"unconnected" poems
The irony of mankind,
They maketh technology to better their lives
And yet,
Their technology
Is ruining their lives....
The irony...
As tis they couldst use that wired technology for healing
They use it for bombing and killing..
As tis they couldst use it for connecting
The fact is
They've all gone unconnected!!!!!!
Hiding behind some screen,
Forgetting what an old fashioned phone call is.....
Connection, man thought this technological advance wouldst do.
Disconnection is what is hast really brought them......
The irony.....
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
There was a moment, so unexpected,
When I woke, seeking just ordinary,
Resigned to loneliness, unconnected,
Our encounter—felt imaginary.
Seeking isolation, no need for lust,
Appreciation gone, beauty no more,
Passion burned, with eyes I no longer trust,
You—a seduction I’d not known before.
Pulling back from feeling, and nakedness,
All the beauty, futile, unrequited,
Choosing instead dullness, and wretchedness,
Our spark—an extinguished soul ignited.
Recoiling, fear, cursed sexuality,
Libidinous impulses, uncontrolled,
Bare, on altars of sensuality,
You—inviting love I cannot withhold.
Kiss me, hold me, bring my love in deeper,
Forgive me, embrace me, don’t let me be still,
Touch me, and own me, and be my keeper,
Your look—I resisted, but have lost my will.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
His soul was woven
From a fool's whispers
By the hands of a ghost
On a loom of lies
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
His condemnation
Was not so much
Predicated on the Lord
Or what part of his body
The Devil had enjoyed
eaten and spit upon the street
The whispers
The echos of whispers
Troubled him the most
Especially at night
When light breezes
Muted the voices
In an interruptive cadence
Leaving the words unconnected
The burden
His own
To fill in the blank spaces
Connecting the dots
With a broken pencil
And an eraser
Worn to its metal edge
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible it could be that long
It seems to stretch across continents
It joins up the water and land that lie between us
Threaded through airports and harbour walls
It effortlessly knits up plains and cities
A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible it could be that strong
It sketches a random pattern, known only to us
Disparate, otherwise unconnected backpages
Mississipi, Dallas, Mountain View, Santa Barbra
Stoneybatter, Skerries, Paris, Milan
A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible to think for how long
It stitches and gathers up time; so when you said
"It could be a thousand years or five minutes since we met"
I knew we both thought that forever is possible
That everything previous would make sense of our present
A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible to see how it could
From a distance I saw you go through revolving doors
The golden hair caught my eye, flowing as you walked
I was a man trapped, saved only by one fact
That a golden thread had snagged on my clothes
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
i lost count of months since we drifted apart,
but I still find myself asking the destiny
"what if?"
i have this unconscious addiction of your existence
that I do not tolerate anymore
but every time I go to places,
i still find myself looking for your face.
then, one day, I finally saw you.
walking there, still looking as seamless as you once were
with another girl that probably brought the shine back to you.
you still have no idea how much I wanted to talk to you,
to ask how you were, to know if your perception had changed.
but, darling, she was the thick wall that kept us unconnected.
after months of waiting,
you finally sent me a message...
without even saying a word.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
''just one more turn mommy!''
but we all only get one turn on this merry go round...
this torturous device spinning for what may seem like a small time but is really eternity.
the lights and music make it seem beautiful and distract you from the chipped paint and broken seat belt leaving you unconnected from the horse.
the kids cheering loving the show but you see the adults all craving for it to be over already.
our lives are all like merry go rounds.
it may be fun for now.
but eventually you'll get dizzy.
and everything will fade.
and you'll just be another horse on the merry go round with a broken seat belt,
waiting for an eager child to ride you.
and they'll be glimmering waiting for the adventure.
and you'll sit there being full of the knowledge of the ride and how it turns out.
but now you're just another horse.
and soon... everyone will just be a horse.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
*"As the same fire assumes different shapes
When it consumes objects differing in shape,
So does the one Self take the shape
Of every creature in whom he is present."*
(Katha Upanishad II.2.9)
*"As the rivers flowing east and west
Merge in the sea and become one with it,
Forgetting they were separate rivers,
So do all creatures lose their separateness
When they merge at last into pure Being.
There is nothing that does not come from him.
Of everything he is the inmost Self.
He is the truth; he is the Self supreme.
You are that Shvetaketu, you are that."*
(Chandogya Upanishad IV.10.1-3)
*I don't understand,
Why, in this land,*
Where these sacred
scriptures were written,
Were so many religions born--
*I don't understand,
How, in this land,*
Were differences encouraged,
When the backbone of all life
Always was recognized as liberation--
The acknowledgement
Of all different religions, castes, creeds,
Really broke the deal you know...
Imagine, if all the cultures were mixed
Instead of being separated, unconnected, segregated;
And churned into a liberal philosophy
The Philosophy of Liberation (read: Moksha)
We'd have prevented so many wars,
All fought under the cloak of differences and disparities;
We could have averted
So much bloodshed,
So many innocent screams--
And these shudders down your spine right now?
They would be the product of fiction;
Not the echoes of cruel reality...
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
I don't need drugs. My brain is drugs.
Maybe it's a side effect of a mother that dropped acid for the first trimester of pregnancy and then some.
Maybe it's a side effect of the abusive step father that told me I would never amount to anything and that I am ********
My brain processes things at about a hundred miles per hour. In conversations I am always three steps ahead of what ever was said last. I make connections in things that are unconnected.
They tell me this is adult ADHD. They tell me I should be proscribed a pill to help my brain focus.
But focus isn't what I want. Nor is the drowsiness that comes with Lorazepam, the fog that goes with Prozac. I have been separately proscribed these things without ever filling the bottles.
But I fear that if I fix all my chemical imbalances, my medical maladies, that I will disappear into a fog.
Who am I without my OCD, without my brain over processing, over loving, over caring. Without the pain in my chest from another panic, my bouncing off the walls and singing to myself.
Maybe I am unwell.
But who am I without my unwellness?
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
Life consists of nothing but
coincidences.
Loud rushes of connections
that seem completely
unconnected.
Beneath all the nonsense,
the non-sensible,
there is order.
A system so tight and meticulous
there is no room for
chaos.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Santa was a hit man and he had no alibi
His big red suit was drenched in blood, more vibrant than a dye
See, Mrs. Clause was KGB, and the North Pole was her base
And Santa was the corporate shell that really owned the place
The "elves" were political prisoners (and yes, some were rather short)
And the present-giving Christmas was the day Clause would report
But when the Union went away, there was no need for Clauses
And they ripped up the whole contract (not covered in Incidental Causes)
Mrs. Clause got into drinking, and it got worse everyday
'Till it happened: she was so drunk, she keeled over in the hay
They found her the next morning with a reindeer on her head
Santa knew before the med report that Mrs. Clause was dead
So he went back to the basics, and he hooked into Network 1
The most top secret channel where certain agents have their fun
He was lost without his partner (their marriage was arranged)
She had handled the business,his financial sense was left estranged
He knew without her, he'd go under; have to sell the Pole to the West
He needed to make the payments by doing just what he knew best
Santa filled the role of assassin, killing silently with grace
He laid a finger beside his nose before he shoved the gun up in your face
Making the hits look unconnected, well he varied up his style
In fact he was thinking of being a "serial killer" and followed that up for a little while
But his stealing milk and cookies didn't clue anybody in
Maybe it just wasn't plausible to blame the fat man and his grin
Whatever the case, he's a random killer who strikes with impunity
With a swish of his coat, he jumps roof to roof, flaunting his immunity
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
When I was growing up I did not like barbie dolls.
I did not like the harsh edges of her collar bones or the plumpness of her perfectly pink lips.
I liked stuffed animals.
I liked the texture,
I liked how gentle they were.
You called me your barbie doll,
But guess what?
I am not sharp edges,
I am not perfection.
You called me your barbie doll,
But how does perfection have bags under her eyes that are as dark and heavy as the depression that fills her?
How is perfection bright hair and dark eye makeup?
I wanted to be your stuffed animal.
I wanted to be comforting at 2am after you wake up from night terrors.
I wanted to be loved.
But instead of loving me you crumbled me.
I was your ****** up,
Unconnected poetic thoughts.
I am not your barbie doll.
I am not perfection.
Yes, I may be crumbled but **** i have learned to love my creases.
I am not an object,
I am not your object.
I am not a barbie doll nor stuffed animal.
I am Athena Grace.
I am my own goddess.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
Midnight,
And the pale moon over my head,
My lonely nights and
Memories haunting me like a wolf
Ferocious and hungry.
Midnight,
And a vast forest of yew trees
Darkness and silence,
And an owl watching like a ghost.
Amidst the darkness I found a voice:
‘I’ll love you forever, if you let me’.
Midnight,
And vigilantes with wide eyes.
I never knew what to do
With the unconnected clues,
But you would always
Ask the right questions.
Midnight,
And a faithless heart like mine
That saw monsters and terrors.
My heart like a cold star in the distance.
But you held me close
And put me in the moss
With a blanket of new,
unrecognised, kindness
Midnight,
And a reason to be alive:
I have finally found a place to rest.
Like a meteor you broke into my space
And I was surprised to notice
How lovely it is
To rely on someone
So completely.
It was midnight,
When I realised:
I am here,
I can breathe,
And I can finally love.
Oct 22, 2022
Oct 22, 2022 at 12:20 PM UTC
Softly...
even here
the winds of change...
breeze through.
Destiny...
and history...
are turning...
Cogs in place.
*Hell...it actually feels like
... 1968!*
The Hippies
have all grow old
and are now
the voting majority.
Think about it...
They're rolling a doobie...
and affecting real change...
one organic, patchouli soaked
volunteered,
re-purposing project
after another.
The "big picture"
is simply a poster...
cut into small bite sized
puzzle pieces...
we are all skirting the edge...
still unconnected.
It is the age of...
focusing, clearly...
on purpose
and integrity.
The storm is clearing...
and insight,
has an electrical charge...
zapping us all
into action
into submission
into our future...
The message
thunders clearly...
and resonates succinctly
and justly...
Calling for us all
to...Do...
"What you CAN DO...
purposefully for-going...
whatever it is,
that you CAN"T DO"
"I AM"
becomes...
We are...
Maternal society yearns...deeply
waiting for it's turn
not asking permission...
Just doing the next right thing...
and taking the steps
necessary...
To be seen...
far past equal...
On the edges
of unnoticed
Dropping labels
and be recognized
for what I bring to
the table...
not whom.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
*clouds of words
from places diverse
come floating to the sky, soaking my heavy mind
they are unconnected and meaningless
stray birds wingless
kept in cage of isolation, no relation to find
when brought together
held close by a tether
they mix up to join, combine and bind
then in a pattern they flow
rise high, fall low
dancing with passion, in a rhythmic fashion aligned
a story they tell
in my thoughts that does dwell
feelings get expression, sincere confession, to soul they're affined
not seeking perfection
but creativity and introspection
my humble quill, tries to spill, colors of several kind
my flawed verse is terse
in emotions it's immersed
it portrays a view, connects with you, as my heart unwinds*
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
Its not the point of killing faith that u will find someone.
Its the action of loneliness and controlling your bonds
Its empty alone and so is pretending to love
You cant make connections not like addiction to drugs.
Save the drug of infatuation.
No reason just meaning less
No selection. Just what drips in your lap
No focus just lenses that crack
The sextant marking starlines that guide your path
is no longer Coordinated calibrated to designate a map
Walk amble climb along to view a moral prefix
to design a way out of a sea just arms length
with the depth of the roots of mesquite trees in the spring
We are all stowaways in a ship waiting to jump to shore.
Trying to find a place to spill seeds in the tilled rows of a *****
The words you whisper are pretty and my minds enthused
tho i know every go at this game i shall lose
Im wandering in a labyrinth
Chasing in a brain
like a rat in a spinning wheel following reflections from a cage
You tricked me. Oh yes. You win
Im no longer a man like all women before you ate the innards left a shell
spit out the hull
Dragged my meat to the floor
One final kiss and i leave, i am missed
You say lies again
i pull off your fist
its on my head
its in my throat
i read words that you spoke
its not my fault
its the blood clot
keeping us unconnected in this note
I am dreaming
secret beaming
red lights blinking
help is sinking
No hope between two
softly stroking
my cross is burning
No fires stoking
On my fore arms
on my chest guard
all is sinking with the funeral
All the voices in my head
are telling me it should be dead
yet the ***** in my soul
tells me that he still pleas for bread
But i starve him
and i lash him
and i strap him to this ledge
for he is wrong
and yes he lies
you're the harpy of my dread
You ******* killed me like i was a lame horse to be put down
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
To this life,
replete in unconnected fragments,
you are glue,
bonding disjointed existence,
exhalting impassioned communication,
raising love beyond visible heights.
There are no sounds without receiver;
what good are nimble thoughts,
without the same --- a lover
with whom to share?
Every separation is a link,
making closer the rendezvous.
Every revelation a mortar,
cementing admiration in opposites.
I need to know
the unknowable you,
dissimilar as we are,
routinely disagreeing,
reinforcing our mutuality.
O delicious paradox,
delight me,
in the not knowing
in the riddles
of relationships.
We both appreciate
Carroll's Rules of Jam ---
*Jam tomorrow or jam yesterday,
but never jam today.*
My trusted ally,
who but we,
shall prevail against such logic?
Let's share
*six impossible beliefs
before breakfast.*
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
You will not change the flow of the mainstream
By building an unconnected lake
You can build the deepest pool in existence
But if the fish don't have a way in
Have fun peeing in your own bath.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Head to the body
Swallow hot toddy
A dash of narcissism
To make the throat burn
Make my insides churn
A dollop of ego
And I'm getting drunk
On your self-absorbed funk
All mixed in hot
I do it recreationally
Unconnected emotionally
We pretend we care for one another
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Obedient to instinct,
I sink my teeth into your neck,
and split your jugular,
soaking you off like a stubborn label.
You're a remarkable piece of shallowness.
I startled you and you startled me.
I'll set you down on a lap of lichen,
with your two black eyes that I couldn't see,
any more than you see a window.
I was stunned into stillness,
our eyes locked and someone threw away the key.
It emptied our lungs,
it felled the forest,
shook the field,
it drained the pond.
The world dismantled and tumbled
into that black hole set of eyes.
Uncollected and unconnected,
loose leaf and blown.
I missed my chance.
I should have gone for the throat.
Blood pulses in my gut,
through your jugular, as falling snow.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Surrounded by people
Who've known me all my life
And yet not labeled "my family",
I can't help but feel alone.
Though we laugh and cavort
In companionable glee
The fact that they don't know
The unmasked me
Saddens my hermit-yet-lonely heart.
I can sit alone in a full room
And feel the same as if it were empty
For the level of empathy,
Understanding, and knowing
Never changes, never grows.
It stays at zero zero point zero.
Like the monotone screech
Of a lifeless heart on the monitor
Never fluctuating up or down,
I sit here unknown, unconnected,
Alone.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
shrill electric blues drown out all dull synthetic hues
and that's all that's in the view up and below the open chute
then you pulled me in
to your dark liquid hell
and i can't breathe so well underwater
but the deeper we went
on our slow sea descent
the more content i became with the slaughter
it's the sirens in the shade
the ships that sank decide to stay
so spent from sunken trench. so spent when drenched and decks decayed
and i know i'm the same way
cuz as i'm wading in the waves
still can't differentiate between the flurry and the fade
but, still, eclectic ruse to trick a once-electric you
don't get fooled by the fuel my fuse is unconnected too
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
Tiny things that strike your fancy
Any verse which hits a note,
Messages from all and sundry
Extracts from your favourite quote.
Moments from a treasured movie
Recollections from the past,
Sunday roast from Grandma’s oven
Sights and sounds and smells that last.
Memories of moonlight saunter
Arm in arm with newfound love,
Barefoot where the sand meets water
Lost to all... but stars above.
Walking in the hills at daybreak
Crispness of the frosty verge,
Feel the pounding pulse of living
Feel the joy of being... surge.
Tomatoes from the garden plot
Rich and biting, acid red,
Delicious on hot buttered toast
With liberal salt and pepper, spread.
Gazing at your baby daughter
Softly pink in muscled arm,
Wondering what future holds
For her in love and wealth and harm.
See the grasses thrash to windward
Hear the pounding surf cascade,
Lines of gulls in steady hover
Thunder breaks at lightning fade.
Old friend’s letter, unexpected
Tells of hardship over time,
Loss and sadness unconnected
To good fortune, found in mine.
Tremor in her frail, white fingers
Dancing of her rheumy eyes,
Sharing yesterday’s good tales
To bring a joy to aged disguise.
Lavender in gentle velvet
Serves the honey bee her gold,
Nodding in the balmy breezes
Reminiscent perfume, old.
Cup of tea for all the Aunties
Dear old Fred has passed away,
Sadness... but we all agree
He made the most of every day.
Sun ball on the far horizon
Melting orange, richly gold,
Sinking to the seascape, gone
To let the moonlit night take hold.
Marshalg
Sitting on the Taranaki sand with my love, with nibbles and a glass of wine
Watching the enormous, Autumn sun melt into a flat, flat sea.
April 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
No Connection With Numbers
I have no connection with numbers.
Sixty-five or fifty-five, seventy, and suddenly
A person’s dead
And I am swayed
To thinking , “Gee, she was too young to pass,
At least these days”.
Lost track of what should, should not be,
It being all the same to me.
As teen, numbers relevant,
Forty ancient,
Frames of reference clear and few.
Digits now,
Are passcodes, pin codes, bank-cards, passcards.
As for age: eighty’s the new forty, forty twenty;
Size eighteen is now size fourteen, thirteen now size zero;
Uni- multi- verses more and many; numbers leer,
And so unclear
That only new words suit.
Still unconnected and to boot,
It doesn’t matter – not to me, in any case.
I’m free, unfettered by the race, the chase.
In fact, it is a grace I [almost] note.
Glad I can vote,
De-vote my time to stumbling through
Without connecting numbers to
A thing
(except perhaps those few
I mentioned.)
Poems start out with one intention,
End up, well,
A tolling bell,
Telling all and nothing,
Ring! Ring!
No Connection With Numbers 6.10.2016
Numbers Book; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
the links go viral in the wondrous wasteland
people notice blue lettering
take journeys in rivulets of meaning
down pages pumping information
its crazy this desire for numbers
on twitter, FB. linkedin loops
click click click we go on a virtual
merry go round
dog chasing tail?
the circle widens, ripples
be wise they say
keep it clean, smart
as we manage this momentum
will the bubble burst
in a connected world
where we remain faceless, voiceless
life on a keyboard
ruled by a mouse
scampering through ghost people
its time to go back to living
and handshakes and kisses
phone numbers in wallets
smell skin and taste and touch
its time to sleep now
forever unconnected.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 14 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11677675-Social-media-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.B2PpCyij.dpuf
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
And I awake in the night, the aches and pain of tearing fibers everyday to have my body rebuild them
Its an unease, tossing and turning in my bed
Turning on music with no words, nightly hymns
Yet my mind drifts to a place, not so far, for now
That was simpler, filled with new experiences with new friends new places new family
I never quite knew if it was excitement, fear, or the newness that made me feel like I was on top of the world, maybe because I was out in the world
Of course I only remember the good, the fondness of the past grows with each passing day we stray further from it
But, when I awake in those nights, I feel a longing, the breath leaves my chest and it feels hollow and shallow to breath
I miss the nights wondering the town, drinking and sharing and getting lost with people I hardly know, yet know better than anyone within 2,000 miles. I miss the family that took me in, though I was anxious and could barely communicate, it was comfort that I remember the most. I miss the routine. I miss walking and the weather and the people and the clothes and the countryside. I miss how old that country is, the food, the lifestyle. I missed being a person, with a blank slate and being an explorer.
But, most of all, I miss the mundane of that place, the bus rides, the room, the dog, the walks. I missed the person I was and the life I was allowed to live.
Even if I were to go back, it would not be the same
It was the time and place in my life that I cannot revisit, not the location
so maybe that's what I feel in my chest, a longing for something that once was and can never be again
and even more than that, the hollow shallow breath is the fear of losing even just one of those memories, lost to time, to unconnected friends, to the country and family I left with tears in my eyes and cries in my chest when riding one last time to the plaza
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 9:13 PM UTC