These hand sized gadgets is something we use to communicate
We use these devices to relate good news that can't wait
We take pictures and create memories of our experiences
Also to record a conversation or video criminal offenses
Many addictions have been created as technology evolves
Different social medias and games to keep everyone involved
One phone seems to vary in cost from another
With apps such as FaceTime to help distant lovers
Those are the advantages but there's also disadvantages
Those that causes you to put your neighbor in bandages.
A conversation full of joy or an argument that's perplexed
You end up taking someone's life while sending a message in a text
You can't drive and focus while someone is screaming in your ear
Attempting to do so is like jumping rope after having a few beers
Know when and how a cell phone should be used
A topic that this current generation has confused
I know that it is not possible, but if I were given
an audience with Barabbus, I can imagine that
he would say the following:
You wonder if I became a Christian
You think that I may have been killed
in my continued pursuit of revolution
As with everyone else, I will give account
for the choices that I made.
So, take me now as you found me in
the Biblical record--a pardon criminal.
Please. Neither idolize nor condemn me.
I disappeared in the dark night of silence.
Whether or not I ascended into the light
of God or descended further into my
revolutionary causes, for now, that matter
will remain a mystery.
Nevertheless, this much is certain:
Neither history nor tradition. can unvell
what God has hidden.
She would do our heads in, but It’s not that I didn’t value her great teaching skills. Her strategies and patterns always stood out. The tool of teaching was used to best effective use by her, I can ensure you of that, in fact it was levels beyond the rest.a record, a memory that can’t be broken.
In years to come we will remember those days. Sometimes she would cry thinking we might all fail, other times she would laugh with us or at us. I suppose that’s all just part of life, but she did love our class From the core and heart, well that’s what I think.
We thank you for all your hard work and dedication, but in saying that, teaching us must have been so hard.
I want you to know that you will remain in our thoughts, as long as you promise to continue to do people’s heads in and always to stay sound
Note: In 1976, Richard Clayderman (real name Philippe Pagès) received a telephone call from a well-known French record producer, who was looking for a pianist to record a gentle piano ballad. Paul had composed this ballad as a tribute to his newborn second daughter “Adeline”. The 23-year-old Philippe Pagès was auditioned along with 20 other hopefuls and, to his amazement, he got the job.
O sweet Adeline, born eyes open
And a smile on her small lips.
O delicious child I heard her gurgle
As if she had heeded a joke.
A tune raced in his mind and
He knew it was urgent to put it on paper.
The babe made noises of joy
And the music echoed its tune,
At times it was repetitive
At times it sounded soft and sweet.
But soon the babe raised her voice
A repetitive mellifluous melody
Lulling the babe to sleep.
Dream little child, dream on
Would that you have pleasant dreams,
And may the Good God bless you forever.
Looking back
we miss this day.
Seeking,
we forget what we already have.
Reaching for tomorrow
we sink in the flowing stream
of these living moments.
Our biographies are fictional stories
they speak of nothing that we are now,
and yet we write,
delight in the telling of old tales
and even as we record a life
it waits on us to be experienced anew.
Shake not the dead
for they have nothing fresh to say.
We were not created to be
librarians of littering paper trails,
but that actual Tree of Life,
each leaf a green flourishing
not another dusty volume
of things never to be seen again.
Technological marvel:
who’d have ever guessed?
They went to the moon,
powered by less.
The thing receives phone calls,
it’s got GPS,
a mindfulness app
for when you are stressed.
It monitors heart rate,
can produce EKGs,
prompts you when it’s time:
take your medicine, please.
Blood-oxygen levels,
hours of REM sleep;
If you’re under the water,
it knows just how deep.
If you’re lost in the woods,
it will help get you back,
or blast a loud siren
if you’re under attack.
The steps that you took,
the stairs that you climbed,
record a voice memo
to capture a rhyme.
Listening to music,
or receiving a text,
keep up with your groceries,
so your wife won’t be vexed.
For the gals, tracking cycles,
and for all, track your phone,
keeps up with the NASDAQ,
and the stocks that you own.
But it doesn’t record
all the things that you missed -
Life in arrest,
watching your wrist.
One can a secret leak
While one didn't dare speak
All over seeming weak
But could fight for a week;
At a weakling not spit
But against A Camp fit
Live as needy prophet;
Starved eyes not on profit...
One can drop Bad Habits,
Yet much linked with their bits;
Record a lot of hits
But of Bob's Scattered wits;
Complete assignments fast
But later take The Last;
Meet a friend and walk past,
Friend dead, flag at half mask.
amid dry, gray dust
translucent spheres of glass
record a lunar past
https://www.livescience.com/china-rover-spots-glass-spheres
When you read a poem
Do you read it through?
Or do you squish it in your mind
Like gum on your shoe?
Can you actually feel
What the poet is writing?
Or do you act as if
The poet didn't take so long typing?
When you write a poem
Do you truly pour your heart out?
Or do you simply record a thought
And proceed to go about?
Can you actually enjoy
Endless streams of words?
Or do you let them fly away
Like some growing baby birds?
I was travelling. I still am, but
once upon a time I was on my way through
a particular place. It was north of Wantage
that I stopped and stepped out
of my car to survey a white
canyon.
They'd been cutting through the chalk,
the power of human engineering on a grand scale,
near the beginning of motorway evolution;
making a straight way for mankind.
I wondered at all the remains of creatures
living how many years ago? that made this dead chalk.
Scattered around were broken flints.
This one
drew my eye. A survivor, almost unscathed.
Its curves record a once fluid form, speaking
of the heat of creation, of powerful forces still at work
destroying and re-creating, volcanoes, earthquakes, after shocks...
How small the scratches of human engineering.
I picked it up and took it on my journey.
Is it mine?
No, it's His:
Creator of me.
I refer to Him in wonder.
Frail and intricate, I pass by and hold
this particular survivor.
When my travelling's done and the traffic thunders on
relentless and forgetful of the place,
this flint will remain wherever,
still.
The rest of the world sleep at night
The dead too, unless there are errands to run.
& this is why dreamland is a clumsy place to be.
But the best time to hibernate the tongue
& let the nose do the snoring is early morning
When the length and breadth of Paradise
Is minimized into the size of your mattress
& you have all the peace in the world
Unto yourself clenching it firm in your fists
& dipping them loosened inside your pants.
The best time to mimic the dead is when
All the phases of darkness lie in the
Distance between your eyelids & pupils
& you record a voice note on your cellphone
Telling anyone who remembers you exist
That you do not. These are times when
You take a break from reality
When life holds you by the tail & you keep
Slipping off, merrimenting in the fantasies
Of your illusions & reminding the world
That most times, the lazy man lives longer.
Not long ago, some tragic soul, a young man,
Accidentally fell into the well (an 18-foot drop)
In the Delhi zoo,
Where a white tiger was resting cozily
In the warm September sun.
The stunned young man,
A poor Androcles,
A gladiator without a sword,
Pitted against the six-foot wild animal,
Held up his hands—as if in supplication.
The tiger, curious, studied the victim
Before swiping him;
And then again took quite some time –
Perhaps to let the people around
Watch and cry louder
And to let an excited boy
Record a neat video,
On his mobile, of the moments of agony –
To maul the unarmed gladiator
And drag the limp body away
Before eventually retreating.
A gory death
With no glory in it.
The moral of the story?
RSVP!
--Ram, R. V.
After we're gone.....
do we turn out the light -----
or will we hear our names whispered upon the wind?
After we're gone.....
does the midnite moon still stir the soul,
or the seasons still invite us to never be alone;
Do the birds still sing in the trees.....
Do harmonies of life seize to be.....
Can I feel her love still in a quiet breeze,
assured that I am?
For can history bare a great book -----
with all our names,
a record, a final log -----
that we were,
(at all) ?
I know that love is right when you are talking about church and
good home cook meal,
I know love is for me when first out the door
Oh I got be free and set the tone,
We are talking about slow dancing hand
To palms got to walk you to door,
Open the door let love be free,
Late night all I can see when in love with you,
I got to be me
I got let her know,
You know it love when you start the day,
Counting the second just to make it back home,
Let me pick up the phone tell world about you,
Record a song just for you and me,
I got to be me,
I got to let her know,
You can't recapture it,
can't ride that horse again.
The moment you started this poem
is gone.
The flowers in your garden have grown
or died
since you started this poem.
The universe has expanded and
stars have been born and died
since you started this poem.
Accept that you can't stop the moments.
Have you ever read something and wondered
who wrote it?
And then you realized it was you!
You in a different moment.
A different you in a different moment!
Tragedy or victory go to memory and then gone.
World record, a memory and then gone.
Tattoos on arm, a memory and then gone.
You, a memory and then gone.
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