Long Cables Poems
Long Cables Poems. Below are the most popular long Cables by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cables poems by poem length and keyword.
Look at me —
glorious, glowing —
bathed in blue light,
dying slowly with 4G speed.
My soul is buffering.
“Talk to someone,” they say.
As if I haven’t
typed my grief a thousand times
into search bars
and still got no answer
but a smiling emoji.
I know 842 people.
They watch my stories.
But no one remembers
my voice
when it’s not performing.
Connection?
Yes, darling, I’m well-connected —
to cables,
to curated illusions,
to people who’ll send you a heart
but forget you exist
the moment their phone dies.
My loneliness wears lipstick now,
because apparently
pain should be aesthetic.
Even despair must have
a filter.
I posted a cry once —
cleverly disguised as poetry.
Got 217 likes.
No one called.
Isn’t that love in the hyperconnected world?
I smile with my teeth,
but not my eyes.
My inbox is full.
My life is not.
They say:
“You’re too sensitive.”
As if sensitivity is a disease
not caused by this world’s
cold, charming cruelty.
So here I am —
applauding the silence,
dating my own shadow,
sharing reels with the void,
saying “I’m fine”
in high resolution.
Darling, this isn’t loneliness.
This is
performance.
This is
existential comedy with bad lighting.
This is
the echo of a world
that forgot how to feel
but never forgot how to scroll.
Clad in Kevlar on some forest land leased,
big saw in his hand, engine idling,
gets put to the tree and shatters the peace,
works it just right, and the tree is falling.
Adjusts his visor, then lops off the limbs,
the yarder comes down, cables cinch up tight,
makes sure it is a good distance from him,
then yanks the logs up as if they’re in flight.
A claw grabs them there, loads them in the truck,
down rough road it trundles with its cargo,
off to the mill, so they can make a buck,
on to the next tree the lumberjack goes,
knows if he screws up there’s a chance he dies,
the risk you take working the mountainside.
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~
Daddy, there are new moorings, come see!
There are shiny pontoon chains and cables,
braided ropes and colorful pennants.
The anchors and piles and buoys all new!
He arose groggily and without ambition
but allowed the boy to lead him to the quay
wherein he saw indeed, new moorings!
His heart quickened.
Badly needed, as the old were worn,
tattered, and so dangerous that ships
stayed their distance from this port
and steered further up the coast.
Work had dried with the rotted ropes,
his hope was lost to the receding waves.
Until today, when new moorings
renewed a deep faith that saves.
Gramps had a Sunday rite,
It was quiet, perhaps trite.
In his chalice a Bloody Mary,
As solemn as a seminary.
Took the goblet and a crank,
To his great Big Ben clock.
Slowly wound as he drank,
When done, he’d close the lock.
A hundred years of perfect time,
With a soft, not muffled chime.
On the hour, brass bells peal,
Then a strike, the hour to reveal.
From its grand and lofty tower,
Only time did the clock devour.
Telling time is how it played,
For only this, was it made.
The pendulum’s eternal swing,
Akin to ocean, time was king.
Like endless waves of the sea,
That hit the beach, to rise and spree.
The old clock stopped
when Gramps died,
The crank too hard,
still Granny tried.
The case too tall
for her new abode,
Became gift to grandson,
down the road.
The clock from Gramps, to enshrine,
One day to pass it down the line.
‘Til then to crank it every week,
Its old wood to groan and creak.
The grand old clock no mere shell,
A soft ticking, then sudden knell.
Like ocean waves, gave quiet peace,
Its pulleys and cables never cease.
The sounds of eternal tick,
Westminster chant be its lick.
All derived from weekly crank,
For this and love, Gramps we thank.
****
This poem is also on Vimeo
https://vimeo.com/455917835
Artificial intelligence the latest buzzwords,
commonly known as 'AI'
is the latest new thing that
technology brings
with every year that goes by.
It may make our future incredibly bright
but I don't understand all the fuss,
since for ages I've seen AI's already been
all around, as I now shall discuss.
Beetroot- it knows when you're wearing a white shirt,
drop a screw, it knows just where to go,
that shrewd little teaser rolls under your freezer
to meet all the pals that it knows.
The keys your are seeking
are quietly peeking
out from the last place that you'll look,
any cables you've got
tie themselves into knots
no matter how much care you took.
Wallpaper- don't get me started,
the times that it's parted from walls
when my back has been turned,
the victory it's tasting regardless of pasting
it treats like a pleasure it's earned.
Each spring I have bother with my mower that hovers
as over the garden it flits,
despite my navigation, there's always frustration
when I see after, I've missed a bit.
AI ? Scientists love it, but for me, they can shove it,
It's nothing to me but a curse,
Computers may become masters as they get much faster,
but Beetroot and wallpaper's worse.
All of him professes, she’s the best,
four years later, his neighbour’s older wife, he sees better.
Tongue, once a warm compress to her needy soul
has been weaponized to be a devastating rocket launcher.
She has already brought two lives on his account
he still holds onto the entitlement of a teenage anatomy.
‘You have spread like a football field’ he mocks,
‘then protect me like its stadium’ she pleads.
A tree is climbed and he’s disgusted by her rare,
the ground is dug and her height warrants curses.
Bollywood dances, british poetry, french recipes, arabian perfumes,
all evolving attempts, only increasing his repugnance.
Blow more oxygen to increase the flame, mama says,
but what results is frostbite from aerosols of ice.
The woman is the entrepreneur of love, experts say,
after all the hard labour, the only thing counted are losses.
A bridge with one end is this home standing on a leg,
Sockets of happiness are replaced by that of endurance.
Power takes over the oath in this military camp
where there’s coexistence between General and Sergeant.
A clean room but with an onion decay
may attract guests but quickly chase them away.
A reachable heart that is stony isn’t available,
one cannot tangle, neither can only self mingle.
Now is the time to wrap her worth with high tension cables
and make ultimatum the regulatory officer to this union.
An incredible adjustment shows there’s still some love in him,
The only thing that makes a man stay is if he wants to stay.
On a desk, heaps of books and papers lie,
A bundle of wires, a puzzling surprise,
An honest handmaid, a modest laptop,
That lights bright and clinches words at a prop.
With touch of the keys, it moves to and fro,
Though not a grand device, it seems to know,
With trace of the fingers, the links to chase,
Across the extensive digital space.
A tangled spread of cables of black hue,
Stretch on the desk, like a sleeping snake true,
A forgotten pen, a treasured note book,
On which some brilliant quotes and thoughts are hooked.
A wilful webcam watches, ever keen,
To capture lovely moments, raw and seen.
It eyes the thoughtless yawns, the pensive frowns
And nose, as oft user dozes around.
A printer sits nearby in dull silence
Until it`s asked to come in prominence
With woeful whirs and creaking printing sighs,
Beneath its multiple observant eyes.
At the desk, a fluorescent lamp one wields,
Illuminating this packed working field,
Holding in its sway in the creative life,
A spring of joy, a sober source of strife.
Though the computer desk is worn and old,
It holds unending stories to be told,
A hearty humble haven, strong and free,
The centre of the world for folks like me.
It is where one triumphs, where one may fail,
Where sublime stories start and journeys trail,
A loving laptop desk, set as per wish,
Is the seat and the source of endless bliss.
High-ho! High-ho! High-ho!
it’s off to the pub and gig we go
Willy Wonka ticket stubs in our hand
on our way to see the band
Climb the fence, jump the turnstiles
into the crowd down the aisles
See the arena, upon the stage behold
the lights, cables, speakers, and scaffold
Part the red sea of people in our sway
with thy staff and lead the way
Under the stars on the speedway rings
inside the gates of Western Springs
Our coats filled with smuggled beer
or a leaky wine bladder for all to share
Roll a big old doobie ziggin’ and zaggin’
so we may puff the magic dragon
“Roll another one just like the other one”
and blow me a smokin’ shotgun
“You been holdin’ on to it
and I sure would like a hit”
Soon as house lights dim and intro fades
it’s time to storm the barricades
Microphones and amps wired for sound
flares burn, the drums pound
The voice, the music, the riffs, the licks
the blazin’ set, the pyrotechnics
Have a swig and have a blow
and sit back and enjoy the show
Now breathe in the atmosphere
the chill, the sweat, the smoky air
"Hey, don’t bogart that joint my friend
pass it over to me again"
And when it’s all over yell out for more
for a final wild and rockin’ encore
And watch the girls backstage queue
in their lipstick and heels for the crew
Where High ho! High ho! In a limo
off to do the band high hos go!
Written: May 2015
close my eyes and separate
from the vertical vortex of frequency.
unlink my self from man made chain of thought,
stepping back into the void and peering
over what i thought was enlightenment.
fibre optic cables spreads its roots
and plants themselves secure in our mind.
what a hopeful time to be alive.
leery of the divine, frightened by time,
they hold tight to the chains and pull,
exhausting the vessels, contorted
and wrapped in wires of copper.
rainbow roots sprout from the earth,
attaching itself to all that was once holy,
depleting provisions
and replacing it with visions,
binding hope to what consumes us in holy
matrimony.
the barrier between hope and prosperity
is fragility,
a partition of glass reflecting
insecurity,
encouraging our strive for more,
hoping each step will distance us
from detriment of the past,
not realizing what we reach for
is mere glass.
and with your eager and final attempt to grasp,
it shatters,
with every shard destroying all in it’s path.
only then will you realize
none of this lasts.
the future is a gift
only the present can grant.
what will you do with the time
slipping like sand in your hands?
is it fear of death that you run from,
or what comes after?
the silence taunting the crimes of yesterday
to float to the surface
and drown you in
a mess of your own making.