Long Poem Topics

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abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
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america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
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chocolate christian
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color columbus day
community computer
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cousin cowboy
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death death of a friend
december dedication
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giving god
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guitar hair
halloween happiness
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hate health
heart heartbreak
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hello hero
high school hilarious
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hope horror
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how i feel howl
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miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
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nice niece
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satire scary
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trust truth
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Long Technology Poems

Long Technology Poems. Below are the most popular long Technology by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Technology poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

PermaCultural Trust

The organic building of a coordinated artist
begins with reconstructing competitively clumsy LeftBrain technicians.

Whether learning to play the piano
or learning to communicate in some new language
or learning to adopt,
and/or adapt,
norms and nuances of some new cultural environment,
human nature starts, and started, with RightBrain
as inductive unconscious autonomic pre-programmed DNA/RNA receptivity,
double-bind fractal-octave resonance,
to and with and as externally and internally triggered changes,
and builds out deductively
reductively decomposing complexities of some performance system
we notice in some other,
including other humans,
we are attracted to in some positive empathic-trust way,
inviting further trust.

But, stumbling across an anomalous situation,
a creature,
human or not ambiguously felt
and has become historically suspect,
we distrust due to negative threat,
aggressive competitions
where we would have normally anticipated cooperation;
or maybe just too loud and stinky
to mutually ignore in some tolerant kind of way.

From perennially positive systems
soliciting and supporting our further WinWin nutritional relationships,
and from our negatively toxic attritions,
our deductive LeftBrain builds labels 
to reduce the whole gestalt
into its cause-effect cycling and spiraling parts
until we can predict
to our satisfaction,
and sometimes hypnotizing horror,
how to regenerate/degenerate this behavior with our own mindbodies
through deliberate,
step by consecutive technical step,
building technique until this new pattern,
sequence of rhythms within interdependently cooperative performance,
becomes what we call "second nature"
internalized,
as automatic as finding our ways back home.

But, this second nature,
whether learning to perform a song
that is also a compelling and resonant emotive narration,
or venomously screaming threats at anyone you perceive as unlike your own egocentric self,
in some unenlightened way,
becomes incorporated into Left and Right Brain reiterative appositional flow.
Technically learned performance
moves from Left-deductive
toward Right-inductive co-arising nondual 
nature-nurtured habit of "second nature" expression,
thought,
activation of a mastered behavioral-affective constellation
of interior/exterior activity,
as natural as writing with your left
or right
dominant hand.

Given all the above,
when and why would becoming a violent aggressor
become an ego-acceptable,
LeftBrain deductive dominant choice
of encultured instinctive response to "non-kin"
as opposed to "not yet kin"?

How would one become attracted to,
and sustained by,
becoming a dissonance-creating and expanding bully,
an aggressor against potentially immigrating strangers as aliens,
labelled collectives of ecosystemic individuals, hives, nests, pests
who have not themselves ever actually exhibited threatening behavior
toward yourself, 
or those you already perceive as "kin"?

It seems that terrorism and bullying
might also be rabidly aggressive behavioral-affective negative patterns
which can be as competitively-reiteratively contagious
as cooperative trust
in healthier patterns of becoming together
rather than thrusting and parrying apart.

In WinWin as NonZero ReGenerative Game Theory,
and in Feminist EcoPolitical CoOperative ReProduction Theory,
learning resonant-positive nurturing behavioral norms
anticipates nonzero-sum, nonpatriarchal-competitive, outcomes,
WinWin bilateral equivalence
that normatively anticipates pay-it-forward more of the same
as long as everyone follows Left-Right learned
behavioral-affective Golden Rule matriarchal-maturation patterns
toward mutually nutritional "second nature" norms.

What is actually Elder brain stem "first nature"
is profoundly matriarchal-cooperative ownership and governance
except under unusual survival Win-Lose pressures of past experience
as environmentally reconceived.

It is here
in anomalous primordial seas
of survival of the "I Win so You Lose" fittest
where might makes our ego's self-optimizing right
to survive today
despite knowing that doing so by accessible aggressive means
predicts more of the negative same,
or even more escalating,
risk of loss tomorrow.
But, this is not normative "first matriarchal-love nature"
just as it is not first-nurture,
for if zero-sum survivalist toxicity
were our AntiGolden Rule primordial soup
from which we arrived at this time on Earth,
then human LeftBrain dominant nature
could never have evolved decompositional technique at all.

Declaring private or very public wars against alien terrorists
is a suboptimizing zero-sum choice
to play a negative LoseLife-LoseLife Game
unless no nonzero-sum option has been more diplomatically learned
that we have not yet responsively tried.

The zero-sum "I must win" so "You must lose" of Either-Or bottom-line producer-over-consumer-oriented capitalism,
with competitive ownership rather than cooperative ownership WinLose assumptions,
is a sub-optimizing economic and political performer,
still trying to relearn our first-nature matriarch-nurturing health and safety.

Capitalism as might-makes-right evolutionary theory
is patriarchally LeftBrain dominantly deductively mislearned,
technologically over-shot,
ecologically over-grazed ecopolitical error
in its unmitigated incarnation 
away from baseline cooperative matriarchal stewardship
and nurturing co-management roots.

Ecologic,
like sacred syncretic Logos and Mythos,
is prime relationally,
primally Original Matriarchal Source,
WinWin,
notnot zerosum,
for the same reason economic transactions
and politically positive relationships between kin,
extending out to neighbors
and those perceived more ambiguously as extending-extensive biological kin,
are rooted in continuous Left-Right ego/eco-balancing extensions
from co-empathic trust as positive and normative health-roots,
embryonically matriarch-regenerative,
while actively anti-pathic, sociopathic distrusts
are suboptimizingly and violently degenerative.




Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Hillard Sarver | Details

Session 2: Tech support notes from the server backup and dead chicken case

The Almost Omniscient, Omnipresent, Omnipotent Tech God Oisin
Session 2: Tech support notes from the server backup and dead chicken case

“Hello this is Oisin. How may I help you this morning?” Oisin says in his polite business voice.

“Oh, mighty omnipresent and omnipotent tech god Oisin. How have we displeased you that you see our disaster but do not grant an answer to our prayers? Your mighty Oracle is not speaking to us this morning.” The voice over the phone sounds shaky and uncertain.

“Please just call me Oisin. Who is this? Does anyone there speak English?” He asks this thinking; he is just not hearing this person correctly.

“I speak English and my name is Pete. Sorry I am distraught and thought for sure you would have seen our problem already here at ABC Corp.” His voice started to get less shaky as he seemed to think he might have caught Oisin in a fault in his godhood.

“Okay Pete hold on for a second as I get into your network.” Oisin thinks at least; I know what company I am dealing with. He can see the workstations but not the server. “Pete, I cannot see your server. What is your workstation name?”

“How would I know that?” Pete says with an even stronger voice as he thinks less of this tech god.

“Look at the upper left of your computer screen, there should be a tag there telling you the computer's name.” Oisin hoped it was still there, he did not want to have to explain to him how to see it by clicking on the Windows Start button. The poor guy seemed to be in a bad mood already.

“Oh, I see it. It says Win7-WK4.”
“Okay I am getting on your computer now. You will see me moving your mouse around as I check things out.” He goes to the computer's drive window and sees the server drive letter is showing disconnected. He quickly connects to another workstation and sees the same issue.

“Pete can you see the server from were you are at?”

“You mean your Oracle? Yes, I can.”

“It is called a server by the way. Well anyhow can you see any lights on it or the that its screen is light up?” Oisin says, hoping it is just that the server is off. Get this figured out quick, so he can drink the rest of his needed coffee.

“Yes I see lights and the screen is showing what it usually shows. Can you not get on its screen and fix this?" Pete says, losing even more faith in Oisin.

“Okay, was the server working last night when you left?” Oisin asks trying to find out some more information as to what might be wrong.

“Yes everything was working last night. We performed our evening ritual that your Voodoo tech god told us to do every nigh!” Pete said with an accusing tone.

“Okay, tell me exactly what you do at night, step by step, leaving nothing out.” Oisin had looked at the motoring logs as he listened to Pete. He saw that the server connection went down at 6 pm last night. He thought to himself; he will have to find out, what the heck this “ritual” was Pete was talking about.

“Myself and John went to the s-e-r-v-e-r,” Pete was having a problem with this tech talk it was easier thinking of it as the Oracle, “and I disconnected the magic black box called Backup 1 and connected up Backup 2. Next John took the chicken by the feet and held it upside down as I slit its throat, and he circled the Oracle, sorry I mean the s-e-r-v-e-r, making sure the blood encircled it just like we were told.”

“Hum, all right,"” Oisin thought okay strange, but he knew where all this was coming from now, “and that was all that happened?”

“W-e-l-l as we went to leave; John slipped in the blood and tripped over this blue snake thing coming out of the back of the server.” He was proud of himself; he said the tech term better that time.

“Okay, I think I know the problem. Go to the back of the server. Do you see that blue snake?” Oisin said in as even as a voice as he could.

“Yes”

“That is the network cable to the server is it still connected to the server?” Oisin hopes this is the problem; he really needs his coffee NOW!

“No the end of the snake is laying on the floor.” Pete says as he bends down to pick it up, “ I have it in my hand now, what should I do next?”

“Okay look at the back of the server and you will see a square hole that the end will fit into.” Oisin says trying to hide the relief in his voice.

“Okay, did that and some lights came on near the hole. Is that good?” Pete asks hoping that is the case.

“Yes, that is good. Give me a second,” he says as he goes back to Pete's computer screen and clicks on the network drive and gets the drive to load. “All is good now,”Oisin says not hiding the pleasure in his tone. “Now, Pete from now on skip the entire chicken ritual, just change the backup drives.”

“Okay, but will that not displease the Voodoo tech god?” Pete says once, again uncertainty enters his voice.

“Do not worry. I will make sure he understands. Good-bye for now and call me if you have any other problems.”

“Okay I will, thanks.” Pete hangs up the phone and Oisin takes a long drink of his lukewarm coffee.

He puts down his coffee and types an email to the rest of the tech support group warning all to knock off the voodoo dead chicken waving humor, or he would stuff a dead chicken down their pie hole.

Copyright © Hillard Sarver | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Hillard Sarver | Details

Session 3: Tech support notes from the missing file and mushroom soup case

The Almost Omniscient, Omnipresent, Omnipotent Tech God Oisin
Session 3: Tech support notes from the messed up file and mushroom soup case

“Hello this is Oisin. How may I help you?” Oisin says in his polite business voice.

“Hi Oisin, this is Sally. I have a really bad problem. I have lost an entire day of work.” She took another breath and continued. “Yesterday I made massive changes to the product cost sheets. However, right before he left at the end of the day Fred got into the file changed and deleted so much now all my work is gone.” Another pause for a breath then she continues. “I would have recovered it from last night's backup, but I knew that would be no good since it backed-up Fred's changes last night.”

“That is correct, Sally that would do you no good. However, do not worry since this file is on your server. We will be able to get the file you edited back.” He tells her as he gets on her computer. “I see you have the folder on the server opened already. I will let you recover the file so you can do it yourself next time this happens again. If you run into problems feel free to call me. Okay are you ready to start?” He asks just to make sure she is comfortable doing this.

“Yes, this will be good for me to learn.” Sally's voice sounds enthusiastic, which makes Oisin happy.

“Okay, the file you have selected is the one you want?”

“Yes” Sally sure sounds readying to go.

“Right click on the file. Now on this drop-down menu select “Restore Previous Versions” by left clicking on it.” He sees the correct windows coming up as she clicks her mouse. “Look at the list see the dates and times and left click once to select the one you want to restore. The file dated from yesterday with a time stamp of 3:35 pm could be yours. Does that sound right?”

“Oh, yes that would be about the time I saved it and exited out of Excel.” He could hear the excitement in her voice.

“Okay, now let me explain the options you have. The one is to open it; the second is to copy it to another location or finally restore it, which will replace the existing file. So if you want to get all your input back and erase the version Fred created it.” He watched as she selected the restore option. She then clicked on it and opened the file.

“Yes, this is mine. Thank you so much, you saved all my work from yesterday. I have another problem maybe you can help me with. It's not a computer issue, is that okay?”

“Sure, I can try.” Oisin answered with a puzzled voice. “However, first I will email you the instructions for doing this again if needed.”

“That would be great. Now my problem. It's about Fred. He has not been looking good and seems to be losing weight. So I brought in mushroom soup for him to see if he would eat that. When I tried to give him a bowl of it, he turned away and mumbled about the mushrooms are screaming at me and almost ran into the doorway on his way out of the lunchroom. I even made it with almond and coconut milk since I know he is a vegetarian.”

“Oh, sorry Sally I think that might be my fault.” He thinks back to his last conversation with Fred. That was more than a week ago, not good. “Can you transfer me to him.”

“Sure and thanks for the help.” She said as she put him on hold.

“Hello, this is Fred” Fred's voice even sounded weak to Oisin.

“Fred, this is Oisin. Did you stop eating anything after our talk?”

“Yes, I have nothing left to eat.” His voice sounded sad and lost.

“Listen to me Fred, the mushroom is the fruit of the mycelium. It is the mycelium that communicates with other plants and itself not the mushroom. The same goes for fruits and nuts they are not thinking sentient beings it is what they grow that is.” Oisin hopes this will help convince him to eat something.

“Hum, okay. However, sentient beings can be grown from the fruits and nuts?” Fred's voice still sounds unconvinced.

“That is true; however, until they are planted and start growing they are not sentient.” Oisin decided he'd better take this even a little further. “If we planted all the possible nuts and seeds, we would upset the balance of life. So we have to eat them before they become sentient.”

“Oh, I never thought of it that way. So eating a pepper which is the fruit of the pepper plant would be okay also. Thank you Oisin, I am going to go and get some of Sally's mushroom soup I am starving!” Fred said hurriedly and hung up and left Oisin smiling and sitting in silence for a while. Then he got up and went outside and checked on his mushroom patch. He was hungry for mushroom soup now as well.

Copyright © Hillard Sarver | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details

Kahlia Akasha Is Back

Kahlia Akasha Is Back
We armed our jet with 8 anti ship missiles. Every single under wing weapon pylon was spoken for. Under fuselage drop tank full of fuel, in front of that  a twin barrel 30mm gun with 200 armour piercing shells. We where forward based on a dusty coastal track in southwest India. 
The Pak navy sank the Indian aircraft carrier and Sea Harriers so we can’t use her as a springboard. On the beach, fuel topped up, weapons armed, final checks done. We took off heading west to engage the Pakistan navy. To sink their ex British and American destroyers. Just as they sank the ex Brit carrier India had used. Mad. 
Nice low slow cruise 50ft above the choppy fog laden sea. 200knots, 220mph. She would touch 530mph but we had to go slow, we had 8 ships to kill. My wife flew our plane in the back cockpit. I caressed the juicy missiles below our stealth fighter plane. Used infrared to scan ahead, just ghostly images hidden by the fog. I tried the laser range finder, so many readings due to the shifting fog. Radar! Two scans, off. There! The 1st Pak navy ship, a Type21 Frigate ex Royal Navy. Let’s do an Argy and sink it! Our Chain Head missiles are better than Exocet, 25yrs ahead in tech and lethality. 
My wife kept our jet 50ft above the ocean, our grave if she hated me. I confirmed, 'Missile 1 locked on, missile 2 ready to lockup any new target,' then my lady lifted our port wing. Unbalancing me, just illusion. Enough room for our weapon to launch without hitting the sea, our right wing 20ft above the sea! A big wave would swamp us. Mad! 
Away! Orange bright flare devil roar missile away. Radar on again to sweep ahead, weapon merging with Pak ship 80 miles ahead. Time to turn gently away; we have 7 more ships to find in the fog and coming night. We’re a ghost unseen below enemy radar, slow to save fuel we have forever to do our job. Sink the Pak navy. Any survivors in the water will get 30mm shells if we don’t shoot up any ships still afloat. Let’s hope our missiles work, I don’t want to strafe some drowning men, let the sea slowly claim them. 
Our black painted Soviet prop jet fighter slides through the evening fog as a distant orange flash flares and dies. 7 anti ship missiles left. We’ll evade their 40yr old mirage jets... 
This story/poem is my 4th Kahlia Akasha one, the others being in my 3rd book A Nation in Flames: Short Story Collection, out to order on amazon. This warplane is multi role including nuclear capable. Her real title is Aeroprogress T-720. She was never built due to the death of the cold war. This looks to be starting again. Would she be reborn, even more dangerous and deadly? After all the Russians will need a replacement for the Sukhoi Su-25 Frogfoot, a 30yr old attack jet. They lost several, blown out of the sunny Georgian skies in August 2008. Georgian missiles shot them down, David fighting Goliath. Would my Kahlia Akasha escape being shot down over Georgia? We’ll never know. She is stealth capable, has active radar jamming system, chaff and flares to decoy missiles, extreme performance and agility, small size, high technology. She isn’t invulnerable but more survivable than a Frogfoot. All I have are my own design studies, theoretical. I ask what if?

Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Aa Harvey | Details

Silent thoughts

Silent thoughts


Candles burning brightly bring visions to my eyes.
Shadows dancing in the corners give this room a supernatural vibe.
As I sit here under the covers, all fears are held below;
I gaze into the broken mirror, in a room with no visible windows.
Curtains hide the outside from me; pictures hang on every wall.
Unopened boxes still sleep their long slumber; 
They have sat there since the fall.


Unread books sit on the bookshelf;
The dust has gathered on all their pages.
Cobwebs hang like Christmas decorations,
They show the footsteps the spiders took;
They have been there for ages.


As the cold air slows my heartbeat, I could have been here for a year.
So forgotten, so complicated; there is no-one left to cheer.
I have tried to change the channel, 
But everything just sounds the same.
I have tried to feed my hunger, 
But my body refuses and so it remains.
A thirst calls out for a glass of water; legs are aching for some help.
If I hired myself a waitress, maybe I could help myself.


Candles flicker in their actions; a silhouette fills all above.
There is a ghostly face on my ceiling; swiftly it changes and all is mud.
As the wick burns down to nothing, I prepare to make a stand.
I am reaching out for lightning; fire in my hands.
As I strike another cigarette with the last match inside the pack,
I carry the flame across every candle; I will have to soon sleep or act.
I whisper words into the emptiness, as several thoughts go passing by.
I take hold of my loneliness and put it out of sight, out of mind.


A man is speaking on the TV and I do not like the news he has to tell,
So I press the off switch at the television, 
So I am no longer under its spell…
The sound of silence is beginning to annoy me,
So I flick the switch on the radio.
Another old man tells me something new again;
I need music not this breaking news show.


I try and fail to read a fictional story;
The fading light no help at all.
Remembering former days of glory;
Newspaper clippings on the wall.
All the frames have cracks along them,
Where they have fallen to the floor before.
The memories that live outside my head,
Are entrapped in photo’s that are boxed up against the wall.


I need money to change my life, 
But changing times are always hard.
A moth is living where there should always have been plenty of cash.
I take out all the plastic cards…
And I throw them in the trash.


Counting pennies like an accountant;
I don’t just wear this hat for fun.
Another winter of discontent;
Crying out to feel the sun.


Breathing clouds because of the cold air;
Toes are asking Santa for slipper shoes.
I lost my will to try a long time ago;
My heart is not mending, it is way too bruised.


Body aching from a lifetime; 
I never give it a second thought.
The clock annoys me more and more,
With every tick-tock and with every chime…
I’m too old to be closing doors.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © Aa Harvey | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Andrea Dietrich | Details

The Best of Edutainment

As one who grew up in a different era, Pre-Brangeline and Californication - When shows like Laugh-in or the Dating Game, Bewitched or Dick Van Dyke were just about The naughtiest you’d find on your TV - I'm now chillaxin' with some shows much better! Despite the violence and the sexploitation, There’s education everywhere you look. The singers I once listened to and loved Are now discussed in rockumentaries! And if you like your information spicy, Try faction on the channels like I.D. My father used to hog our TV set, And Wild Kingdom we’d all have to watch. But how much funner now to click on channels That show the strangest creatures in the world Like tigons, zedonks, geeps and beefalo! And if your labradoodle can’t be trained, You’ll find a whisperer to show you how. The woolaroc of nature can be viewed In brilliant colors, sometimes in 3-D! You’re not confined to black and white, 3 channels! Today they’re watching on ginormous screens Or tiny cell phones held inside your hand. The workout shows like those of Jack LaLanne Have been replaced by countless infomericals With hints fantabulous for keeping young. From jazzercise to tips of Dr. Oz, You’ll learn to make yourself be bootylicious. Your mental health is not neglected either, With folks like Dr. Phil to fill you in! Whether you’re a hasbian or shemale, A fugly guy, a horder, or a crackhead, There’s someone on TV to speak to YOU. Reality TV may not be smart, But it can come in handy if you need To learn some Splanglish or pick up a blaccent. The shows on cable redefine our world, Teach tolerance and much improve one’s gaydar. You learn that metrosexuals use manbags And guys like Blake and Adam on the Voice Give hugs because they simply have a bromance. To people saying that TV today Has gone to pot, I say, “Well, that’s ok!” My DVR is working day and night, So I can get the best of edutainment!
Examples of Portmanteaus Used in My Poem: Brangeline: Brad Pit and Angelina Jolie Californication: California and fornication Chillaxin: chilling and relaxing Sexploitation: exploitation of sex Rockumentaries: Documentaries about Rock music Faction: fact mixed with fiction (exaggeration) Tigons: a tiger/lion zedonk: a zebra donkey Geep: a goat sheep Beefalo: A cow buffalo Labradoodle: Labrador poodle Woolaroc: woods, lakes and rocks Ginormous: gigantic and enormous Infomericals: informational commercials Fantabulous: Fantastic plus fabulous Jazzercise: jazz exercise Bootylicious: delicious booty(behind) Hasbian: temporary (has been) lesbian She-man: just what you think! Fugly: F-ing ugly Crackhead: someone on crack cocaine Spanglish: Spanish-English Blaccent: black accent Gaydar: gay radar Metrosexuals: metropolitan heterosexuals Manbags: purses used by men Bromance: romance between Bro’s (male friends) Edutainment: education that is entertaining!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Demetrios Trifiatis | Details

ONCE UPON A TIME

 






I was born on the closing days of
The second World War  
In a small village of north-west of Greece
Up on the mountains.

The country was devastated
After four years of occupation by
The Nazis and Fascists and
Then
A civil war followed that lasted for
Another four years
Hundreds of thousand souls were lost,
Among them members of my family
The country was left in ruins
The hatred reigned as brother was 
Killing brother
 
We were poor
Scarcely had anything to eat
Having lost my father I had
No shoes
No proper clothes
No proper home
Living in primitive conditions with
No electricity
No radio
No cars
No roads
But
Lived close to nature that nourished me
With its wild fruits and roots
That I was finding climbing up the mountains
Or descending down onto the valley
Where I was running after butterflies and birds

My bear feet were kissing the ground
Winter and summer
Feeling the cold and the heat to the point as
To become one with the soil.
 
The animals were my friends, my companions:
Goats, sheep, pigs, cows, dogs, cats
But I had to be aware of the venomous snakes,
The cunning foxes the dangerous wolves.
 
The nights I was looking up to the clear sky
Admiring the brightness of the stars
So close to God for the first time myself I found
As I was caressing with my eyes the galaxy
That crossed the horizon from mountaintop to mountaintop.
The nights when there was a full moon I could see
As far as the eye could reach and I was happy although
My rebellious stomach could not let me sleep in peace.
 
Left the village just before my twelve birthday went
To Athens, the capital and later on to Canada where
I lived, worked,  studied and taught.
Stayed there for twenty years,
Have traveled around the world:
Europe, Asia, America, Oceania
Then back to Greece where I live 
Writing and taking care of my roof garden.

Now, retired at seventy-two, look at the world as it is
Compare it with the world of my childhood and
Have the impression that have lived for centuries
Since the world at present,  as far as technology is concerned,
Is light of years ahead of the world of my village at that time
But at the same time the world today seems to have lost
Its innocence, part of its humanity and certainly its
Contact with nature and worst of all for most of us with
Its inner divine self!






© Demetrios Trifiatis
       26 March 2017



* This is my 1500th poem. I would like to thank all of you who have
supported me with your comments, ideas and love for without you
it would have been impossible to keep writing for five years here at 
the soup. Of course always are some who try to harm someone and 
not to help but even these few people I thank! 

May the Good Lord keep all of you healthy, inspired and happy!
THANK YOU!

Demetrios 
 

Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Isabel San Martin | Details

COLTAN

He didn't know much 
Other than to mine the black stones 
Down underneath the earth
In the red dirt and brown bones 
He keeps slipping and he knows
He has to reach his quota before he goes 
Don't they know that deep down below 
They're taking children’s souls?

Welcome to the rape capital of the world 
A common occurrence for the Congolese 
Here we are
Spoiled and ungrateful, 
Living in a time of peace
Technological advancement 
It's a feast for the eyes
Our iPhones and iPads sucking us dry
Tell me, once the hour passes by
How long will these children 
Keep working in the mines?
Tell me, once the hour passes by
How long will these children have to die?

Flashlights hanging upon their heads
Eyes hollowed and hands scraped
Shorts and skin their only protector 
Down underground, there is no escape 
Dig along the most profound recesses of the earth
Keep searching for the gold Americans want 
Yes the black stones 
For their computers and cellphones 
Keep searching for the gold Americans want 

As they mined for the tungsten and the tantalum 
It's no shock that one of them would stay 
The intrusion of inadequate tools
And the illusion of adequate pay
Enough to elicit a bitter laugh 
It's no wonder everyday is the same 
Keep mining and let the workers die 
They haven't taught them how to read 
And they have forgotten how to cry 
But the few that know this unpleasant truth 
Have only felt as if they've died 
We die inside and our tears won't dry 
For these little children that have to die 

Watching videos on stupidity 
And laughing at our idiocy 
As more little children have to labor in the mines 
Typing away a dirty word 
At one whom we thought should have it served 
How about serving that to these innocent children
These innocent children that have to die?

Maybe we should burn every digital device 
Or maybe we should acknowledge 
Our technological demise 
That we have reaped what we have sown 
That not everything bought is properly sold
So don't you dare start misusing 
The technology you're abusing 
Because there is a soul behind everything we own 
There is a child with weak hands calling back 
Will you answer when he dials
Or will you decline in your denial?
Well don't hope for silence once you've turned your back

He didn't know much
Other than to mine the black stones 
Down underneath the earth 
In the red dirt and brown bones 
He keeps slipping and he knows 
He has to reach his quota before he goes 
Don't they know that deep down below
They're taking children's souls?

Copyright © Isabel San Martin | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Rhoda Monihan | Details

A Futuristic Christmas 2044

My feet felt like frostbite had got them, 
Even though I had my suede boots on, 
I had just jovially returned from,  
That successful Christmas shopping trip, 
With no other reason to feel got at or unlucky.  

So I put my computer on as it was November the 23rd,
Which was soon enough to write all the emails, 
Sign all the eCards, design all the picture attachments, 
For all my buddies and friends - 
My old friends whom I’d not seen for such a long time, 
And of course for every one of my cousins. 

So I saved all my emails as a draft, 
But this year as I’d downloaded the Safari update, 
I had an automatic email and eCard sender, 
Which sent all my communications upon a certain date and time, 
If I typed in the date and time on which I wanted them to be sent. 

Fab, fab fab! Now that part of my life was easy: 
No need to worry in the hustle and bustle of the season, 
About greetings, end of year reviews and exchanges, 
Which could be composed and organised, 
Just when you were free to write them,
Before Christmas began for real, 
And sent automatically at my choosing.

After I did that, about four nights later, 
I relaxed back on my swivel chair,
And put my legs up, crossing them, 
Elbows wide as I supported my head with my hands, 
Being in a state of bliss at my accomplishment:
A self-made man, or person, without any demands, 
No creeds or ultimatums at Christmas time;
A programmer almost, my computer was my deliberation,
At my command and obeying my flighty choice,  
Because I had a Programmer’s User Interface, a PUI, 
Which felt as if it could ignite snow. 

And then there were my desktops, 
I just typed in the dates on which, 
I wanted my desktop changed, 
And specified the picts for these dates, 
Picts to mark the four Sundays of Advent, 
Predicting the snow (insanely), 
Celebrating the X-Factor final with a red X on my desktop for that night, 
And remembering the wise men’s visit to the inn, 

So I knew I would be happier this year, 
Every day on my computer, 
Doing exactly what I wanted to do, 
Writing poetry about the snow, Santa and Christmastide, 
And spending my concentration on, 
Programming and software engineering, 
Not waylaid by matters statutory.

It was just amazing,
My astonishment initially flabbergasted me,
But I was by no means confounded by it at all, 
The setting of the send dates and the desktop times, 
Was not difficult technically, 
But only asked for some thought, 
Which is, after all, what Christmas is all about. 


21/11/2015

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by SEAN TROTT | Details

SOCIAL NETWORK

I remember when conversations happened face to face
I look around witnessing what has become n untouched disgrace
Person after person nose first into a device that's connected
Am I the only one speaking the turmoil that has truly erected
Why is everyone condoning habits that are completely destroying interaction
Is it because it is cool or just your unknown desired selfish satisfaction
selfish satisfaction I mean so called acceptance of your piers
Looking to post something unordinary like that will erase your fears
People read each post on FB like every one of them is true
But in the end they are just posts to gain the attention of YOU
People are not so happy believe me they suffer as deep
They post what they feel others will read even if the lie is steep
I miss people calling you over asking for advice
Now they watch to calculate how many LIKES they receive on their device
How many friends do I have how many cool pictures for them to view
If you call 100 of those online friends maybe one would know what to do
Only one would respond because only one truly cares 
Only one will drop their own needs to wipe your tears
Popularity is now a plateau in our social networking society
People have made IG, TWEETS and facebook their top priority
Why read about others lives when you have enough to adjust
Simply because popularity and acceptance is just a selfish must
Selfies, status change, new pics have taken the front seat
Sending them out in the web being viewed by someone you didn't even meet
Anyone can type what you want to hear instead of what needs to be said
Because not just anyone is a friend people have become your critic instead
I have 0 friends on FB, never IG and I only share life with who is closer
75% of those on the networks I label as a new age posers
Everyone wants attention that's the stem of the problem at hand
I hope they like me, I hope they accept me, I  think I like who I am 
Stop allowing devices N social networks to dictate how U project your feelings inside
Put the phone down give your loved one a hug now that instills pride
Say hi to their face don't post a simple hello and wait for responses in your mail
just admit there is an issue of epidemic proportion or we will truly fail
So please try some way to spread the words I've chosen to write
Say no to social networking destruction join the new found fight
I hope all ends well no matter how you choose to view my opinions
I just hope for a world where people are not digitally connected minions

Copyright © SEAN TROTT | Year Posted 2015

Long Poems