Long Monitors Poems
Long Monitors Poems. Below are the most popular long Monitors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monitors poems by poem length and keyword.
Winds of change
are fanning the flames
are fanned by the deranged.
The flames of misdirection,
the winds giving chase
(orchestrated by instruments to enrage.
Horned cheering section.)
Drones of the BlackRock, riders in holdings
park their game pieces in place,
holding and withholding payment Ace.
Get out of jail free blowhards,
influencerned by the currency,
jeering and cheering till blue in the face,
screaming Climate
Emergent Divergent Hunger Games Emergency.
Media trumpet producing endearings,
(lipstick on a Pig) for their Rat King,
(as on a White Horse)
as we grow too Sheepish to speak out, too pale
and timid to spell out their obvious course,
to vomit our rejection as diseased
as we are enslaved
under cells and convections and
tales intertwined, sanctioned throughout,
Stormgate's, leak, its Codex toothed, overreaching security breach.
Never again will we be as we were,
neVer to take flight,
or steer our own course again in our own
atmosphere.
The Mandate is clear, the Score
is reported by message board monitors
of the process, onboard,
onboarding for the Beast System processors,
riding People, herding, coral carolling
to Lucifer, sacrificial Sheeple in a transitional
Rat Race, vermen looking through peepholes.
The Piper's progress is polaroided in twain,
kodachrome rolls back the esteem, smiles of the insane, back of the head, peace sign.
Shut wide eyes rolling white for dead retina scan mouth foamed enrapture
Signature erasure brain panned for fools gold,
sold out, captured souls,(devout).
Recorders in tow, changing how the wikiwind blows,
how counts voted by Moderator,
gestapo teams, Bon Appetit, Virtual Travel, Vogue, Akinator, Mad Magazine.
(Needle in the Aperture bobbin tattoo
BuckarooBonzai glass saddles and shoes.)
Laser id suture chip sewn in diodes
of TripleBeam Barley, Wheat, Triplesec, meat...
Meta threads to breadcrumb gumshoe private dick heads, treads of
sleuth your every thought and intent, move.
Passenger monitoring, the acceptable temperature, moderate beautiful soup lukewarm chum
to taste an ode to the pasts vernacular
naked lunch humble pie shoots
in the face gruel,
heckler
of riding the storm out without Jesus, fools-Spectacular.
I hit the master switch
And all the lights and racks come on at once
The mood lights overhead, the rack equipment, flashing, glowing
Keyboards, amps, mixer, recorder, effects, EQ, sound mods, sequencers
Screens, laptop, pedals, playback system, and reference monitors ...
All with their own sets of colored LED's shining, flashing
Seems a silly thing, but my heart surges whenever I hit that switch
For that is IT to me ... there's nothing I do that brings me more satisfaction
Recording and producing music that I've written
Arranging and programming the drums and percussion
Layering the keyboard and guitar parts
Piano, electric piano, organ, strings, horns, synth sounds
Building the rhythm tracks around the melody and vocals I know are coming
And, ultimately, adding the vocals, the lead first
Then the background vocals, layering harmonies to support the lead
Often a solo section last, a guitar or sax or synth solo, but always after vocals
That's the frosting on the cake for me, to wind it together
When I'm satisfied with everything, individually, I do the final mix
This is the key, and the most delicate and precise part of the process
Very often I'll take days on the final mix alone, for it must be PERFECT!
It goes to the mastering boys at 'Bernie Grundman' when I'm done
That's an expensive process, so the least amount of clock they use, the better
If there are issues with my final mix, everything slows down
That raises costs, so I HAVE to be sure of the final mix.
That studio, and everything it holds, is my refuge
Yes, it's my work as well, but even if not, it would still take most of my time
That's why I consider it my hobby, too
I'd be doing it anyway regardless, and it's what I love the MOST
The whole creative process, from writing the song until it's off to mastering
THAT'S my joy, and those little lights are like Christmas for me
That studio is my heaven, and I feel better each time I'm there
No matter WHAT life brings my way, no matter how dark
I shed the clouds when I hit that switch and that equipment goes on
My joy, my hobby, my work, my life
There's little that compares.
Written and submitted on February 24, 2019
For the "Hobbies" Poetry Contest
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, judge & Sponsor.
Dedicated to the Officers and crew of
USS Columbia (SSN 771)
Goodbye Sun
We are welcomed by men in
immaculate whites
Through a hatch
we descend a steep ladder
into "The Last Slider"
From a narrow corridor we enter
into the brain and nerves
of this vessel-
To my untrained eye the confusion
of cables overhead is bewildering
This black ship of stealth
tracks the world outside,
silently invisible itself
Rows of monitors, sonar devices
high powered periscopes
all with a myriad of buttons to push-
A marvel of technology -
yet men are the heart and soul
of this great ship
They are Submariners
They say goodbye to the sun
for months on end
Week after harrowing week they spend
day after day on grinding drills
where the only thrill is their daily meals
Systematic, methodical
They are human- in a ship of war
but a ship that exists for freedom
The Officers guide us through each section
The ship at rest has released them
from an endless commitment but
with a practiced eye
they are still attuned to every detail
Commanders almost prescient
so in step with every procedure
they can sense malfunction in their sleep
I notice the commitment to excellence
I note the pride behind the
preparations for our inspection
Blue curtains with the ships insignia
are drawn on bunk beds
Shiny copper engine parts, clean bright paint
reflects the values of those who
keep their vessel, ship-shape
Now I stand in the nose where the
weapons rest
The metal tubes look benign
for all the power they contain
Ironically in rows, directly above,
the crew's bunks are located-
in tiers of three -even sleep
is regimented
Photos of family are the only
human touch in
this dark, black, whale
of a vessel
The sense of duty for each individual
seems overwhelming
There is a spirit of complete trust
between them
This is a world for honorable men
"Victory is Silence"
I try to imagine daily living
the self-containment
the steely discipline
the choosing to go forward in the face of
uncertainty
Precision and man - morphing
The pact between Submariners is
absolute.
They move as one.
BRIAN'S CHOICE K,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/19/2020 12:08:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd Place
‘Twas two thousand and fifty AD, Planet earth found it’s tipping point, this year was decision year, leaders of every country of our world came together to formulate a workable system to prevent the inevitable demise of our planet, our eco systems were being destroyed at an alarming pace, wild life becoming extinct, water supply’s nearing critical point, pollution had devastated our waterways, seas, and oceans, undoubtedly the blame for this catastrophe was placed on human activity, new directives and rules to prevent these problems to escalate was passed unanimously, top of their agenda was an end to warfare, next was the ever increasing human population followed by effects of new technologies.
It was decided that war must become a thing of the past, no country or state as from two thousand and seventy can inflict any aggression towards any other country.
Human population would be curtailed and monitored.
New technologies would be prioritised, investment would increase enormously.
Unfortunately there were opposition to all proposals which created an adverse outcome, and consequences.
We are now in the year two thousand one hundred and eighteen,
advances in technology has exceeded all expectations, human interaction is now not allowed, every human is served by machines that mimic humans and are of human form, earth is now controlled by a centralised computer system that monitors everyone and everything, human lifespan is now restricted, the maximum age is fifty years, our health is monitored every month, all children under the age of sixteen are educated in isolated institutions by computerised systems in isolation, human reproduction is totally controlled artificially through egg and sperm banks, incubation in artificial wombs in laboratories, these offspring never encounter any human interaction, my abode is a single room I am served by two robots that fulfils all my needs, nutrients and medication is all intravenous, I require no exercise, I sleep for a maximum of eight hours, everything else is virtual, my vacations are interplanetary and interact with inhabitants of other planets,
What a difference 100 years can make so expect big changes!
May 26 2018.
Contest:- in 100 years
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.
It’s not just bricks and mortar
Nor a distant memory
But the ground roots of our livelihood
And our future destiny.
As this place prepares to close
When the final bell will sound
To mark the end of education
On these few acres of ground
So as the winds of change
Whistle down St Andrews Street
Time to take a look behind
Before it beats the last retreat....
To days when health and safety
Had not bound us up in rules
When “clackers”, “chinas”, “conkers”
Were all the rage in schools.
Chocolate crunch with strawberry custard
Was “ haute cuisine” at dinners
And monitors patrolled the room
Catching non-veg eating sinners !
Then there were school productions
That often caused a rumpus
I was told I didn’t look fierce enough
As a pirate in Columbus
It’s where I learnt the facts of life
Red faced at every showing
We gathered in the dining hall
To watch “living and growing”.
Girls in groups around the field
Playing games with white elastic
Or spinning tubes around their heads
Making noises quite fantastic
And on those heady summer days
In the shade of orchard trees,
I’d have my packed lunch and my drink
Smelling hops upon the breeze.
Groups of boys in mass migration,
Was quite a common sight ,
Swarming like bees round honey
To the battle cry of “fight!”
“Top cat” was on the telly
And so was “ Hong Kong Fooey”
We all brought board games into school
On the feast day of St Louis
Queuing up in tennis courts
Then marching to assembly,
I doubt they had such crowd control
For the FA cup at Wembley.
The changing rooms down by the pool
Were not far from the gym,
Where ropes and box and benches
Were designed to do you in.
Bassets sherbet from the tuck shop
A treat beyond belief
Matched only by the popping
Of “space rocks” on your teeth
So when the corridors are empty
And the babbling voices still,
Theses echoes and these memories
Shall future musings fill .....
For it’s not just bricks and mortar
Not just a place to swat and cram
It’s where the building blocks of selfhood
Turn the boy into a man.
I like being awake all night
like I'm a secret person
not real at all
child of night, known by no one
living underneath the earth
negative space, living like no one
known by no one underneath the earth
here we have our own private language
secret numbers recited on a string
a quiet glance revealing nothing
(a secret handshake a decoder ring)
bathed in the dull blue glow of monitors
trading exclusive bits of nowhere
sending a silent cry along the wavelength of nothing
we get our quiet rewards anonymously
our secret unsuspected nation, divisible, under the ground
there are so many other phantoms just like me
I will never know them, nor will they ever know themselves
nor will I ever know myself, there are too many echoes
reflections, diversions, obsessions, perversions
so many distractions in the belly of the night
the day is too active too busy too motioned
for those of the night hibernating like me
the day is too noisy with threatening emotion
for those of the night sensitive as can be
there are trees in the forest that are falling like madmen
and there are phantoms around listening on through the night
so as the world revolves there are always eyes enough
to fill the dark sky with their yearning, earnest gazing
though answers are few, and these questions have no end
I like being awake all night
like I'm a transparent person
thoughts rolling clean through me
that velvet darkness covering my heart completely
no sunlight should now penetrate this veil
and the night and I suit each other so perfectly
no division, no partition, a loveless romantic tale
not responsible for all that acidic sunlight
bleaching everyones emotions clean and sterile
not the usual child of days, instead a deep compacted mote
one who can understand the lush quality of the darkness
that covers the land and covers me like sweet mercy, nightly
I like being awake all night
like I'm a starlit person
who cannot keep the day
Today is National cookie day…a day to celebrate that delicious, mouthwatering treat…but as we bite into that cookie…let’s not forget the cookie sheet.
While we’re enjoying the aroma of all those cookies someone’s making…let’s not forget all the time and energy and things it took to get those cookies baking.
Think about it for a moment…as you approach that cookie…before you dip into the jar and take it…where would that cookie be without a sheet upon which to bake it?
And while we’re on the subject…before that cookie ends up on our hips…what about the flour, the sugar, the eggs, the vanilla…and all those chocolate chips?
Certainly today, of all days, it makes perfect sense…if we’re going to celebrate the cookie…we must celebrate its ingredients.
And then there is the mixer, the measuring cups, measuring spoons…the spatula…for we would all be fools…if we celebrated the cookie…without remembering these tools.
And then there is the person whose hands combine the ingredients and place the dough upon the sheet….then watches the cookies closely…as he or she monitors the heat.
The person who cools the cookies before putting them into the jar…the person who has lovingly watched and helped those cookies come so far.
That same person who makes those cookies with love for me and you…then sticks around to clean up when all the baking’s through.
So when you pick up that cookie today…when you bring it to your lips and that first bite your’e about to take it…celebrate all the time and energy and love it took someone to bake it.
I suppose in a way we’re a lot like that cookie…as we walk the path fate and destiny are taking us…we are a mix of ingredients…molded by love…and all the hands that have gone into making us.
So while we celebrate the cookie today…as we sneak another from the cookie jar…let us also celebrate all the time and energy and love…it takes to make us who we are.
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
Created a little ditty about hypocrites and
double standards, racists with drawing boards.
Media dinners with dubious
double meaning placards.
The Spade of hearts.
The Jack of Swords.
An adversity of diversity,
assorted stuff for their hating,
tarot cards,
racial fits in the music awards,
and a grammy for
"sex in the city."
Man who is that dude on the Grammy, Satan?
Jean Luc Picard with Baphomet itties?
Idols for idols, adverts with priority
misplacement, Universal standard.
Mesmerized tazement,
enter lame-ment.
Amazement for sheep enslavement under
black candles.
As the hypnotizing blow is more than
a psyops experiment.
But here we go,
gonna run at it hard while I vent-so.
Everyday I listen to the same old thing
Tune in to VH1 or Mtv, see what I mean
Only degradation gets attention, is it ADD?
No, they know the words, they are listening intently.
With a mother****** this and a dead *****dat. Posthumously-
Gangland in the home with a baseball bat.
Un-Just like liberal Congress across the nativity scene.
Is it positive reinforcement?
Or New World Laws Enforcement.
Fasting for lent?
Come get your sisting y'all.
Come and get bent!
In genre hostage making,
30 year experiment?
Yo Mtv raps, yeah I get it
(about murder $$y & pot leaf sense)
I guess when the airwaves got a monopoly
from the Lord of the Air and GoogleBerg
Hall Monitors.
Not the Right, but the wrong
afraid of debate, running away, running with impunity, running with devil- the PMRC, the CDC ,FCC,
FEMA and Columbia University.
Now you want to talk about Satan,
check the connection between Crowley and JayZ.
On how you get chicks for free
and money for nothin, nothin but devil worshipping,
special sales from wolves making sheep
clothing and accessories.
Accessories to many of the things you see.