Phone-y Convenience

Thomas Hemminger

November 5, 2023

My Grandpa was an Iowa carpenter,

and his phone was a giant box on the wall. 

He made the body of it in his shop, 

and he put the phone parts in it himself. 

I never really saw him use it. 

I am a city dweller, 

and I have a phone in my pocket. 

I bought it from a company worth billions,

and I have no idea who built it. 

I use it all the time. 

Grandpa never lost his cool, 

and I have high blood pressure. 

Grandpa did not catch the news every day, 

but I have to check it every few minutes.

Grandpa “never met a stranger,”

yet I am a stranger to the folks two houses down. 

That doesn’t sound like convenience to me.

Thomas Hemminger is an elementary music teacher living in Dallas, Texas. His personal hero is Mr. Fred Rogers, the creator of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was through America’s favorite “neighbor” that Thomas learned of the importance of loving others, and of giving them their own space and grace to grow.

Grandma’s Telephone

Jesse Doiron

February 5, 2023

Jesse Doiron spent 13 years overseas in countries where he often felt as if he were a “thing” that had human qualities but couldn’t communicate them. He teaches college in Texas, now, to people a third his age. He still feels, often, as if he is a “thing” that has human qualities but can’t communicate them.

Text Me Back (His and Hers)

Jesse Doiron

January 29, 2023

Text Me Back (His)

Enveloped in the gray-blue light, 

I think my quiet thoughts

are right at hand to send –

a flickering of meaning on 

a scintillating screen.

I leave an icon at the end

to say I want you back. 

Text Me Back (Hers)

“Let it go,” I said.

“I can’t.  You know.”

So, I pulled her back into the bed,

held her belly, 

cupped a breast,

kissed her hair,

listened to her weep.

Then, 

abruptly,

in despair, 

she threw the phone across the sheets.

“It was him – 

again.”

Jesse Doiron spent 13 years overseas in countries where he often felt as if he were a “thing” that had human qualities but couldn’t communicate them. He teaches college in Texas, now, to people a third his age. He still feels, often, as if he is a “thing” that has human qualities but can’t communicate them.

Ode To Our Phones

Natasha Haas

December 26, 2023

#!/bin/bash

function humanConnectivity {

echo “O’ great communicator.

Internet of things, 

countless fiber rings

binding users together. 

What permissions are needed, which access point leads to our godhead?

Read, write, execute. 

Ctrl, Alt, Delete.

Esc. Esc. IDE?

Do While loop…

What logic, what command would render us as whole human beings?

Debug human errors? #Warning sometimes i≠i

Nesting Automata theory.

Self-acting, willed, moving

human algorithm ciphers?

What language works best to text, what code do I need to know you?

Tapping black screens

Viral data streaming

.JPEG .TIFF .PNG

Bits, bytes, strings.

Which form banishes empty? iPhone, Android, Pixel, fucking BlackBerry?

Isolated human beings

Unplugged from reality

Boundless cellphone technology

Roaming for meaning."

Which carrier interconnects? GSM CDMA. Give me the SIM. That chime. That 5G LTE.

if [$you = $me]

then

echo "Hello. I am alone too."

else

echo "How do I join you?"

fi

Natasha Haas has lived in South Texas for over twenty years and calls the Matagorda area home. She is a sophomore at UTSA with a concentration in Professional and Creative Writing. She has one poem published, “The Gnawing Empty” in the Windward Review Volume 20, 2022: Beginnings and Endings.   

The Mobile Codex

Vincent Hostak

December 10, 2022

It takes two to speak the truth—one to speak and another to hear.

-Henry David Thoreau

Once

the science was simple:

a dugout smelled of yellow pine

From the slip, you paddled out,

body traveling with the mind,

crossed the broadening river to

share stories with your breath and flesh:

“snow’s coming,

your brother is growing ill.”

Then

we shaved the fig tree’s bark

casting loose the sheets of vellum

Still, I brought these bound to you:

folios with scents of fruit,

monographs of laden clouds

that telegraphed the coming frost,

charcoal scrawls

of his head upon the hay.

Now

the atom’s long been split

sending bytes that glow and drift

Nuance unfastened from the freight

keystrokes stumble, meanings shift

the old canoes are moored and still

and my report arrives alone

“#frost is here

 & he called out your name.”

Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living near the Front Range of Colorado south of Denver. His recently published poems are found in the journals Sonder Midwest and the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas and as a contributor to the TPA. He writes & produces the podcast: Crossings-the Refugee Experience in America

Cellular Devices

Thomas Quitzau

November 20, 2022

After NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC

SUPER/NATURAL  S1:E2 Bloodline

On this quiet, overcast morning

The youngest of the offspring 

Bursts through the door a little 

Earlier than the parents would like.

Holding a rectangular object only

The size of a mature human’s hand

The child hands the device to the mother

Who takes it quickly thinking the worst.

Incredibly—invisible signals, traveling

Literally at the speed limit of the universe,

Relay an important message from one of the 

Older siblings: “Ice?” the easily recognizable

Voice can be heard… “Yes,” declares the

Mother, who soon will brew a concoction

Critical for the keen parenting skills that 

Sometimes take all of her energy, and patience.

In due time, she will complete her daily ritual

The final stage of which incorporates

The lifesaving, life-giving compound

In solid form, H2O as ice to chill her 

Boomtown Spindletop   hot   coffee.

Disaster averted.

For now.

Thomas Quitzau grew up in the Gulf Coast region and worked for over 30 years in Houston, Texas. A self-ascribed member of the ZenJourno School of poetry, Tom recently relocated with his family to Long Island, New York where he teaches and writes.

Scroll

Kathryn Merry

October 26, 2022

It takes so little is the thing -

so little

just a muscle or two, some bird thin bones -

to slide so much past glassy eyes

it’s rhythmic

soothing even

except for the shallow breathing

slight grimace

passive paddling thumb

you might appear asleep

at the screen

still driving,

numb to the speed

on the slow drip

of a micro dope hit

it takes so little -

this hypnosis

so little to go nowhere

and get lost

Kathryn Merry was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and spent most of her adult life as an actress based in New York. She is currently living and writing in North Texas with her young family and rascal dog Ralph. Her poetry was featured in 'Soul Art Renewal' by the Greater Denton Arts Council and published by the Denton Poets Assembly in When Poets Meet Poets: A Read and Respond Anthology.

Just Call Out

Donna Freeman

October 9, 2022

Monday. A bad headache. It’s already four, but I can’t wait anymore.

My throat is burning, my stomach keeps churning. I don’t know what I’ve got.

Not even a clue!

Well, there’s my cellphone. Thank goodness for that. I can call a doctor. And I do.

A voice comes on, barely hissing through, “This is the office of … Who are you?”

They hear me complain. The voice stops dead. Suddenly some music.

Not wanting to be rude, I don’t interrupt.

It’s Bach’s great B Mass.

So I shut up. (Besides I have nothing else to do).  I make my whole dinner, I’m proud to say,

and learn Bach’s Mass completely by heart while I cook the lasagna.

Yes, and clean the dishes, and put them away!

Then a voice comes on, “We look forward to seeing you.

Just wait a minute. We’ll be right back!”

So glad I got this super phone. Did I tell you what I like the best?

No, it’s not the tone.

It has this thing called mute I can press

and, like magic, give it all a rest!

Donna Freeman started writing poetry at age twelve. Her poetry appears in Wilderness House Literary Review, Blue Lake Review, and Ocean State Poets Anthology: Giving Voice. Donna's poems were selected for RI Public's Radio "Virtual Gallery" and for ekphrastic shows at Imago Gallery and Wickford Gallery.

How The Adventurer in Me Died Behind 5 Bars

Alan Berecka

October 6, 2022

I held out for years. “But you

drive so far to work, what if

you breakdown or have a flat,” 

my wife would say. “In 1492

Columbus sailed the ocean blue

without a cellphone,” I’d reply.

“I’m sure your random knowledge

of heroic couplets and bad actors

will come in handy in the middle

of nowhere should you have a wreck

on those backroads you take,” she’d scoff.

“Life is a grand adventure, and I’m off,”

I’d shout and head for the door.

But somewhere along the line

as my testosterone levels waned

her refrain morphed into common sense, 

so now I live under the safety of a net-

work of cell towers strewn across

the desolate south Texas landscape,

and I keep roadside support programmed

into speed dial just in case, just in case...

Alan Berecka earns a living as a reference librarian at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi. His poetry has appeared in many journals including The Concho River Review, The Windward Review, Ruminate, and The Christian Century. In 2017 he was named the first Poet Laureate of Corpus Christi.