“Phoneciety”

Poem 29 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project was inspired by an idea that my friend Dominic named, but I hadn’t been able to articulate: Phoneciety. This is what we are devolving into folks. No way around it. Ironically, much of what I do in way of blogging and capturing content starts with my cell phone. Yes, I am a hypocrite. Does it absolve me from being accountable if I’m aware of the problem. No! I didn’t think so. I give you the Brave New World…

 

Soma never tasted so good.

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“Escalation” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

“Phoneciety”

We live in a society in its decline.

Phoneciety.

Bold impropriety.

Gaining notoriety through ego masturbation.

Stroking out.

Striking in.

Faces enthralled by an empty dead glow.

That’s as far as the light goes.

In the throes, of Apps and Emoticons.

No emotions.

Choosing icons to relay feelings.

False mirror.

Non-confrontational.

No immediate accountability for what is said.

Pollution.

Devotion to a lower powered battery.

Depleted

Defeated.

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“Captive Audience” © C.P. Hickey 2017

Hostile takeover,

as towers of terror terraform the landscape.

Triangulation of your virtual presence.

Strangulation of your anonymity.

Sign in.

Log on.

Password.

Text.

Texting.

Taxing.

Bought and sold,

Fool’s gold.

Interconnected isolation.

Deadened gazes.

Instant gratification.

Facebook Nation.

Displaying dystopia.

Heads bent down.

Procession of distraction.

Fixation on the false gods.

The serpent didn’t give the Apple to Eve.

It gave it to Steve,

Jobs are reduced to temporary service related baseline non-skill, cheaper by the dozen, minimum wage destinations.

Resumes have more bullet points than a mass shooting.

Compliance not coerced,

but willingly conceded,

one application at a time.

Click bait.

Plugged in fate.

No debate.

Detonate.

Clean slate.

Heads of State,

complicate globalization and geopolitical issues by firing insult salvos across social media frontlines.

Baseless insults are bullets in the work up to the final SEND.

The End.

Civilized civilization ceases to exist.

Succumbs to dumb elected officials with insecurity issues.

Elevated by an uneducated populace,

a rabble of ham-fisted hacks.

The drug of choice is in your palm.

It enters your eyes,

infects your mind,

leaves you a husk if humanity.

Dependent.

Chasing the first hit.

Addicted.

No cure.

A void to be filled by consumerist considerations.

 

The stars in the sky still shine,

even though no one looks up anymore.

 

Flat earth?

Why not?

What difference does it make, now?

 

Sordid selfie, show the archaeologists of tomorrow our baseless pride.

 

Lucifer was cast out of paradise for serving his vanity.

 

Where will we be cast for serving ours?

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“Malingerers” © C.P. Hickey 2017
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“Macaroons”

Poem 28 of the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project involves food. A sweet thank you to Benjamin M. for filling the cavity of my sweet tooth with one hell of a snack.

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https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/03/26/09/49/macaroons-690399_960_720.jpg

“Macaroons”

I enjoy playing the spoons,

when I snack on macaroons.

On occasion, I spit chunky loogies,

into brass spitoons.

Or off the docks,

with longshoreman goons.

Going by the graveyard,

whistling tunes.

Getting lost with Loch Ness,

in Brigadoon.

Too soon?

Ridden down by infantry dragoons.

Secret messages in runes.

Harvest moons.

Sandy dunes.

Smoking plumes.

Raided tombs.

Old West Saloons.

At high noon,

in June,

when lovers swoon.

While feeding each other macaroons.

“The joy of feeling anonymity in a city…there should be a German word for that”

Poem 27 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project was inspired by a writing colleague. Danke, Haley, for making me remember something I didn’t know I always knew and cherished.

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“As is the Custom” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

 

“The joy of feeling anonymity in a city…there should be a German word for that”

 

Die Waldeinsamkeit.

German, for feeling alone in the woods.

Does that pass for the joy of feeling anonymity in a city?

Ironically, Emerson wrote about being alone in the woods.

But, where is the joy in that anonymity to be found?

Is there a happiness to feeling anonymous in a splendor of busy?

Traveling from block to block,

blending in amongst the throng of troubled travelers.

Heads and souls buried deep in their palms.

Electronic palms, that guarantee that you will never look up for the answers,

while looking up answers.

Standing on a corner, watching the world go by.

Hanging back, sipping on a chai.

Bearing witness to a thousand trivial concerns.

No one aware of your observations.

Taking notes.

Standing on the periphery.

Unheeded, unknown, and able.

Seeing the people who are ignored.

And they, finding you, and your perception.

Your large ears and heart.

It doesn’t matter who you are to them,

except a someone who can witness their pain.

Anonymity in a city,

a gift to serial killers and people watchers.

Stealing the lives of those that meander through your sphere.

Sitting silly in a corporate coffee shop,

looking the part.

Quill in hand, pen in fingers, laptop on table, tomes spread out.

Serious writing business.

Accounting of life.

The meat of it.

Capturing the rotten rotting populace,

in a candid frame.

The warmth of the city lights as they chase the shadows away at dusk and keep them at bay.

Steam rises, cars idle.

The heartbeat noise of the city conceals your motives,

allowing you to move with unimpeded privilege.

The stone walkways,

luring you to the harbor.

The industry of rats goes on despite man’s interventions.

A hub of bustling activity,

where you can go and no one knows your name.

And could care less if you came.

The raptured joy of disappearing.

Folding in on oneself.

Secretive traveler.

Born to run,

but happy to be static in between the raindrops when no one is looking.

Every once in a while, a wisp of memory will well up within a wary walker-on-by,

and they might stop and look at you in that deja vu sort of way.

Quickly rearranging their collar or coat lapel,

only to dive back into the sidewalk flow.

Forever forgetting that they might have spied something.

Nah, they missed.

Your secret is safe,

for now.

 

An anonymous city ninja,

blending with crowds,

holding court with the pigeons,

a ruddy smirk plastered across your unrecognizable face.

 

 

 

 

“Redemption”

Poem 26 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project is inspired by my Cousin Ellen. Thank you for offering up this concept. Everyone needs a little redemption in their lives from time to time.

 

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“Sliver of Hope” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

“Redemption”

 

Redemption is elusive,

when sought at every turn.

It comes when least expected,

the moment it is earned.

 

The value of redemption,

is that it makes you whole again.

It comes without exemption,

and allows you to amend.

 

The minute you stop seeking,

redemption will appear.

Around the corner, it comes sneaking,

when you’re deepest in despair.

 

The road to coming back,

requires just one step.

Take the tender track,

it requires little prep.

 

Embrace the awkward movement,

and soon you will arrive,

at a place of much improvement,

to start anew and thrive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What Makes a Man, a Man?”

Poem 25 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project might be my biggest challenge to date. I’ve though deeply on this subject, and I appreciate the suggestion from my good friend Noah. It’s rather difficult to capture a succinct or clever answer when considering what makes a man, a man. In recent times, the bill has come due on a lot of shitty inappropriate behavior that has gone on for far too long. Navigating, listening, learning, acting, setting examples are all new found activities to even the best of us.

I would never suggest a bullet point list of what makes a man a man, but in my own experience, I have a working idea of what makes a man a man. It is constantly changing, evolving, and adapting to the life we are faced with. Each man experiences life differently, and I believe that there are many roads to the same destination.

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“Joy Before the Storm” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

“What Makes a Man, a Man?”

you start to really wonder what makes a man a man the minute your son is born.

things you never thought of pop into your head.

you are continually faced with considering actions you take, and how they will shape that person.

this is a grace filled and humbling experience.

all the noise that surrounds you, tries to divert you from true north.

there are no secrets or silver bullets.

a work in progress.

a watershed moment in your development, and theirs.

accountability like never before.

consequences that not only affect your life, their life, but also the lives of others.

the golden rules are good, but more is needed.

manners are good, but more is needed.

a lot has to be undone, in order to give your son a shot at not falling into society’s current mold.

these early impressions will serve him in the years to come and contribute to how he “man”ifests upon the world.

sometimes all those lessons and values converge into a particular point at a particular place and time, a moment.

last week was that moment…

 

after a busy day, my son had hockey practice.

it was a light day as many people left to travel for the Thanksgiving Holiday.

we still went, because following through on commitments is important.

he got out on the ice, and it wasn’t working.

there were less people so there were less line changes and more ice time.

he became tired, and couldn’t perform at the level he enjoys.

he skated over to me, with a look of concern, on the verge of tears.

encountering hardship, and not wanting to deal with it my son, opted to stop for the day.

I told him that he might feel bad about not finishing, that it’s important to finish something you start.

he went back out on the ice, and fell continually.

each time he looked to me the face grew more upset.

it was a long 45 minutes.

when the buzzer went off, he skated off the ice and came to me.

I kneeled down and took my crying son into my arms and just held him.

I told him it was okay.

what makes a man, a man?

 

allowing him to feel safe in not doing well, and in shifting perspective to understand that winning is not the purpose of participating, but in seeing something through to its end.

the sweetest hug, for a sweet, sweet, boy, that will one day be a man.

a man that I will be proud to call my son.

hoping that he too will show his sons, that there is strength in feeling and allowing room for that, even within the societal constructs that penalize such displays.

 

A man is what you make of yourself, and what you contribute to in the making of other men.