LPiA-25 Nov. 6

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 6
Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by an outdated technology. (VHS Tape, rotary phone, etc.)
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[CRNDLSM]

I bought a handsaw today
To cut wood i found in trash
To secure a tarp on beams
Held together to a fence 
By 100 feet of rope
As a barricade from wind
Working in water outside
When it drops below 30 degrees

[Todd]

No Record of Our Passage

No clouds, no streams.
Only the clacking of keys,
the whir of the rotary dial,
a doorbell that couldn't watch you leave.
We’d pedal off into the amber glow
of each fading streetlight, invisible
beyond the reach of gray phone cords,
or the voices of our parents.

[Weeded]

Disgruntled Never Ages

There I stood blankly
blinking between the missed calls,
augmented twice now to keep up
with the flippin' Jonesingtons
and their damn hovercars
and their smug little bastard son's bloodline
and its perfect little blonde hairs,
makes me wanna call up the euthanizers
and schedule an appointment.

If it weren't for my daughter
I'd have left the skyrise long ago
and taken up residence
in the mountains of Ohio
where they still have iPhones.

[busker]

I met my older self descending
on the blackwood stairs -
slower, leaner, forward bending,
very many gray hairs.

He said, perhaps you weren't intending
to hear of what estranges
generation from generation, sending
old wolves to their lairs -

it's the unnecessary changes
that catch you unawares.

It's not the big tectonic shifts,
that change the field of tech -
but non-geeks bearing Tiktok gifts,
the fluff and what-the-heck-

I don't know how this lever lifts,
I can't see why it's trending -
this song is dumb, that actor’s shit -
do they not cash travellers’ cheques?!

Though Hitchen's gone, his spirit ranges
and dream to dream declares -
it's the unnecessary changes
that catch you unawares.

[dukealien]

Outdated Anonymizer


The Ouija Board delivered
messages one letter
at a time to tell
what spirits wanted known.

Its users would create
words, sentences by pushing
its cursor round about–
their authorship deniable.

Today when we want phrase
completion we apply
Large Language Models whose
programmers do the nudging.

[rowens]

Always There

There always were eyes, the white craters that spin.
Always eyes.
Two cookiecutter stars churning the works,
adolescent tape moaning in a warm embrace,
twisting to understanding.

Straight stories and dreams, natural
cutup percepts glued as love
into smooth maturity.
Sound imposed voices
the way one returns on teenage songs.

Digital and clear, we
do as we like
within a context of
perfection.

I miss crackling campfires
inside and warped-solemn 
blandishments of duppies.

[RiverNotch]

One outmoded kind of speech
is to make a cry for help.

Once somebody hears it now
they don't really listen,

some free fingers they lift only
for to swat away the midge

bothering their eardrum.
Now the single dignified

utterance a mouth can make
is to utter none at all:

either silence or loud nonsense
but no in-betweens, no sighs---

[Mostly Holy]

"Rhapsody by Laser Light"

With eager sigh I open wide
that precious coin be placed inside.
With tongue of light I deep caress
the taste of music, tightly pressed.
Decoded by my ecstasy
I scream a perfect symphony.

My bliss rises as the music plays,
Wires sing as my spirit prays,
Until with final swell and sigh
the tracks's end comes, and so do I.
Silence falls, my button is flicked,
With soft moan I spit out the disc.

Then I lie with contented hum
as tranquillity fills my room.
In silent hours I meditate,
Dust settles on me as I wait.
The echo of my howled release
sustains me thru these times of peace.

Knowing the quiet will soon bore you
and you'll let my pleasure surge anew

[Keith]

Before the plastic plant-pots came

Past the whiskey gang
to the clatter of dominos,
hugs and a squeeze
from the blue rinse brigade.
every age collided
in a Friday night hemisphere.

Ten pence a song
or three for twenty,
the bright lights
and sticky bakelite buttons
pushed an era through
the walls, softly dancing
into every room, mixing
with conversation, synchronizing
inside laughter.

I sit, silent at the epicenter
nursing a pint of brown and mild
with a smile.

[MidaPoems]

walk the Walkman

Walk, 
Said the Walkman.
No cassette in sight.
It won't go down with a -
Fight.

Clipped onto my pants,
Freeing my hands.
Shuffling in the street,
To my destination.

A cassette store,
That won't return,
I'll have to walk a lot,
Even when it burns.