Handsets
peppy ringing
fosters frequent discourse
bridging loneliness with a prompt
chinwag
gadgets
solid gainful
employ explores express
rapport despite widespread qualms re
mobiles
entrance in-trance not for sycophants
take my thoughts in highlight
in the low light of the night's glare
find solace in a central spine
that unknown tell that tugs you in
sweet, veiled, thin ~
no perimeter edges to teeter upon
no concocted thought spooled or spun
more quivering fragments
from corners of eyes
radiating ideas
persisting on scarred sighs
gift me your entirety
nothing less
is my best guess
on how enchantment fixes
stitches
glitches
bewitches
unhitches
until
you are welcomed to my world ~
Inspired by Localization of Graphic Mobiles I by František Kupka
Infants begin
with closed fists—
white and red,
like the sun
about to rise.
They grow,
thumb resting in their mouth,
fingers curling around
the saree’s edge of the mother,
the sacred thread of the father—
building a small,
secure world.
A few months later,
with tiny movements,
gentle manners,
they reach for toys—
holding them close,
day and night,
whispering in their own language,
never alone.
A soft toy becomes a world.
Sometimes it is a spoon,
a cup,
a tumbler—
clutched for years
as a secret friend.
Sometimes a locket,
a ring,
a bracelet—
shining with unseen magic.
And now,
Doraemon walks beside them,
on TV,
on mobiles,
everywhere they go.
These bonds,
woven with innocence,
give strength,
bring laughter,
carry a quiet promise—
that joy will stay,
and life will be kind.
The obscenely convincing,
have arrived in their stealth mobiles.
We are made to unmake-belief,
to regurgitate Saran wrapped words.
Wide-eyed we watch the spreading creep
of windowless thought-factories.
Druids rage for the loss of their tongues.
Magic dragons puff obesely
and cannot now climb their spines.
Combative batmen tussle
with spitting cats.
It all makes no-sense, and yet
we know the fantasy is built
on self-destructing concrete,
we see now how red lipstick
smothers us with a smirk
in the dark.
Too late to run for cover.
Even as we slumber
the mother of all bombs
gives birth to yet more
pre-packaged fictions.
The Cape Cod Museum of Art had a show
And we caught it the very last day,
Displaying the various works of Bob Staake
In a can’t-help-but-grin type of way.
If you don’t know his work, you must catch up at once
For each piece is a total delight.
There are mobiles and posters and sculpture galore,
Plus the many kids’ books he did write.
In addition to works, what he really does best
Is to illustrate, so you may find
That his fabulous artwork accompanies, too,
Others’ story books that he designed.
If you read The New Yorker, you won’t be surprised
That his covers have often appeared
And each one is a gem with a sly kind of wit
That is perfectly, charmingly weird.
Luck was shining on us, for the day we were there,
We were in for a most special treat.
Mr. Staake paid a visit and we got to join
An impromptu but sweet meet and greet.
What a wonderful way to be able to share
Your esteem with the one who inspired
So much joy; it was thrilling to let someone know
Face to face just how much he’s admired.
Cell phones came, replaced your watch,
Resignedly you just watched;
Took away your alarm clock,
You shrugged and to your way walked;
Next, it eyed your camera,
You: ka mera, ka mera!
Then came daily calendar,
You knew just to surrender.
Should next be your family,
Would you still watch by idly?
___________________________________
Ka mera: Hindi, for ‘what’s in there for me?’
Happenings |05.06.2023| humour
There was a man whom fortune really blessed;
All things were brought to him at his behest.
Of cars he had not one but a whole fleet,
A spectacle when they were on the street.
This rich man’s cars were source of his great pride;
When he drove by, men looked at him green-eyed.
He had the fastest, smoothest, newest wheels--
They truly were the king of all mobiles.
There was another man who lived in town,
Who got the worst of fickle fortune’s frown.
He worked so hard to stay in this life’s game,
And dreamed to have just one car to his name.
As the rich man’s car collection increased;
The other poor man’s troubles never ceased;
So he grew old and dreamed when day was done
Of a Cadillac but he never had one.
The rich man died later as all men do--
And brought to the grave in a hearse not new:
It had been used so many times before
To bear the bodies, whether rich or poor.
Alas, the poor man also did expire!
Freed at last from too long in the mire.
His body was borne by a hearse that’s black--
The town’s newest elegant Cadillac.
March 26, 2023
Fairview, Baguio City
Visited the Whitney*
For the Hoppers – what a treat!
A gathering of works with which
Few artists can compete.
Yet in a separate little room
A different treasure lay –
A film of “Calder’s Circus”
With its figures on display.
For Alexander Calder,
He of mostly-mobiles fame,
Put together, out of wire,
And deserving of acclaim
Every animal and acrobat
That we’d expect to see
At a circus, bringing them to life.
(At least, he did for me.)
With a twinkle in his eye,
He made the dogs and horses prance,
While the trapeze artists flew
And Fanni did her sexy dance.
There’s an elephant and lion
And a strong man and some seals,
Every figure bringing laughter
And how-did-he-do-that squeals.
Though I went to see the Hoppers,
I was thrilled with them, despite
Thinking Calder’s wire circus
Brought to me the most delight.
*The Whitney Museum of Art, Manhattan,
which currently has an Edward Hopper exhibit.
The witches have now gone on a huge labor strike.
They are more difficult now to double cross, let alone like.
They are wearing socks that have a weird pattern of stripe.
Their underarm odors are notorious foul, irritating and ripe.
They are driving bat mobiles that make their brooms passé’.
I am glad not to be around any of them at the end of day.
I
We lose work done on mobiles, laptops
Often I regretted the poem, comment, lost:
"How can I repeat my first heart-responses,
To poems here, by penpals, the best,
From them and myself? I used to ask ...
But I want to share: I have more & more REST
II
Jesus through His Spirit (Holy Spirit)
Has been teaching my heart and soul
"Who are you revealing in writing Poet?
Not you, I hope, but how to give all
To Me and My Kingdom, per John 15"
He is the true Vine, even for my ink
he is too, Editor-in-Chief, not what I think
Is good to respond to you will stand
Unless Jesus the Writer Editor has a hand
The first drops of new monsoon knocked our doors,
Oh! The wet howling winds used to call us out,
To see the jolly frogs and dancing peacocks,
And to see the scattered beauty fell about.
Oh! The splendid summer called out our names ,
To come out in the playground and play!
It bloomed the mangoes and hastily to us it came,
To watch us playing and enjoying , in the warm days.
Still the summer bloom the mangoes but the fun have ceased,
And the winds have stopped to call our names,
Nowadays the humble mango trees,
Shed all the fruits they have themselves , displeased,
For it know that the pebble throwers aren't free,
And they are shackled with their video games!
I am a kid myself but the craze of these video games and mobiles is too much, my friends play these games too much, can you tell me some ideas help them? ( I take mobile only to read and write poems.)
I don’t know about you but I think it right
That kids should eat at the table, most every night.
Sit down with mum, sit down with dad
For these are the best memories you’ll ever have.
There will come a time and it creeps up fast,
When past days are gone, for they never last
When you will wish those days were back
When there is something in your life, you will forever lack.
It had been tradition, it had always been
But today at mealtimes children are never seen
They sit with their takeaways on their lap
Whilst the video games will, their attention sap!
And these days parents are forced to compete
With mobiles phones as their offspring tweet
For conversation at mealtimes may well be lost
And the lack of table manners will be the cost!!
In spite of celebrating our seventy-fifth Independence Day,
Our actual freedom is still miles away.
Freedom lies in our ability to breathe fresh air.
Freedom is the ability to show our love and care.
We are truly free when we are not hiding behind a mask.
Wearing an ugly face mask for hours together is not an easy task.
We are free when we go with our family on a pleasure trip.
We are free when we liberate ourselves from the smartphone's grip.
The Corona Pandemic has left us jobless for a while.
Nevertheless, we continue to eat, sleep and live in style.
Television has managed to invade our lives.
We watch idiotic serials featuring squabbling husbands and Wives.
News channels broadcast political thrillers.
Their debate shows are real mood killers.
Children have almost forgotten their way to their schools.
Laptops and mobiles are now their learning tools.
We will only be free when we get rid of this viral disease.
Our freedom is ensured when the acts of terrorism cease.
Good ones on disc drive,
Bad in mind's, oft to arrive,
Man keeps wounds alive.
______________________________
Musings |14.05.2021|
Topic: memories, mind, nature (human)
Poet’s note: Memories are what this world is made of. Man tends to store his good memories on mobiles or computer disc drives, and store the bad ones closer home in the mind. What is worse, he visits them more often than he visits the good memories. If only he learns to interchange these storing places!
1. Agencies are spying.
2. Be alert and aware of surroundings.
3. Bad guys have long arms.
4. Choose wisely between family members and relatives.
5. Cancel unnecessary meetings.
6. Don't go at the same place at the same time again and again.
7. Limit your daily routine activities.
8. Mobiles, mirrors and display screens have eyes and ears.
9. Never trust Police.
10. Swine and pigs call you crazy.
11. Stay away from drugs.
12. Think before you eat and drink.
13. Those who are close to you can betray you.
14. Those who repeat what happen, ki hoya ay, are pretending.
15. Women, kids and beggars are informers.
16. Your colleagues and neighbors aren't your colleagues and neighbors anymore.
17. You are your only friend.
Note. Aqal walon kay liye is me nishaniyan hain.
Lesson. Khon k rishton mein (relatives) me wafa hoti to phir yousuf na bikta.
Written By Abad Ur Rehman Khan ARK
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