Long poem by
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |
Kahlia Akasha Is Back
We armed our jet with 8 anti ship missiles. Every single under wing weapon pylon was spoken for. Under fuselage drop tank full of fuel, in front of that a twin barrel 30mm gun with 200 armour piercing shells. We where forward based on a dusty coastal track in southwest India.
The Pak navy sank the Indian aircraft carrier and Sea Harriers so we can’t use her as a springboard. On the beach, fuel topped up, weapons armed, final checks done. We took off heading west to engage the Pakistan navy. To sink their ex British and American destroyers. Just as they sank the ex Brit carrier India had used. Mad.
Nice low slow cruise 50ft above the choppy fog laden sea. 200knots, 220mph. She would touch 530mph but we had to go slow, we had 8 ships to kill. My wife flew our plane in the back cockpit. I caressed the juicy missiles below our stealth fighter plane. Used infrared to scan ahead, just ghostly images hidden by the fog. I tried the laser range finder, so many readings due to the shifting fog. Radar! Two scans, off. There! The 1st Pak navy ship, a Type21 Frigate ex Royal Navy. Let’s do an Argy and sink it! Our Chain Head missiles are better than Exocet, 25yrs ahead in tech and lethality.
My wife kept our jet 50ft above the ocean, our grave if she hated me. I confirmed, 'Missile 1 locked on, missile 2 ready to lockup any new target,' then my lady lifted our port wing. Unbalancing me, just illusion. Enough room for our weapon to launch without hitting the sea, our right wing 20ft above the sea! A big wave would swamp us. Mad!
Away! Orange bright flare devil roar missile away. Radar on again to sweep ahead, weapon merging with Pak ship 80 miles ahead. Time to turn gently away; we have 7 more ships to find in the fog and coming night. We’re a ghost unseen below enemy radar, slow to save fuel we have forever to do our job. Sink the Pak navy. Any survivors in the water will get 30mm shells if we don’t shoot up any ships still afloat. Let’s hope our missiles work, I don’t want to strafe some drowning men, let the sea slowly claim them.
Our black painted Soviet prop jet fighter slides through the evening fog as a distant orange flash flares and dies. 7 anti ship missiles left. We’ll evade their 40yr old mirage jets...
This story/poem is my 4th Kahlia Akasha one, the others being in my 3rd book A Nation in Flames: Short Story Collection, out to order on amazon. This warplane is multi role including nuclear capable. Her real title is Aeroprogress T-720. She was never built due to the death of the cold war. This looks to be starting again. Would she be reborn, even more dangerous and deadly? After all the Russians will need a replacement for the Sukhoi Su-25 Frogfoot, a 30yr old attack jet. They lost several, blown out of the sunny Georgian skies in August 2008. Georgian missiles shot them down, David fighting Goliath. Would my Kahlia Akasha escape being shot down over Georgia? We’ll never know. She is stealth capable, has active radar jamming system, chaff and flares to decoy missiles, extreme performance and agility, small size, high technology. She isn’t invulnerable but more survivable than a Frogfoot. All I have are my own design studies, theoretical. I ask what if?
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex
Long poem by
Andrea Dietrich | Details |
As one who grew up in a different era,
Pre-Brangeline and Californication -
When shows like Laugh-in or the Dating Game,
Bewitched or Dick Van Dyke were just about
The naughtiest you’d find on your TV -
I'm now chillaxin' with some shows much better!
Despite the violence and the sexploitation,
There’s education everywhere you look.
The singers I once listened to and loved
Are now discussed in rockumentaries!
And if you like your information spicy,
Try faction on the channels like I.D.
My father used to hog our TV set,
And Wild Kingdom we’d all have to watch.
But how much funner now to click on channels
That show the strangest creatures in the world
Like tigons, zedonks, geeps and beefalo!
And if your labradoodle can’t be trained,
You’ll find a whisperer to show you how.
The woolaroc of nature can be viewed
In brilliant colors, sometimes in 3-D!
You’re not confined to black and white, 3 channels!
Today they’re watching on ginormous screens
Or tiny cell phones held inside your hand.
The workout shows like those of Jack LaLanne
Have been replaced by countless infomericals
With hints fantabulous for keeping young.
From jazzercise to tips of Dr. Oz,
You’ll learn to make yourself be bootylicious.
Your mental health is not neglected either,
With folks like Dr. Phil to fill you in!
Whether you’re a hasbian or shemale,
A fugly guy, a horder, or a crackhead,
There’s someone on TV to speak to YOU.
Reality TV may not be smart,
But it can come in handy if you need
To learn some Splanglish or pick up a blaccent.
The shows on cable redefine our world,
Teach tolerance and much improve one’s gaydar.
You learn that metrosexuals use manbags
And guys like Blake and Adam on the Voice
Give hugs because they simply have a bromance.
To people saying that TV today
Has gone to pot, I say, “Well, that’s ok!”
My DVR is working day and night,
So I can get the best of edutainment!
Examples of Portmanteaus Used in My Poem:
Brangeline: Brad Pit and Angelina Jolie
Californication: California and fornication
Chillaxin: chilling and relaxing
Sexploitation: exploitation of sex
Rockumentaries: Documentaries about Rock music
Faction: fact mixed with fiction (exaggeration)
Tigons: a tiger/lion zedonk: a zebra donkey
Geep: a goat sheep Beefalo: A cow buffalo
Labradoodle: Labrador poodle
Woolaroc: woods, lakes and rocks
Ginormous: gigantic and enormous
Infomericals: informational commercials
Fantabulous: Fantastic plus fabulous
Jazzercise: jazz exercise
Bootylicious: delicious booty(behind)
Hasbian: temporary (has been) lesbian
She-man: just what you think!
Fugly: F-ing ugly
Crackhead: someone on crack cocaine
Blaccent: black accent
Gaydar: gay radar
Metrosexuals: metropolitan heterosexuals
Manbags: purses used by men
Bromance: romance between Bro’s (male friends)
Edutainment: education that is entertaining!
Long poem by
lucky okoedion | Details |
Tens of decades of being spoon-fed or feeling helpless enough
To surrender to strangers your leadership of culture and technology is not a generosity,
But an exaggerated excuse of inherited slavery mentality; the Ironical simplicity
Of not thinking forward enough,
Of not feeling good enough,
Of not talking top enough,
Of not standing tall enough,
Of not acting bold enough,
Of not knowing that standing alone
To fall and stand again to fall and stand tall alone
Is practice-worthy enough
In order to remain tall.
When will Africa build
her own world and refuse
to stay down her hand for fear of mistakes and the inevitable growth-process failures?
and when will Africa learn
to dream her own dreams; I mean to be content within the realm
where her programs only bear her own DNA signatures,
where she no longer boasts shamefully of borrowed inventions that eternally refuse
to fit into the African context, that threaten to make us aliens of our true nature -
incompatible alien social formulas that make our social engineering confused ?
Let’s cure ourselves of this cultural dislocation and intellectual humiliation.
When the inevitable barbarity of the crude form of our culture’s past is so glaring,
that we won’t but be irrational not to admit it,
who said it is something to be ashamed of?
Let them name a culture without a crude origin,
and I will show them a culture without a past, which is a culture that doesn’t exist.
Or let them show me an Africa who condemns its crude past,
and I will show them an Africa which has learnt.
An Africa which has learnt
is the only Africa which can repent:
an Africa which has learnt to infuse
indigenous technology into all offerings she receives from the brothers around the globe,
is the only Africa which can build an African Africa.
Else she becomes a make-fit of a foreign cultural robe.
No civilization ever grew out of vacuum,
but on the shoulders of others
to tower higher.
So it’s not a sin that Africa borrows culture today,
and that she condemns her crude past.
It only means a giant is in the making.
And it shall come to pass that out of these raw materials we are borrowing,
we shall build a black civilization and socialization
that will not like the former be sincerely shame-spoken of,
but that shall know no equal,
and that shall be the highest export commodity in the world.
And Pan African is our formula.
There’s no genius without ingenuity,
there is no prosperity, whether economic or cultural
without indigenous Technology.
I can never help you to be better than me
unless you’re my next of kin,
and no continent is another’s next of kin.
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
My feet felt like frostbite had got them,
Even though I had my suede boots on,
I had just jovially returned from,
That successful Christmas shopping trip,
With no other reason to feel got at or unlucky.
So I put my computer on as it was November the 23rd,
Which was soon enough to write all the emails,
Sign all the eCards, design all the picture attachments,
For all my buddies and friends -
My old friends whom I’d not seen for such a long time,
And of course for every one of my cousins.
So I saved all my emails as a draft,
But this year as I’d downloaded the Safari update,
I had an automatic email and eCard sender,
Which sent all my communications upon a certain date and time,
If I typed in the date and time when I wanted them to be sent.
Fab, fab fab! Now that part of my life was easy:
No need to worry in the hustle and bustle of the season,
About greetings, end of year reviews and exchanges,
Which could be composed and organised,
Just when you were free to entertain them,
Before Christmas began for real,
And sent automatically at my chosen time.
After I did that, about four nights later,
I relaxed back on my swivel chair,
And put my legs up, crossing them,
Elbows wide as I supported my head with my hands,
Being in a state of bliss at my accomplishment:
A self-made man, or person, without any demands,
No creeds or ultimatums at Christmas time;
A programmer almost, my computer was my deliberation,
At my command and obeying my flighty choice,
Because I had a Programmer’s User Interface, a PUI,
Which felt as if it could ignite snow.
And then there were my desktops,
I just typed in the dates on which,
I wanted my desktop changed,
And specified the picts for these dates,
To mark the four Sundays of Advent,
Predicting the snow (insanely),
Celebrating the X-Factor final with a red X
On my desktop for that night,
And remembering the wise men’s visit to the inn,
So I knew I would be happier this year,
Every day on my computer,
Doing exactly what I wanted to do,
Writing poetry about the snow, Santa and Christmastide,
And spending my concentration on,
Programming and software engineering,
Not waylaid by matters statutory.
It was just amazing,
My astonishment initially flabbergasted me,
But I was by no means confounded by it at all,
The setting of the send dates and the desktop times,
Was not difficult technically,
But only asked for some thought,
Which is, after all, what Christmas is all about.
Long poem by
SEAN TROTT | Details |
I remember when conversations happened face to face
I look around witnessing what has become n untouched disgrace
Person after person nose first into a device that's connected
Am I the only one speaking the turmoil that has truly erected
Why is everyone condoning habits that are completely destroying interaction
Is it because it is cool or just your unknown desired selfish satisfaction
selfish satisfaction I mean so called acceptance of your piers
Looking to post something unordinary like that will erase your fears
People read each post on FB like every one of them is true
But in the end they are just posts to gain the attention of YOU
People are not so happy believe me they suffer as deep
They post what they feel others will read even if the lie is steep
I miss people calling you over asking for advice
Now they watch to calculate how many LIKES they receive on their device
How many friends do I have how many cool pictures for them to view
If you call 100 of those online friends maybe one would know what to do
Only one would respond because only one truly cares
Only one will drop their own needs to wipe your tears
Popularity is now a plateau in our social networking society
People have made IG, TWEETS and facebook their top priority
Why read about others lives when you have enough to adjust
Simply because popularity and acceptance is just a selfish must
Selfies, status change, new pics have taken the front seat
Sending them out in the web being viewed by someone you didn't even meet
Anyone can type what you want to hear instead of what needs to be said
Because not just anyone is a friend people have become your critic instead
I have 0 friends on FB, never IG and I only share life with who is closer
75% of those on the networks I label as a new age posers
Everyone wants attention that's the stem of the problem at hand
I hope they like me, I hope they accept me, I think I like who I am
Stop allowing devices N social networks to dictate how U project your feelings inside
Put the phone down give your loved one a hug now that instills pride
Say hi to their face don't post a simple hello and wait for responses in your mail
just admit there is an issue of epidemic proportion or we will truly fail
So please try some way to spread the words I've chosen to write
Say no to social networking destruction join the new found fight
I hope all ends well no matter how you choose to view my opinions
I just hope for a world where people are not digitally connected minions
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
My Computer Might Daydream About…
My computer may daydream about,
The Twilight films and the meaning of The Matrix,
The thought behind Star Trek and the point of Star Wars,
Which I repeatedly watch on its DVD Player,
And it may classify humankind for a lack of consideration,
For the intelligent slow typer who’s possibly disabled:
For his or her own personal shortcuts run.
I don't like typing a space after my shortcut abbreviations,
To indicate that the computer should expand my abbreviation:
I like typing just ‘tc’ to get ‘the ‘, (the with a space),
Not ‘tc ‘, tc and then a space, to get the same, the with a space;
As if I would not like to sacrifice the term ‘tc'
For a quicker way of typing ‘the ’, the with a space:
Why the fiip should I type a space every time?
I obviously would demand to turn the shortcuts feature off,
Just in case with eccentricity I chose all of a sudden,
To type ‘tc’ in an email, document or web entry field,
With or without a space, either way it would be fine,
To facilitate that desire of mine.
It’s so much faster, far superior and quite ingratiating,
To cut out the space and just combine unused English characters,
Which never sit beside one another in language for readability:
I’ve used shortcuts like this since I was 10, and have a degree,
But it does not occur to any software developer as sense and sensibility.
I had 632 shortcuts without the spacebar like that on my old iBook,
On the TextExpander 2.8.1 app which was my chalice,
But naively asked their support staff if the app worked with Keystrokes 4,
Word predictions software which speeds and assures,
Who never replied to me, I suspect because they've never heard of,
Anyone using they’re business emailing app,
For shortcuts without the monotonous spacebar expansion key;
TextExpander is used to expand repeated paragraphs from a thoughtful abbreviation.
My computer may also wonder about the engineer of my footswitch,
The device I use to type with, mind over matter,
Who mentioned to me something when he built it,
About the return key possibly not working at all times for all things:
So sometimes I have to stretch and use the keyboard:
What kind of nut job was he when he made it!?
It may also dream about my beliefs and views,
As it knows all my poetry so far with no blinkers;
Nothing is held back from it as my disk space sits,
In its area so welcoming, so aware of me,
Letting me be secretive, true and very, very free.
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
The teachers and staff at the special school, Graysmill,
Did what they could to give the severes a life afterwards,
And they presumed I would be accepted to work,
At the CALL Centre of Edinburgh University, for a long time to lurk.
It’s now CALL Scotland, and researches special tech,
Develops assistive software, devices, and communication aids;
It digitalise written exams energetically and with voice,
For disabled kids who need to have their own writing choice.
But I went to Daniel Stewarts nursery, was well accepted, superior,
As I came top of the class for both words and numbers,
And as it is a top private school near Edinburgh’s city centre,
I found the sympathy hard at Graysmill ‘cos I was not inferior.
In the 70s and 80s they thought the special pupils couldn’t interact,
In mainstream schools where the able-bodied were understood;
Most of my friends had a dislike of normal, ordinary kids,
And didn’t understand my perceptions of relationality and brotherhood.
So as it was sometimes an effort for me to be part of the school,
And I just wanted to walk away from all things disabled or impaired,
The moment I started university where opportunity beckoned,
Where my intentions and abilities could be so aired.
I wanted to maybe be a software engineer for organisations,
But knew I couldn’t type all day every day with my foot,
So after uni got a part-time job at the CALL Centre, but felt self-defeated,
‘Cos I'd had blows with my parents about my own mechanism of input.
I did home computing growing up using my hands on the keyboard,
But did my school and homework with my foot, not good,
And since they wanted me to go to university, no big deal,
They forced me to keep using the faster mechanism, the switch for my foot.
So I resented the CALL Centre right throughout my young years,
For not believing or ingratiating me when I told them of my hand dexterity,
And as a graduate able to deliberate upon my case of disrespect,
I can say that my parents should have certainly been certified for neglect.
I did not renew my contract with the Call, was only for four months,
As I didn’t want to put myself through that close contact and innocence assumption,
But think that they do an note-worthy job for severely disabled kids,
And that my case was an exception to their loving, kind gumption.
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details |
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
My first poem on the soup:
Honouring the Wartime Dead
They fought with grit to save the nation,
From poverty, squalor and infidelity,
And when they marched it was the Nazi’s or them,
Who would suffice to keep their dignity.
The Second was really over the same as the First:
The freedom and equality that democracies offer;
Hitler was not to rule the freethinking lands,
Which representative governments quietly did proffer.
Their Ladies’ which, it was said, almost flew themselves,
Were engineered by women as superior planes;
Through dogfight and bullet, over occupied territories -
The pilots exploded German ammunition trains.
In Response to My First Poem
As a child of four and five,
And right through my early primary years,
My dad talked at dinner about the war,
And of his wartime distresses and fears.
But a few times when I was really young,
He took an arm chair and gave voice,
To how he felt and dealt with his posting,
And that it was his and only his choice.
It was just him and me who had discourse,
So I dug as hard as I could but gave him his space,
For just exactly how he’d enlivened,
The plane of his of which he was an ace.
He called it to me his lady,
And from then on I understood how to handle,
Planes and all kinds and tech and devices:
That you should respect them and tangle.
He told me what the two world wars meant,
And suggested sexual sterilisation was at stake,
And that it was grit which retained the dignity,
Of the western world which did quake.
I am a political, scientific and atheistic poet,
And wished to allude to that with my first poem,
That I love poeticising culture and technology:
Computers and all that, ‘cos I know ‘em.
As a child of four or five,
I promised myself to give back to him somehow,
Most definitely in the form of a literary poem,
That knowledge he’d imbued in me, his dow.
The poem Honouring the Wartime Dead,
Also quietly murmurs atheism’s practical arms,
As my dad had quietly admonished mindset and action,
Without any reservations or qualms.
I hope that on the soup,
You find from me a good read,
Enjoyable but educational and with a view,
That lets you tell the bloom from the weed.
For the A Response to my First Poem contest by Silent One.
Long poem by
Mark J. Halliday | Details |
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Mark J. Halliday