The Call Center Dreams of O. Hunt

Telephones ringing like fireflies flashing —chaotically at the beginning of each work shift when you mount your cubical chair spinning it around coming up heads over tails Tones on Tail playing from cassette tape an old Walkman left by your time-stagnant predecessor Firefly phones flash in unison now Plug earbud into right ear and then slip headset microphone earpiece over left ear Switch on incoming calls an unfamiliar voice floods your brain Conversations piggy- back each other over each other into a chain of checkboxes checked into breaks out back coffee, talk, snacks and then you're peering back at yourself from restroom mirrors while coworkers come and go You lock in the darkest spot in your colorblind amber eyes myopia dissolves away away away Sand on the beach warms your bare toes Each one loving the warm cushion as dry turns to moist turns to wet and the little waves are lapping happy feet ankles calves Sun is the solution a forward thinker flanked by friends on a dreamy sun- day-to-day the work is gone Call center background crashing tele- phones calling no more away away away dissolving in salt- water @kshawnedgar

Haiku Challenge 26

Sky green to yellow
Earth dying fast and brightly 
Our birds fly away 


By K. Shawn Edgar
For the Haiku Challenge 26 by SIS

Null Endeavor

 
Trees cut black marks in the evening gray,
a web of bloodless veins drooping earthward,
unable to touch the stars from which
they came.
 
 
By K. Shawn Edgar


 

Sea of Never

It's poetry for the people. Because cats don't read much.

Rapture this Verse


http://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/sea-of-never/

K. Shawn Edgar
Carbon Noise Poetry
Needs You

Scream and Sing the Chorus Again

Poetry: Scream and Sing the Chorus Again
From: Pull of the Sun

http://pullofthesun.wordpress.com/2011/04/26/scream-and-sing-the-chorus-again/

Borg of God

Borg of God™


One wonders, and one hopes.

One goes along, while one nods to all. ¶

One is all. One is something.
One isn't enough, though. ¶

It's us mimicking us, >

a glimmer of what passed eye to eye, person to person, passing away to nothing.¶

One, it only mirrors our insect reflection…¶

The Borg of God™ is created from the oneness of our overreaching insect image. ¶


http://pullofthesun.wordpress.com/

Sea of Never

Poetry for the people, because cats don't read much.

Rapture this Verse


http://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/sea-of-never/

K. Shawn Edgar
Carbon Noise Poetry
Needs You
To Read
Daily

Nose to Toes

She, 
can't see passed her 
nose tip, 
unless it's to her own 
toe dip.

Petty pedi-
cure, and 
manipulative mani-
cure, 
take hours ...
don't you know?

History is mystery 
when you can't pick 
Captain Cook 
from Captain Hook 
or Dustin Hoffman 
in a line up.

What Greek and Roman
mythology?

Weren't those busted 
on that TV show?

Future is hair did, 
monthly, and 
new chances to tell 
work stories 
breathlessly.

Past is never seen again 
in its original form, 
just reshaped by her 
constantly changing 
delusions of self 
in comparison to 
the world revolving 
around her.

Sick Poets

Sick Poets

If ever there was a time for the sick poets, it is now.

Too many people inhabit Earth. We need to reduce the population. To tears? To zero? To a 1970's level? Should we offshore the homeless to the moon Europa? Or a giant space station in orbit? Or perhaps relocate the wealthy to Mars...?

The answer to all of these questions is no. Or, well, maybe. The rich to Mars, anyway. No, it's no. The answer is no. We need a comprehensive disease, one to affect all people. One to unite them in the close quarters of overpopulation. We need to inflict everyone with the sickness of poetry. Poetry will render every person with the domain of infinite space and time.

Each man, woman, and child a king of infinite space, you ask? Yes, in close quarters. In the beautiful openness of the poetic word and phrase. Yes, in Hamlet's metaphoric nutshell, humans may survive the future.

Shape of Things

   How could we 
      shape a machine

             to become
     our final 
             coup de theatre?

Was this our covert 
     hand- 
            ing 
               over 
                    of 
                       power?

Po - e - try

Go Poem Go:

Carbon Noise Poetry

Pull of the Sun

It's yours to grab and hold in your heart!

Searching O. Hunt

Searching O. Hunt Poem

Read Newest Poem Here

https://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2011/03/11/o-hunt/

Local Accusations Abound

Talking smack about the stars of old: what will the fallout be?

Street Lab Specimens: A Poem of Fiction

Read Street Lab Specimens Here

Pull of the Sun & Carbon Noise Poetry
By K. Shawn Edgar

Poem at Carbon Noise

New Poem:

Carbon Noise Poetry

Haiku Challenge 26

Sky green to yellow
Earth dying fast and brightly 
Our birds fly away 

By K. Shawn Edgar
For the Haiku Challenge 26 by SiS
http://pendownmythought.blogspot.com/p/haiku-challenge.html?m=1

New Form of Writing Discovered

Local man discovers new writing style called "Poetry"

While "chillin'" on his livingroom floor with his two adult cats, both still live at home, K. Shawn Edgar discovered that complete sentences can be broken up and purposefully placed on seperate lines to create a "poetic" feel. He hopes this segmentation will induce an emotional reaction in the reader. Examples of this bizarre new form of written language can be found on Edgar's "blog", short for Weblogue: Pull of the Sun.

New Haiku Challenge Accepted

Area man writes haiku about love


Once had lover bliss 
Deviated abruptly 
Now adrift alone


By K. Shawn Edgar of Pull of the Sun blog

New at Pull of the Sun poetry blog

Read new poetry at Pull of the Sun

New poems by darkling poet K Shawn Edgar

Brochure

Brochure
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My cousin’s in the Navy
She brought me an afghan
If you got a minute
I’ll show you my tattoos
This one’s a hedgehog
And here I got a turtle with rockets
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
I don’t have cancer
But I came from an unwed mother
She said not to fuss
Our pool held no water
She said don’t steal
I told her to stop giving me reason
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My brother’s a deadbeat
He’s tired from working
If you don’t mind stopping
I’ll show you my dog’s puppies
They were born with no eyes
Just fur covered sockets
I live in a dream
But you’re too awake to notice
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
Because you’ll never slow down
Not enough to really see me
You’ll just look at the snapshot
On the way to get a fancy coffee
And under your breath
You’ll thank God you’re not me
 
So take my big picture
And stick it in your brochure

Bull's End

He was a big big man in a small small world; his graveyard complexion condemed life itself.

Not because it reflected death, that too was condemned. It was because the absence of any humanly perceivable color engulfed all concepts of meaning, purpose and being.  

This left the little people of Bull's End terrified and full of malice.