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Thursday, 21 October 2010

Synergy: A Collaboration. A Piece of our minds.

Dave Christensen sent me the following prose.  After ingestion and many hours I folded it into a poem.   

Friends and Computers:

For some really stupid reasons we file some away forever; yet a few eventually make it out of the bin and recycle back. A few might be in a police file, and there are some who probably should be in the X files. There are those who can play our hearts like a keyboard and whisper all types of digitized sweet nothings to brighten our screens. Other times we search for the right passwords to bring back those we have defaulted, trying everything we can to open them back up to us again. Those that we inadvertently cut might later feel like pasting us....and also think about putting a boot-up our @*#! Real special ones know just how to gently defrag us. On occasion we turn ourselves into fine-tuned engines and search for just the right one to surf through the rest of our life together with. Yet so many times we somehow never let get downloaded the right programs to upgrade us. Then there is God, Who knows us all without ever having to use google. Who can processes trillions of requests - then answer them all in the twinkling of an eye, sending his Spirit to virus scan our hearts in order to restore our hard driven souls - reinstalling purpose as He Casts His Net. He then leaves it entirely up to us if we want to be deleted out of his Facebook of life or not... but would rather have us all His best friends forever.



And this is what came out the other end...

An Ode; To the Few 

Seasons of men are filed
and reviled
reasons for that which they lack;
'Tis treason to assume
that a few in their gloom
can't recycle themselves from their bins and back.

A few
might be logged in police piles,
and some who belong in the X files.
There are those who can play our hearts like a keyboard,
typing with whispers in digitized dreams 
to sweeten our screens
Ice scream!

A few
are searching for passwords
with swords to bring the defaulted
and exalted.
Trying in pain
to reach and to teach
opening wounds up again,
in vein.

A few
by mistake
we've cut up like cake.
And in place of a hand
(just for good measure and with way too much pleasure) 
we've offered a swift boot to the head.

A few
of the silent know how to coerce
and gently defrag us.
No cuss.
No fuss.

A few
are brighter than most!
Outstanding alone and tall as a post!
Winking and shining, tugging her boats from out of the bleak...
upon shores of rocks
designed for the weak.

A house of light....

Is He.
Knowing us inside and out.
Without google, or frugle, or poodles with noodles, processing trillions and squillions of rants 
twinkling His eye from out of the skies
scanning our hearts
and restoring the hard
driven souls from our wants 
and desires.
Installing the wires
again and again
in the rain.

Not a few
but for all!
His net stretching wide to catch the Fall;
The deleted, deflated, fragmented, placated, the Faces with and without.
Booking the lives of our time.

So from out of the bin
all's forgiven
He's risen!

Lending us time
to climb
back again
with renewal
of a greater precision.



Anonymous said...

Here is my purse, Moneypenny, And still I am yet thy debtor. Your magical talents; even the memory of your company, now lost, overpays all that I could ever do...


Anonymous said...

MMP. Can I post this on markusurealious/windpoet's page on facebook?


Anonymous said...

A timeless collaboration of like minds. It would be a grave insult to etch this duet upon postage stamps or to float lyrical behind the queen's bust in pink ink, simply because it is priceless. Bravo!

Anonymous said...

I'm sorry, everything you splurt on your page is great until this poem. I'm sorry, you're as deep as a muddy puddle. What are you getting at exactly? A cure for insomnia? Step it up a notch why don't you. I wish your poem/masterpiece inspired some kind of emotion, like anger or rage, but it doesn't. Just general malaise and indifference. Your last name must GRAY