Technology Pours Life

Joint Poetry by Venkataraman L.N. and Joseph Kurian

---

A Science and Conscience Limerick

The world has been through times like this before and mankind has survived. That said, I am a baby boomer who could have never imagined what is happening in the world today.

MY PHONE

It’s ringing

again and again

to coordinate

with the time.

 

The cords

have connected

the right connection

after a while.

Advertisement

Static Force

Our hands have become limp.
I guess this is when the leaves fall off the trees.
The Cascade snow fills the reservoir for my home,
but night and day, all I hear about is our rain.

I Miss Rotary Phones

I miss rotary phones

the kind where you put your finger in the hole of the dial

rotating it clockwise until it stopped

then releasing it to get a satisfying

click , click, click as it unwound

taking up to several seconds per number

And So It Begins

And so it begins, again,
that urge to shrink from
the cool touch of machines;
the hushed offices,
the looks of concern,
the competent compassion.
Maddening, imprecise precision–
“the blood test found something, we
need to do more tests…..
something’s there
on her scans…”
a blurry, thicker patch there,
spots on bone, lung, breast, too.

Life Support

 

I feel like a slug
searching for something
wet and cold
to cling to, a post
of black metal
sweating
in the heat of the night.

What

What will we the journey be like
To toil through interstellar dust
Leptons muons
Amino acids

Where Are The Clocks?

Where have all the clocks gone?
I cannot tell the time,

not without one strapped to my wrist,
or that rectangular block
producing radiation by my thigh.

Flying

Flying over cities is glorious
London’s furnace reaching for the sky
The nested curving of Amsterdam canals

Boys

Boys

Long legged boys
Filling my sofa
Controllers in hand
Deep laughs mingle with shrill cries
As Black Ops rolls

The Bottom-Line

© Photo by Linda Rose

Eyes only on the bottom-line,
we seek to build, but not refine.
For profit’s sake, we play with lives
with silicon brains, traces and wires.

Seattle Sunshine

Rail Punk tells me
Jimi Hendrix killed Kurt Cobain.

Ballard is a gentrified oasis,
where Shiba Inus relax in coffee houses
dining vegan and gluten-free.

I saw a BMW rolling down Aurora Avenue
while a man pushing his life in a grocery cart
crossed the street. I had a thought
but lost it, as the traffic light turned red
and I realized I’d missed my chance.

Birthday Request

“Pillars of Creation”: Hubble photo of interstellar gas and dust in the Eagle Nebula, some 6,500-7,000 light years from Earth where stars are born

I asked for the superpower of “Folding” for my birthday.
It cuts out the middle man:
Gimme a calendar with tricky bits, I said.
I’d fold weeks, months, years, centuries together,
jump to any time, past or future.

The first would be hanging with
the first human band to walk out of Africa .

Ten thousand

Walked ten thousand steps today
recorded on my wrist
Still need to get my head round that
but I think I’ve got the gist
An early birthday present
tracking fitness on my phone
Syncing all by Bluetooth
where my progress is then shown

A bitter pill

I got a brand new tablet
but it was a bitter pill
As instead of feeling better
it made me feel quite ill

Flint

Flint

Clinking flint on flint
They sat, cross legged
Sculpting the desired form
From the larger rock
Before going on the hunt.

The Way You See Them

Hot feet, impatient to eat the miles,

Get past – over, through, round – the

Heart attack jams on this

Stretch of cold-as-business road.

Runes, signs, lines

Whispering at me

“Blue open skies

Are nothing but lies,

Friends will make you weaker …”

Our Age

Age of technology
In my head prehistoric
Grappling with values
Yet unmeasured

Conversation.

The art of conversation

has been killed by technology

killed of by man

who invented these things

few sit and talk now

about everyday things

instead they sit like morons

heads buried in a machine

be it a phone, ipad or ipod

or maybe a gaming machine

M.S.N has damaged spelling

oblivious — poem

As day begins to wane
I cycle Springbrook Park
where even in the cloudless heat
the wind always seems to blow