Best Developers Poems
The Internet or cyberspace needs you to trust it, even though embarrassing vulnerabilities will reveal your lack of wit.
Tech savvy users, ciphered chatting and risk calculus, reading the terms of service, as it could be the catalyst...
To consented digital surveillance, data-mining and analytical buffoonery, who can you choose to be if you are truly not free?
Cameras are everywhere, in the sky and in our pocket, accessed through transmission control protocol sockets.
The clear net is the internet minus the deep and the dark monikers, you can get high off your own supply of virtual encrypted liquors.
Download an app from any store and your identity may be stolen, by pirates with bad intentions, a wolf in sheeps’ clothing.
A sheep in wolves clothing, is software maliciously exploited, with he intent of hurting developers, hoping everyone will avoid it.
Now here comes the patches, updates and recommended use, just like substance abuse, addictive qualities will be produced.
A lighter view of the Devizes Neighbourhood Plan
referendum on Thursday 17th September
My alarm clock shouts at me with noisy voice
“Wake up! It’s Thursday and you have a choice!”
Of what to have for breakfast, eggs or bran
And of voting or not voting on the Plan
I’m not that sure quite what it's all about
Perhaps I’ll go online and check it out
The library know their stuff, they’re pretty fair
Could ask at the Town Hall, there’s people there
That funny poet woman says “Vote Yes”
Or otherwise the town will be a mess
Without a Plan we just won’t have a clue
Of what outside developers will do
But other folk are saying “No! Vote No!”
I’m so confused about which way to go
If I don’t vote I haven’t had a say
It’s only a few moments from my day
I’m going to go to town now and the Market
Could take the car but it’s a job to park it
Might take my bike or simply take a walk
And wander round and meet some friends and talk
I wonder what they think, I’ll ask their views
They might, like me, be wondering what to choose
Meat from the butchers, or some humble spam
Or whether to have a quick one in The Lamb
I’ve chosen breakfast eggs, I’m on a roll
I’m going to town, I’m going to simply stroll
I’m going to look at options and take note
I’m choosing choice and I am going to vote
If stuff goes wrong I’ve got till ten o’clock
The day is long, I’m on it (where’s that sock?)
by Gail
Where the antelope used to play is now shopping malls and plats.
Man in his insatiable greed has encroached upon its ancient habitats.
Not so very long ago on the plains just a few miles out of town,
Were herds of these graceful creatures that now have dwindled down.
Also, pushed from the verdant plains are the mighty buffalo,
That grazed upon the lush, green grasses not so very long ago.
Upon these sacred grazing grounds are now concrete parking lots,
And densely cluttered cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre plots.
Where have all the magnificent wild turkeys gone,
That used to preen and strut about at the break of dawn?
Even the lowly prairie dogs, their burrows they've had to flee,
To accommodate covetous developers who've gone on a building spree.
Of the wily fox and skulking coyote, there are fewer to be seen.
They were forced from their hunting grounds and have fled the scene.
Desperate flocks of grouse and pheasant have also taken flight,
To raise their young elsewhere, escaping mans' spreading blight.
Deer and elk that once peered shyly from almost every copse;
Their environs now occupied and overrun with tacky shops.
'Twould be novel if man would recall that these creatures were here first,
And consider them when pursuing their unquenchable expansion thirst!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Ableism, in the streets in day . People tell me how to walk, when to walk, how to live. ?
because
I'm blind I'm obviously incompetent; even if not this impression they give.
The other night I was in the most pleasant mood when a man grabbed the cane and it's not considered rude.
Just a part of the ignorant theme of America and elsewhere. ; I get it.
Yet the price to be paid is mine and the trauma identity
imbedded
Early afternoon I peeled away the gloom.
By writing down my thoughts and feelings though abstract like the nebulas I've grown to own.
Poetry Soup an some showed me love.
Community, finally, but bliss to early...
To log in you need a Capture code; a little image simple to you but impossible for me.
ablest surely aren't in our home we think; Saturday night live can't truly be that cruel.
Sorry to say it's true.
The spoken key won't fit in the lock; give it a try and put yourself in my rotten shoe .
SNL wouldn't make fun of a Jew, but they brutalize
the blind just as surely as I'm talking to you.
Yes it is true; I am witness; the verbal codes keep me from taking part just as surely as your weight problem meant no prom date.
I can only have my girlfriend log me in so long and then I'm livid and screaming my ostracism
song. feel terrible, side-lined, and wanted to tell the site developers.
I go to the contact us link but of course you needed to see in order to send a message.
The verbal codes inaudible
or at best they can't be typed for glitches.
Call the BBB but unless it's a valid crime then who cares.
If'n my heart then it tears.
If it's my part then it's the role of pulling out my own hair; to pull through?And so I bit you ado.
When the woollen industry died,
the reservoir that fed the old mill,
became disused.
The water meadow at its head
became a swamp.
Developers,
who want to build houses everywhere,
take one look at the quagmire,
sniff the stench fouled air, and walk away.
The channels are long blocked.
The drains are long broken.
So a freed, unmanaged, unmanacled nature;
binges on the anarchy of liberation,
brewing a brackish broth of sweet stagnation.
Children are warned to stay away
from the deadly, dangerous, disease
ridden slough.
Lest the Knucker Dragon, swamp devil,
swallow them whole.
Bulrushes,
point brown accusing fingers to the sky,
blaming the heavens for their
muddied becoming and placement.
Blood worm larvae,
orphaned Fly Nymphs,
ravenous in the root and stem of grasses;
greedily gorge without discrimination,
where cannibal repast; is often a relation.
Herons, are shadows that pass over,
heading for the cleaner waters below.
Snipe scutter
in the soft mire, poking for grubs.
Busily burying beaks in the
flowering Bogbean, and Hogweed:
Yellow Flag Iris,
and Ragged Robin,
rampantly roar a rich cacophony of colour.
Beady eyed, scruffy small,
fat water vole.
Mining leerdammer labyrinths in the banks,
faring fine on favoured vegetation,
prosperously multiply in stinking habitation.
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What do you see when you look at his face
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a broken down drunken old fool
I see a vaquero, a cowboy old school
These cattle, those horses, this land are his life
They helped him provide for his children & wife
The Vail brothers, Escalantes, Leons, Acosta, Andrada
From the X-9 to Del Lago, Rincon Creek to La Posta Quemada
Lopez, Etheridge, De La Ossa & Daly, all hard working men
Holding strong to the traditions of a life from way back when
From the base of the Rincons, their cattle once freely roamed
These Cowboys are the lifeblood of this valley we call home
I looked up to these men & others like them when I was a youth
They taught me to work hard, stand tall & always speak the truth
They rail at the developers who never seem to keep their word
Praying that they’ll still have enough ground to run their herds
They watch as suburbia comes flooding into a valley once pristine
As ticky tacky houses turn good grazing lands into an urban scene
The word out on the city streets is that the cowboy way is gone
But as long as there are horses then the Cowboy will ride on
Somewhere up in New River, a cowboy still rides out tonight
To gaze out over a moonlit range, far from the city’s blight
In Cascabel, an Old Vaquero & his grandchild working the pen
Are doing their part to see that the cowboy way never ends
What do you see when you look in his face?
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a tattered old man, shaky hands & blurry gaze
I see the heroes of my youth, hear the tales of the glory days
When cattle outnumbered people & Cowboys still roamed free
Back when the West was Wild, back in the long ago & used to be
Main Street had a classic pool hall,
Hustlers, chisellers, and those who like to fool all,
Second-hand stores along the way,
And the old Helen's Grill greasy spoon café.
Now, Main Street's no longer the same;
Developers and yuppies have changed the game.
They say it’s all for common good,
But the oldsters miss their good old neighbourhood.
Variations on a Punishing Theme
When people are hungry and at risk of homelessness
despair
chronic depression
and climatic extinction
Is it because their leaders
and community developers,
learning incubators
and technical assistance providers,
grantors and lenders,
representatives
and public sector service providers
absorb too many investments and nutrients
for their own mouths and mortgages?
sleeping soundly at night
unaware of how their Continuous Quality Improvement intentions
economically and ecologically miss their mark
of solidarity and mutual subsidiarity,
of recreating the comfort and nutrients
they intended to invest in those with greater need.
Perhaps the self-blaming unruliness of hungry homeless people
Is due to oversight interference of well-intended practitioners
expert administrators
senior consultants
expertly dominating fragile margins of poverty
feeding dissonant anger and fear
and mistrust.
Chronically at-risk species fear living death's dissonance
and entropic non-thrival trends,
Because we are anxious to survive,
to build life; not so much death and perpetual advent.
Wilting personal lives
have no bandwidth left
for righting macrosystemic death trends.
It is mutual-mentors who co-invest in cooperative thriving,
That incarnate wise evolution of deep ecologically balancing lives.
Self-composting toilets
have surprisingly greater nurturing value
to people without a pot to pee in
than community-composting banks
and governments.
To be a true and pure and faithful evangelically zealous fundamentalist,
whether of good faith religions
or bad faith hatreds of other cultures and races and genders, etc.,
fascism and fundamentalism
are rooted in pre-linguistic literalism,
stories built from feelings of sacred orthodox senses
and secular notnot nonsenses,
But you should not need to be an anti-radical hater
to grow and nurture a rooted in fundamentals progressivist,
activist,
farmer,
colonizer,
missionary,
an over-zealous weed with monoculturing leadership intentions,
a xenophobic polyculture baiter,
or anti-pagan predator,
PostMillennial Crusader
for Christ or Allah
for Divine Totalitarianism or HateMongering Fascism,
for anyone or anything you truly believe
could become omnipotently healthy and sacred.
To become radical
requires going into pre-linguistic roots
of spirituality
as also embodied naturality.
To come from story-tellers and mentors
of the fundamentals for,
speakers and listeners to,
ecological parables
written in divine sunlight
and ultra-violet radiantly cosmic
octaved love-evoluting voice.
To become a patriotic loyalist
of and for,
by and through,
was and saw
We are not sufficiently acceptable,
not restorative agents for true justice and loyal peace,
not self or other optimizing ecopolitical outcome developers,
when we confuse patriotic with remaining prehistorically anti-matriotic,
anti-feminist WinWin Principles
of NonZero Sum Earth
as Fallen Eden
broken promise of Allah's ConJoining Paradise
of and for,
by and through,
saw and was
Polypathically polycultural (0)-Soul
nondualistic sacred through secular
multi-paradigmatically
developing cultures of sacred ecological health
which are also PostMillennial EcoPolitical CoOperatives
of and for
by and through
saw and was
This fundamentally sacred
radically secular
Prime Relational
bicameral as bilateral as binomial
You and Me
from the same co-incidental tragedy/notnot comedy
WinWin DoubleBound Appositional Tree
of (0)-SpaceTime
(0)-Tao RealTime
of and for
by and through
saw and was
Ego/Eco-Infinity.
Machiavellian schemes besmirch a murky mangrove calm
A propeller breaks the tranquil glass over an underwater farm
Neath the broken still, a peaceful giant stirs with alarm
and no consolation is found as noise churns it's quiet charm
The serene spots need to be augmented for they are our balm
Ecosystems need protection from greedy developers’ harm
Empyrean Earth for all, is in our active palms, giving alms…
(5/12/21: Custom ketch; KKMI Richmond)
It was a wet November day
on the motorway to Cork
waiting at traffic lights
a tiny man shuffled towards me
frail, bald and alone,
his piercing eyes beseeching,
palms outstretched, imploring.
His face ravaged with fear
his shame stirred shame in me
as I turned my face away,
I saw others do the same.
I felt raw discomfort
it changed rapidly to fear
as the cold face of recession
the demise of my country
the pain of my people
stood before me
in this little man
an ache so immense,
I had covered it deep.
Faced now with utter revulsion,
abject anger towards our government,
our bankers and developers,
those sneaky golden circles,
as my eyes met his,
I saw my own reflection.
The country’s bubble burst a year ago
but he had just burst mine.
For In his tiny frame,
I saw our fragile nation
a country on its knees
begging for a bail out.
In his isolation,
I felt my own vulnerability
huge impending loss
as my children face emigration.
In his baldness,
I saw the naked masses
new poverty and pain,
still crushing us, the people
This little man
could be me.
What if all your communities of choice
were to gather around you
to also become each others' communities,
extended families,
of choice?
Homeless children and mothers
decompose their social-economic analysis
of loves and pathologies
with your PhD health policy developers.
Your rich and powerful associates
consult with political-ecological evolutionary scientists
and vice versa
about possible sustained futures together,
so we all might learn something worthy of living in hope
for a new panentheistic golden wisdom age.
Medical professionals
meet and greet neuro- and eco-sensory health optimizers,
those specializing in the consumption and production of resonant sounds,
nutritious tastes,
beautiful sights,
profoundly robust and fertile fragrances and compost,
healthy passion communication
and re-creative pleasure imagination,
memory creation and sustainable family and community development,
regenerative ecotherapists
hopefully,
potentially,
integrally,
cooperatively re-connected
re-ligioned
togethered.
Sacred and secular leaders
discerning healthier spirit and nature futures
with nature-spirit nondualistic
poli-economic non-violent
win/win evolutionary seekers,
new pilgrims toward a polypathic ecologic
Earth's enlightenment hunters
and empowerment gatherers might trust enough
to co-empathically communicate already
today,
togathering for this cooperative community of inter-religioning choice,
discerning this mind/body wealth/healthy moment,
this day,
this project,
this lifetime,
these small and great family
resonant passion
and resilient pleasure
win/lose toward win/win transitions.
Ralph Baer was brilliant, he created the first video game console in the late sixties.
At first it was called 'The Brown Box' but was later renamed the 'Magnavox Odyssey'.
When it came to video games, he was a pioneer.
It's sad and tragic because he's no longer here.
Baer also developed the first Light Gun.
It was bundled with a shooting game and was sure to be fun.
He received the Pioneer Award during the Game Developers' Choice Awards back in 2008.
Video game systems wouldn't be what they are today without him, his contribution was great.
He was a wonderful man and that is certainly true.
But sadly, he has left the world at the age of 92.
[Dedicated to Ralph Baer (1922-2014) who died on December 6, 2014.]
The hate of knowing
The sad hopelessness vivid
My country still survives all poverty, famine, violence and injustice
Our babies crying for help
Their mothers seeking for milk
We pray to God to not forget us
But we neglect all good thoughts and ideas
From nothing to say
Much less to aspire
We wait for the bruises and blood
Of a conspiracy, nature and nation convicted with bad signs
Beautiful and healthy people getting richer and aligned
But the real women and men transpire to get their work done and effort assign
Still, we imagine that the government is too filthy for change
Wondering if our parents want their grandchildren to suffer and fight for something that they already claimed
Help!
Stop these new developers from changing the world into a large network pacific spy station
Real kisses are no longer the achievement of the lovers and romantic flames
Oh, if these words mean anything
Ask them to be warriors of the everyday customary pain