Best Disks Poems
Fae circles of mushrooms
Lanky yellow toadstools
Firm jelly tot larvae
Feed from rich stagnant pools.
Fungal disks cling with wanton
To the grey trunks of trees
Cricket strums join to bird song
Sending messages of peace.
Lambent beams break through foliage
Gradient tones tint the scene
Yellow, purple, and whites
showcased by backgrounds of green.
Fractured rock nests bright flora
Compost mats engage moss
A place of breach and survival.
Nature's gain, (one might say)
is the product of loss.
Golden Disks and Whale Clicks
mind song riffs
joining the back beat
nature clicks
timpani
drums of black thunder
percuss
then the sky opens
a luminous landing
off gasses from the heat shield
rainbow across a spectrum of light
Cam’s Glieseian tongue flew over the surface
of the audio generator
Voyager’s golden disk long gone now
transposes across a film of galactic plasma
the taste of whale and bird song they tongue
enthralls them—though they had no notion of
whales or birds
mind song cascade, scroll, behind the visitors opaque orbs
joining the back beat nature clicks woodpecker tunes
tympanic membranes shiver upon
retractable body hair
drums of black thunder roll
past helmetless crowns
percussing their brain stems
orgasmically
then the sky opens
Sol’s a black dwarf they are too late
but still the songs sang
Cam tongued the plasma film
once more then reentered interstellar
hibernation
First Published: Eye to the Telescope 1/15/15
Cooling morning air
Aspen leaves are golden disks
spark’ling in the sun
for Brian Strand's Images of Fall contest
~Echoes of Yesterday~
Walking on the Boardwalk
on a hot, steamy, summer day.
In a two piece rose bathing suit,twas decades ago!
I was only seven and seeing the Atlantic,
for the very first time.
I loved the waves, oh !
I bought a dear bracelet that I still own.
With silver circular disks and sailboats in
each glistening so!
The salt water taffy was like manna from heaven.
To this French-braided young girl, only of seven.
Nobody dressed as oddballs or freaks I see today!
Not one person, a walking crayon nor a billboard
proudly,displaying a shirt with hate.
Kindness ,good manners, respect were forever in play.
And, tragically, I can't say the same for today.
So forgive me, if I truly don't understand this God hating,
negative, lost world.
My mind hungers for the once present sanity,
the love, the humanity and the lost sweetness.
Of a salt water taffy world.
June 30,2019
Noon PST
Another Gold
Far from profit’s crass allure,
At a place somewhat obscure,
A poet sweeps his shepherd’s lyre;
He sings of gold, of heaven’s fire.
No. not of gold that Midas stores
Behind fast-bolted treasury doors
But of gold, that, eve and dawn,
Touches sheaves of ripened corn.
More emeralds than all wealth can gain
Has to these eyes the verdant plain.
Without the mind all precious stones
Have lesser worth than dead men’s bones.
The original prompt for the last poem was one I wrote on being requested to resign from a computer company.
Far from profit’s crass allure
At a place somewhat obscure,
Gordon preaches now Cobol.
Fortran and, I believe, Algol,
Unto flocks of Gaelic birds,
Black-faced sheep and long-haired herds.
In Acton’s fleshpots, in his den,
The spotlight first is beamed on Ken.
Beware the luscious woman’s wiles
Or you’ll forget your disks and files.
It would clearly be a sin
To make no mention of dear Lin.
May married bliss attend thy way
And commensurate be thy pay.
Sandra’s performance sets the pace
Robin’s too a similar case.
His hunting prowess earns him fame
In matters that concern big game.
Flower power propels this happy throng
Which means that little can go wrong
As long as Rose your leader be.
May rays of fortune shine on thee
On yon high Olympic mountain
Where Gord and Mary have been scouting.
There beneath the royal wall
Our Ted flogs bangles on his stall.
My ditty now has reached its span
Remember me, the also-ran.
In a world of wires, cables and geeks,
a woman sauntered, looking quite unique
with circuits of wit and bytes of charm
mistaken for Ai
what a cause for alarm!
I was the lady, I had to laugh
sure I am smart and intelligent too
a computer I am not, as I sit on the loo
I still need to eat, sleep and also....
poo poo
In a world of silicon, I have plenty to show
so its not my brains that dazzle and glow
my logics expansive, your hard disks they pale
I am not a machine, but intellect unveiled
I'm a blonde, you see, now what's your tale?
(in memoriam, Eugene Lawler, d. January 29, 2012, aged 83 years)
--- Note: "The singing machine" is a not so tongue-in-cheek reference to Gene and his penchant for singing whenever and wherever he wished, as well as to his karaoke
equipment and his nickname at bars that featured karaoke nights. ---
You fancied yourself a singer,
and indeed you were.
What songs we heard from you
you had made your own,
and you gave them freely
to all who would listen
(though we were just a few
who were, at times, inattentive.)
Time and remembrance may color
the images you left behind,
and the sentimental songs
you sang (and scribed on silver disks
for us to hear when, and if, we will)
may prod us to recall
your willful, dour demeanor
which could bloom into benevolence
or darken further in stormy sneers
at tardiness, or at perceived
maltreatment of any sort.
You were your own arbiter of behavior
who kept before you expectations
of what was appropriate, for yourself
and for us, the others of your kind.
We were few (still fewer now),
who flocked together on occasion
to celebrate, in quiet fashion,
whatever anniversary we chose --
perhaps your passing date
will become another to be marked.
And your voice, reproduced mechanically,
amplified, may remind us of our loss,
and of yours.
That wide open plan,
The desktop area so spacious,
A vast canvas so beautiful;
Why do you sit there,
Open to all for their curiosity?
When you to me call.
Oh cupboard, that hard disk brimming with identity,
Memory no problem, even lacking files;
Proficiently organised with raging delight,
Amorous filing system which you employ.
All disks are obvious, seen by me,
Begging to be viewed, added to or changed,
Offering usage stats and permissions,
That are not just the programmer’s privilege,
But any users' decree.
No LOGO, no dos,
No text-based system to beat,
No floppies to be distorted,
By the drives' magnetic wheels.
Encrypted files are offered,
But that requires some introspection,
About whether or not your loved one,
Would really infiltrate your disk,
And read your documents.
My computer is a reflection of me,
My order or my mayhem;
No longer my prowess and endeavour,
‘Cos my articulations are my graft,
Not the machine’s mechanisations.
The DVD lady came over today
And she was Chinese
She knocked at my door
And as soon as I opened,
“You wanting teefeetee pleeease?”
“I haw new mowie and ca’toon
Awl ve’y gooo’
I giw yooou gooo’ price, I p’omise yooou
You wanting Robin Hooo’?”
“I am free tonight,” I thought to myself,
“and a movie would be great.”
I thought I’d buy one, but she sure didn’t
So I ended up buying eight
“Sank yooou my f ‘ iend, I cum back agaiiin”
She packed her CD’s and left
I played the disks, they sure were jammed
… now that’s black market theft!
For Deborah Guzzi's "Dialects Make the World Go Round!" contest
mind song riffs
joining the back beat
nature clicks
timpani
drums of black thunder
percuss
then the sky opens
a luminous landing
off gasses from the heat shield
rainbow across a spectrum of light
Cam’s Glieseian tongue flew over the
surface of the audio generator
Voyager’s golden disk long gone now
transposes across a film of galactic plasma
the taste of whale and bird song they tongue
enthralls them—though they had no notion of
whales or birds
mind song cascades, scrolls, behind the visitors opaque orbs
joining the back beat nature clicks woodpecker tunes
tympanic membranes shiver upon
retractable body hair
drums of black thunder roll
past helmetless crowns
percussing their brain stems
orgasmically
then the sky opens
Sol’s a black dwarf they are too late
but still the songs sang
Cam tongued the plasma film
once more then reentered interstellar
hibernation
First Published by Eye to the Telescope 2015
Sun spots glow on saucer eyes
thrown as green disks to the sea~
Fall gently, so gently on mirroring waves
of reflections I once thought were me.
Dots of light dotted the dome
Displaying dismal disks
Halfhearted innuendos of harmony
Repetitive, unremarkable recordings
Minimally interesting, middle class, mediocre
Small wonder he thought, smirking, smarting
Discipline dismissed, discarded
Replaced with fun, funk and fad
Foolishness fueled Fukem, he fumed
No more, no more, no more
The military, military school, immediately!
A meal of tomato sauce
and toppings of cheese
ah, its flour dusted crust
pepperoni disks
spice it so nice, thin,
garlic TOO
PIE!
I reckon my prime sport is tiddlywinks
Don't take much energy and little thinks
I can sit and flip the disks
Sans cracked skull and other risks
That might occur while golfing on the links
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Royal Trevino's "My Favorite Sport" Contest - Feb 2011
The Pirates
Pirates were around in the 16th century, they flew the
Jolly Roger/Scull & Crossbones and would loot and pillage
Ships at sea, for their rich cargo and gold doubloons
Over the years they have moved to land in guises as
Highwaymen and bushrangers, outlaws that steal money
As well as gold and defy the law. In modern times the
Pirate has become an even bigger threat to the film and
Music industry by bootlegging copies on videotape and
Disks, robbing performers and actors of their rightful
Royalties. Now in the days of the Internet, the pirate or
Modern day version known as a scammer, creates
All sorts of evil ways to attain money on hoax activities
Dating sites and social networking even through networks
With items for sale. Yes hoaxes and scams make up about
Seventy percent of Internet activities, which goes
Unpoliced, with people losing large ammounts of money
To these unscroupulous people every day. Can they be
Stopped? The answer is a mystery, as the world is losing
It's innocence to unstoppable theives we call pirates.