being honest.
I'm already constantly
thinking about pulling,
and my bald spot,
so when I see someone else
bring their hands up to
their head,
it's like a reflex.
I do it too.
The most frustrating thing,
is that I can't even say anything.
They wouldn't know what it
is anyway.
They'd say,
Oh, it's just a nervous tick.
Just stop doing that.
Those words have become the
most annoying words in
the English dictionary.
Because I'm NOT nervous!!
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed
We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)
So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."
And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge
So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it
It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
I fell into the trap of
screaming my struggles at the
top of the roof so someone would
see me as I stepped forward to jump off.
I climbed down the ladder after hearing no one,
burned it in the fire, put on my sneakers,
and went for a run.
A little jog turned into
a mile,
then two,
then twenty five,
last one a marathon.
So many who have my past hold it
because they put me down or were
overwhelmed by my triggering words.
This is why I put down the car keys
because if I am seen crying in a car
after crashing it driving emotionally upset,
they know they did something right.
Stretching after a marathon was the destruction
of every bad memory of a bully who made their
remark into a marathon.
I was the runner
this time.
They know,
they did something
wrong and I am fierce.
I have power,
and I am
golden and
I did the
right
thing.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Pieces of you linger
In my mind, causing random smiles and outbursts of laughter,
But sometimes I cry
Pieces of you reside
In my heart, placing me in sentimental moods and reminiscent flight,
But sometimes I just cry
Pieces of you remain
In my nose, creating fragrant blissfulness
Pieces of you stay
On my skin, triggering spontaneous quivers
Pieces of you survive
On my tongue, causing cravings for sweet things
But sometimes I still just cry
Pieces of you are indelibly ingrained
In my soul, intensely reminding me of love and love lost
And I cry :'(
© Tina Thompson 2011
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
The tree’s don’t sleep at night
they photosynthesize , by moonlight.
Leaves drink in the cool wise light
And give off dreams of softly fading starlight
Whispers of secrets , monthly unfurl
A single blossom falls at new moon
Hurtling to the ground, awake before noon
Ever noticed? The very word has the circle
Curled up in the centre , twice to make sure we remember , two full cups , not one.
Geko’s slip off old skins
And the croaking frog adds to the din
As thunder rolls in
Triggering the dogs bark
Guardian of the stark naked couple
Asleep in their parallel worlds
Together under the umbrella of ambient lighting
Not the natural kind either
But a shameless copy of pure sunlight
That emenates when their bodies collide
On the material plane.
Astral visions lead the way to headquarters
The address? Fax? Phone number?
I’m afraid you’ll have to dial again ,
Unless you’ve meditated on the vibration of emancipation
Then you would already know, you are already there
Doors are open , for those who care to try
No lock on this baby ,
Ain’t no safe to play safe
We bask in our humble glory
Under the shores on undulating tides
Rhythmic pulsations
no where to hide
The emanations come from within,
Without , a shadow of a doubt
There is a war coming , infact we’ve already been fighting for decades
Just like the change of winds, nature knows her stuff
Tip the seeds too soon and you’ll end up with a field full of fluff
But just in time and a harvest with enough to reduce every super market shelf to dust
Even though they already stock that kinda stuff
Clean up on Aisle 4, Aisle 3 , Aisle 2 , Aisle 1
Return the purchase , we’ve discovered the ****
In the cake
And we found the frog in the salad,
At least their habitat is intact
Or did you think I was still talking about the shops?
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC