Best Monitors Poems
I rise from deep within the earth
out of pressured lavas
I rise above the level into
breathable realms
I rise following the risen
He who set my path and
monitors my lift lovingly
tenderly, yet such pinions
given of steeliness unpluckable
I rise for the grace of the Father,
for the loving sacrifice of the Son,
for the Spirit, all Powerful, Ever-present,
All Knowing – I rise from man's mental
coma...from delirium of his lesser ego,
from estrangement of his physical-obstinance;
climbing higher, into loftier, far brighter reality
of being...
cleanly exalted, my consciousness purified –
I rise on frequencies of heavenly choirs...
throngs of worshiping angels welcoming, wings
fanning my once fuming soul – all the while
singing Praise to Christ, man's Conqueror Lord:
The slayer of Death; the Subduer of devils
and their throngs of whispering, shouting,
deafening demons;
I rise from out under the Master Liar...jealous possessor,
once Arc of God's Most beloved till Fallen...
I rise on a divine swell of compassion and forgiveness –
carried yet higher, on upward, surging tide of greater purification,
resurrected with Divine momentum...a soaring sea of expanding
spiritual freedom...
It is Easter,
as The Risen One anointed, so shall we follow
and rise!
“Glory to God
in His Highest!”
I've been watching you for hours now,
wringing your hands
pacing the floor
watching the monitors
holding his hand
never leaving his side
Your spirit is strong,
he feels you by his side
knows you are there,
hears your whispered prayers
yet you are oh, so tired,
I see it in your weary face,
your bloodshot eyes
I'm here for you,
when you are ready-
pull me close to his bed,
lean back and take his hand,
close your eyes for a few minutes.
I'll stand watch with you,
I'm here for you, and
I'm not aganist catching a tear or two
I see you looking at me-longing for relief
He won't think you weak if you
sit down for a while--so,
Go ahead--
Pull me close to the bed,
take his hand,
lean back,
close your eyes,
rest.
I am here for you.
She vibrates, a chassis minus shock absorption.
A painting, the nude descends a staircase,
rings of Saturn etched in a vacuum tube.
Or Eniac of twisted cords and switchboards.
She isn't programmed to see light beams
spraying through the trees,
nor silver bearings of morning dew.
There are no bees plunging like pistons
in the flowers, no circuit board on the step.
She climbs the jamb as a bot returning to its task.
Monitors flicker as nanoseconds pass unnoticed,
but the galaxy ends at the lintel.
She's a child of Mir, suspended upside down
in a universe where falling isn't death,
but the failure of electrodes.
Then silent as a dead star she descends.
All drives cease functioning.
She is still as a scarab,
the light years casting sand dunes on sphinxes,
until legs spasm as though coding
a final matrix for iron butterflies waiting to be born.
THE JOY OF FRIENDSHIP
A sweet young lady on Soup
Will not let your spirit droop
She's thoughtful and nice
And gives great advice
So I keep her in the loop
She monitors what I write
To make sure I get it right
Angel in disguise
One who is so wise
With a beauty oh so bright
We never have met before
I cherish her all the more
And maybe one day
I hope I can say
This angel came through my door
If that never comes to pass
Our friendship will always last
Though she must remain
An unannounced name
Her friendship is unsurpassed
2 September 2018
we once held time
as if it was a never-ending story
sitting beside your bed
watching the monitors announce vitals
tubes running in and out
we have been reduced to moments
as i hold the hand dearest to my heart
watch the slow slipping away
i hold a deeper strength within you gave me
knowing what we have is yet to come
that we have only held
a crumb of Love's feast
we were meant for more
then just a life with each other
we were a promise that will be kept
we are that first breath, destined in Perpetuum
when once again we embrace
where you will finally dance with perfection
how i will miss those little mistakes
i so adored about you
as we waltz thru the galaxies
in your arms, in your eyes, in eternity
once again i have stolen his lines
the thief who stole my heart on a park bench
when i finally made him close
his book of poetry and kiss me
i was not to be a Beatrice denied
Zorro must surrender the mask
with his first kiss, his soft yet secure embrace
whisked me into the infinity of his tenderness
i wait in the fullness of his love
until i am in his caress again
when this dinner for one
becomes an empty table
that escaped into where dreams
are more then forevermore
they live in the Grace of God's Fate
who long knew us before that first breath
where vows evaporate into a Promise fulfilled
1/2/18
It seems, in truth, that I'm such a glutton,
For a pulsing, lighted or sliding button.
Christmas, for me? An arriving shipment,
Boxes packed full with musical equipment!
Nothing can compare with the digital glow,
Of rack-mounted processors, row-on-row.
Is there no surer proof of a world in order,
Than dancing lights on a multi-track recorder?
And how could you decorate a room any cuter,
Than guitars on the walls and a laptop computer?
Near-field monitors and microphones aplenty,
So, to whet the whistles of music cognoscenti.
Keyboards, amplifiers, drum machines, effects,
Mood lights to decide what track to add next.
Well, it may not sound like YOUR place to be,
But this shimmering scene is heaven to me!
And what's so fine about this electronic roost?
Well, it's a place where musical dreams ...
Are produced!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Meraki" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Sponsor. *
(I am and will always be, a musician/songwriter, first-and-foremost, and while performing is my second love, [and poetry a close third], there's nothing for me like the creative process - writing, recording, producing songs in the studio - laying down the tracks one-by-one, layering the instruments and voices, building and watching/hearing the song take shape, and mastering the final production - in control of every facet ... looking back at the incredible amount of time and work involved, and feeling proud of that musical piece of you that you can listen to and share with the world ... there is nothing like it, and the lights of the studio equipment are, for me, like a Christmas all my own, and the dancing pixies of a wonderland of sound and melody - my meraki, indeed!)
It must feel good to say at last
The ceiling is shattered
And the door is open
It must feel good
But I looking at the ceiling
Think of icy rains
Monitors on my feet instead of chains
Weevils dancing in the hoarded grains
And blind men wiping at dark blood stains
It must feel good at last to belong
To see your face on the totem pole
Hear the world sing your song
Muting the lyrics meaning about the cold
To speak plainly
So you can understand my thoughts
To translate my dialects
With greater complacency
But, you cannot touch my smile.
You cannot touch my smile
Exhaling from these lips through
Liquid monitors
My words are my heartbeats.
They don’t hang onto cliff…
...notes.
This infinite Victorian ink
Will not be filtered
For you, I promise
…
You asked me to commit perjury
Against a befuddled society
Giving them sense of security’s facade
By becoming one of them
Denied
For I am not
Melancholy’s sheep
Infused with Cloud 9 cotton balls
Urging to be plucked
I am a landscaper
For the herd to walk
…
You asked me
To be your shoulder
But, you couldn’t be my wings.
You asked me to be your voice.
Yet, you remained mute
When two-faced solidarity made me speechless
So, WHY would I NEED to be YOUR microphone?!
When you already pulled the plug…
©Drake J. Eszes
Dedicated to those who continue to make love to the clutter…
The Hacker
Vodka
Used Dells and HP notebooks
Routers and switches
Gateways and sniffers
Kvm boxes and multi real-time data shows
My booty is plenty
No one knows the white mask of mist
They only know some monies are amiss
Bots and trojans and loggers too
Tools of the trade
As the cash is readily piled and made
2 million bit coins
400 million Yuan
786 billion rubles, there goes Putin’s new dawn
From Monaco to Luxembourg to Timbuktu
I have all the cash
Stolen from even mighty criminals too
Now I partake in my biggest heist
The crown jewels you can all keep and gaze
My prize is of more value, I shall hack all the days
I trace ip’s, and wires and protocols
Searching for patterns and rhythms and single heart beats
I shall not ever accept any defeat
I sit in my chair, monitors a plenty
Scanning and routing, probing and poking
Kilobytes and packets of data my way
Slowly, I shall hack into the device I wish to sway
Bingo, I got it, I think I am in
Pacemaker number 24-25-poet-of-things
I now control the beat of her heart
As I reprogram her love from here to the start
Pumping away, verses that sway
I shall now control her hearts desires of spring love in May
Captured her heart
Now I hold it in prisons enclave
To ancient romances and poetic rhymes
I know I am guilty of loves worst crime
However now I know her heart is all mine
I shall make it beat for eternity
So that the kiss I shall give on her sweet lips
Will be smiles held forever and a day
I hacked her heart
And I like it this way!
4.
The Slippage
All through the night of the day when the madness began
Fever comes to visit me.
In bed immobile,
Sheets dampen beneath my filthy hair
Shivering/Burning Shivering/Burning
The night creeps on towards dawn
No sleep precedes it.
When at last it comes,
It marks the point at which
Breathing becomes my sole occupation
Tests define my days
I and the medical machines
Begin to merge.
New lines are attached daily;
Monitors, nutrients, fluids, blood.
In all directions they flow from me
Until my metal caretakers and I are so interconnected
That spongebathing becomes choreography.
Meanwhile, outside
Invisible killers roam at will,
Dealing death and wounds
Then moving on, like clouds across the sun.
A siege mentality settles over the entire area
The shadow of sudden, random death passes over all.
My personal shadow lies upon my lungs,
Quietly, steadily, pressing away my breath.
The tests go on and on and on
Blood is drawn 'til veins begin collapsing
I feel like a prisoner of the Inquisition,
Sustained solely by the spirit of those
Good fortune makes my own:
Wife, Children, Parents, Friends
- All the best reasons, in short, to live -
Never fail to help bear me up,
Feeding me the honor of their concern.
They fan me when I burn,
Warm me as I shake with cold,
Remind me of all the good
Awaiting my return.
Then at last there fell the evil day
When they moved me back to the higher ward,
The place from which one usually does not return,
Chills washing me like Arctic waters,
Shaking like an epileptic
Fighting the mounting panic
As I gasp shallow breaths
Like a fish hauled aground.
Since that time I've seen it claimed
That suffocation brings the kindest death.
Whoever wrote that
Had a strange view of kindness.
There followed a hard night of fear and confusion
That passed into a dawn I never saw nor felt.
At some undefined hour they wheel me back to Intensive,
As Gulliver's god slides off the wall ....
And everything comes to full stop.
Love and admire someone
Deeply,
Build a castle with him
Brick by brick,
Paint the walls with frescoes,
Draw dreams.
Hold him
When the illness comes,
Cook him chicken broth,
Kiss his sweaty forehead,
Suction his wounds,
Puff his pillows.
Drive him to the hospital,
Listen to the whirs in the room,
Check the lines on the monitors,
Introduce yourself to every nurse
Shift after shift,
Bargain with God.
Sign “Do not resuscitate,”
Watch his chest heave,
Leave the room
When they pull out the tubes,
Come back,
Sense his heart beat
Stop.
Lay your head on his shoulder,
Memorize him,
Lie to the nurse
That you are ready
To say goodbye.
Brush your fingers across his cheek,
Press his bruised lips,
Twist your neck as you
Walk away,
Touch the cold doorjamb,
Write what you feel.
@Tess Harvester 2013
"Crisis!"
"Shelter in place!"
Sirens scream from tv monitors
Teleprompters indicate emphasis points
Stringing our fear
Along enough
'Till commercial
Breaks
When products offered by advertisers
Promise relief
From
Worry...
Drink this
Eat that
Drive this
Erect that
Smell this
Swallow that
Drink flouride
Eat gmo's
Drive carbon emissions
Erect a better you
Inhale cadmium-coated chemicals
Swallow cortex syngeing sleep aids
And
You'll
Be
Fine
10/27/13
There a myriad of seats
that welcome you to sit.
There tables shining clean
meant to serve you for a bit.
There are monitors showing pictures
with their drinks hot and cold
There is food like their sandwiches
Some in zesty and in bold.
There are dozens of their donuts.
Many muffins and breads.
There are soups and their chili
served with butter and spreads.
There is coffee of all kinds.
Flavored hot, flavored cold.
There are some come with ice.
Some are mixed; so I'm told.
There are things of importants
in the Tim Horton's claim.
There servers work with them
in bringing them fame.
There a sign says Tim Horton's
all bright with it's pride.
There workers even brighter
at the counter inside.
There a team of Tim Horton's
that's thoughtful and wise.
There me as their customer
with praise and apprise.
Winter's crisp yet early breath whispered to me this eve
A yearly session as we, the cold and me, gather
Conferring when, when can I join her, join her as she
gallops wild and free-
Life has been cocooned, reigned tight and sensory
deprived-
all I cry for is the wild. The wild and the wind, as I was
meant to follow-
Espousing her movements is where I was meant to be.
How could you know?
Wrapped in a thick, sticky web of dubiety, never has she,
the wind,
seen me free. Dreams of conifers and dancing emerald
aurora always
calling to me, always calling and pulling me.
Yet, in this populated, polluted cocoon I remain as a
corpse,
not as a thing wild. A thing to lick raindrops off grass and
go where the day seizes me, never to wander among the
honeysuckle and bees, listening... just listening...
Concrete, lights, noise, horns, words, highways, bi-ways,
runaways, flyaways
Speak easies, slippery tongues, silty breaths, monitors,
breaks, jump ropes,
shoes, bonds, bonds- chains. Always chained.
Bosses, fights, liars, diers, criers, things always moving,
changing, squirming, vibrating, stinking, pissing, kissing,
f***ing.
Disease and lies- untruth to ones own self.
Utter self deception- the worst sin of all.
The cold wind fingers my hair, touching intimately
the parts she wishes to follow her-
the cocoon wraps even tighter, pushing her away,
completely away.
But I can still smell her and know she wants me.
She knows I want her, she knows I love her,
she knows I will die before ever truly knowing her.
The way the nurse looked at me, told me
That something wasn’t quite right
It’s why I‘d gone to the surgery that day
I’d been feeling nauseous all night,
The nurse called the doctor, who came to say
“We’re going to start you off, right away.”
They told me I had pre-eclampsia
A condition both dangerous and rare
But not to worry, that my baby and I,
Would receive the best of care
They put me to bed, and told me to rest
Then every five minutes, took a blood pressure test
The doc gave me a valium injection
To bring my blood pressure down,
Ten minutes later he came back again
The smile on his face, replaced by a frown
“I’m sorry Janette - your blood pressure’s too high
If we don’t operate right this minute – you’ll die!”
They gave me the anaesthetic,
As they wheeled me down corridors grey
And as we approached the theatre doors,
I could feel myself drifting away
The last thing I remember, before slumber serene
Was the theatre staff, standing there, all dressed in green
When I eventually came round, when I finally awoke
Hooked to monitors, drugged, feeling sore
I received such a shock, I shot up in bed
Pulling all the drips down to the floor,
The doctors and nurses then came rushing in
To find out, what caused the alarm bells to ring
They told me I’d been in a coma
For two weeks, I’d been out of this world
That the op had gone well, and I now
Was the mum, of a beautiful, baby girl
She was doing quite well, though still a bit weak,
I was totally too dumbfounded to speak!
Two weeks of my life are now missing,
Absent time, I shall never recall
But if not for those doctors and nurses
I would never have been here at all,
For my life, and that of my daughter they saved
And for that I’ll be grateful, to the end of my days.
© Janette Fisher – April 1983
This poem was written after the birth of my first daughter who is now 27