Etiquetas » Blogs And Blogging

Sirry, or: Selious

The blogger sat before his screen
        Pressing his fingers 'pon the keys
Eyes staring back towards the sheen
        Familiar stiffness in his knees

By moonless night he saw himself
        Glasses reflecting man-made light
Books stretched behind him 'pon the shelf
        Twink-twinkling stars, thin halos bright

Floating about through bits and bytes
        As neurons 'lectric pulses shot
Red sparks burst into boundless lights
        'long wires, twisting, burning hot

He could not feel his back upright
        Nor hear the beating in his chest
His wireless mind saw sight 'pon sight
        And data points did swift digest

Each word he formed drifted through space
        Networking ev'ry flitting thought
White narrow beam lit faceless face
        As curious new signals wrought

Beeps sounded from the motherboard 
        Seat empty basked in flickering gleam
Lines flowing forth would stay unheard
        For none could hear the soundless scream… 60 palabras más
Poetry

Homunculus of death

Disconcertingly out of sync, perceptions jumbled, receptors misfiring, I remain immediately near but never fully within the self I’d always known, receiving on an unfamiliar, piercing wavelength.

535 palabras más
Creative Writing

Dreams, or: Stanzas

An emoji ‘free verse’

In a moment, 
🧗‍♂️ it would be 
over again and he'd 
🧗‍♂️ have to start over in the next... no, not this time. 248 palabras más
Poetry

Blogging, or: Abraham

Once upon- 

            he cared- what they thought of him,
Wrenching- at him- soul and limb;
  Oh- how things changed;
And the days, of course, as they ran their course,
Only saw things go- from bad to worse;
  All became more estranged;
Then came a day- he was faced with death
(Though he wasn't there for love's last breath);
  Darkness- swallowed- his light;
'Safe' and 'simple' broke, something black awoke,
  Fingers- aching to write

All the prose he wrote- and the poetry,
Available to friends and family,
  provided- release;
He wrote long and short- and slow and fast,
Uncovered
            some of- his own truth at last;
  Mind and heart wouldn't cease;
Language took him- far away from grief,
Daily blown- and battered like a leaf,
  He kept at this, day and night;
How, he couldn't say; kept the tears away,
  Couldn't fake what he'd write

Rejecting tweets, soundbites and Instagram,
He welcomed
            meaning in- like Abraham
  Would invite his guests;
Arguing with God- about beliefs
Brought him
            no small amount of relief,
  He was granted some rest;
And there arose long buried memories;
Breaking past thin mental boundaries,
  Strange fancies took flight;
Down upon his knees, whispering- God please,
  Please- make it alright… 30 palabras más
Poetry

Today Papa did not turn 73

Today is Papa’s birthday.

In Jewish tradition, we tend to commemorate the dates (on the Hebrew calendar) of our loved ones’ deaths, rather than their birthdays. 846 palabras más

Death

My most disturbing dream

I’ve had a recurring dream, in which Papa somehow comes back to life some months after dying, only to die again permanently several months later. For some unclear reason, his temporary resurrection is not made public to everyone; and we are all aware and certain that it is, indeed, temporary. 527 palabras más

Death

America, or: Jerusalem

‘Endings / beginnings’, a d’Verse prompt

More than anything else, I simply wanted her to be okay after Papa died
Though it seems rather unpoetic and prosaic to me looking back at it
Of course that is what I would have wanted for Mama; and for all of us
Losing one parent so tragically would have been impossible enough for me

Though it seems rather unpoetic and prosaic to me looking back at it
I wanted to swallow the depths of the Atlantic Ocean after Papa died
Losing one parent so tragically would have been impossible enough for me
Even if my mother hadn't been living so far, far, far away, somewhere

I wanted to swallow the depths of the Atlantic Ocean after Papa died
Anything to cry together with one's mother and baby brother, I felt
Even if my mother hadn't been living so far, far, far away, somewhere
Somewhere I had once called home, but which now smelled of foreign air

Anything to cry together with one's mother and baby brother, I felt
I felt utterly helpless and useless and disconnected from my Mama
Somewhere I had once called home, but which now smelled of foreign air
She was still stuck inside that house, living with the scents of him

I felt utterly helpless and useless and disconnected from my Mama
Writing myself out because I didn't believe prayer could reach America
She was still stuck inside that house, living with the scents of him
I was raising their grandchild in their Jerusalem, where his soul lived

Writing myself out because I didn't believe prayer could reach America
Actually, no human expression could hold a loved one across the world
I was raising their grandchild in their Jerusalem, where his soul lived
Mama and Papa had always, always, always wanted to return to Jerusalem

Actually, no human expression could hold a loved one across the world
I simply could think of nothing else to do with my useless, distant self
Mama and Papa had always, always, always wanted to return to Jerusalem
Mama was now alone, widowed in her America, with me in her Jerusalem

I simply could think of nothing else to do with my useless, distant self
So I wrote and wrote and wrote and when I tried to stop I was miserable
Mama was now alone, widowed in her America, with me in her Jerusalem
More than anything else, I simply wanted her to be okay after Papa died… 97 palabras más
Poetry