the prompt was OVERLOADED

OVERLOADED
My mind was overloaded

I’d jammed it to the hilt

No room was left for gladness

Only misery and guilt

My mind was overloaded

I couldn’t sleep a wink

I tossed and turned forever

There was no room to think

My mind was overloaded

My blankets made me sweat

My toes were cramped and twisted

I could only turn and fret

My mind was overloaded

I tried to say a prayer

Either God was on vacation

Or He simply wasn’t there

My mind was overloaded

My wife began to snore

It brought to mind my lover

Who always knew the score

I poked her in the rib cage

I asked her for advice

She answered me with kisses

No need to ask her twice.

Andy

SOMEONE ELSE

Someone else has sat in your seat. Someone else had had your idea. Someone else has led your life. Someone else has stood in the rain or snow and stared at a discarded bouquet of roses on the ground. Someone else has shed these tears before.

Yet for a moment, that first moment you felt it or experienced it, that hard flat surface beneath you or the bright shocking revelation that 2+2=4 or that indeed this girl is the one and only one for you, that moment is yours and yours alone. And then it’s gone, and you are left with that old proverb’s famous words, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

But I prefer to think to myself, “But what a sun!” and the thought that he and I and you and I and even she and I are looking at the same sun is a beautiful thing, and can threaten to overload my mind. There is nothing new it’s true. The world is very old, but it is also very beautiful. Especially if you try to see it for the first time everyday.

Scott

OVERLOADED

Overloaded

From my hair to my toes

Overloaded

From my guts to my nose

Overloaded

Like a ship about to sink

Overloaded

Like a drunk’s last drink

Overloaded

Like someone in trouble

Overloaded

Like bursting his bubble

Overloaded

By ice and snow

Overloaded

Like a burlesque show

Overloaded

Like an derelict’s yawn

Overloaded

Like a cop’s baton

Alex

STRANGERS AGAIN

The Nash, cut down into a truck of sorts and overloaded, rolled along on three tires and a rim that wailed a constant complaint.  Each expansion joint in the concrete punctuated the protestation with sharp metallic blows.  For all the noise there was not quite enough to fill the big quiet caused by a motor silenced by the lack of gas.  A hot breeze sanded over the sunburned faces of those passengers perched on the patched canvas covered remains of their lives.  Their dirty hands gripped the canvas tightly, their fate on the downgrade, brakes burning.

Al looked over at Floyd, but they were strangers again.  Their night on the Colorado River was a couple of hundred miles ago, and the Mojave had since sucked all the juiciness out of the memory.  Floyd looked resolutely ahead, knowing he was being watched.  The increasing wind whipped at his open shirt and the sunlight counted his ribs.  He was as dark as an Indian, except for his knuckles.

Daniel

ODE TO FACEBOOK

Too much talking

Too many words

You need to stop

You've already been heard

Too many messages

And notifications

Please give it rest

And go on vacation

I guess it's entitlement

I guess it's fear

That makes you think

You're all I want to hear

Please take your comments

Your updates and such

To your own bulging mind

We've all had enough

Emily


OVERLOADED
Weight Limit!
Feeling overloaded!? Some people have figured out how brains work.
Important names, dates, secrets, poems, criticisms, jokes, catchy phrases?
Where have we put these thoughts? In long term or short?
Can I recall or even remember to search out what matters most to my friends and family?
Overloaded equals a full life--or agony & sleepless nights.
I think I'll just watch another movie.
Writing helps.

Liz

OVERLOAD
Information overload
Is the frustration of the day.
Too many stings, and things
That attempt my mind to sway'

Gigas, megas,and other bytes
Filling up our brains
without something else to store them
I would simply go insane.

A simpler life is better
It brings me peace of mind.
And of course, my music,
Which helps me to unwind.

I don't think we're intended
To walk upon this road
The information highway
To systems overload!

Mike

CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT

There are lots of things in this world

That I can plainly live without,

Things like pain and sorrow

Or hate and fear and doubt.

I can do without commercialism

During the “Holiday Season”

When everyone’s running hither and yon

Without their sense of reason.

I can do without country music

That’s clearly too depressing

With the IQ’s of a two year old

They’re certainly not impressing.

Heavy Metal Death Music

I can easily live without that.

It sounds to me a lot more

Like someone’s strangling a cat!

Polka, Salsa, and Disco,

They’re too boring to be hap.

Last and definitely least of all

This hideous thing called rap.

I can do without the politics

Of presidents and kings

Who make reasons to make wars

Which in make other ghastly things!

I can live without degradation

And jealousy and pride.

I can live without the secrets

In our lives we try to hide.

I can live without abuse

From my father or my mother.

I can live without the things that keep us

From helping our sisters and brothers.

But I cannot live without love

Not even for one minute!

Without a love to share the world

I’d rather not be in it.

Michael

Inserts (updated)

Preface:
In the course of writing a project there is a tendency to rush to the finish line with the plot, and essential details, characters, and settings don't get the author's attention until after the fact. Here then are a few additions to the ongoing narrative 'Cardomon'.
This entry will be updated periodically.

Week 1

Homer stepped onto the stage, faced the assembled colonists. They had their best outfits on, tidiest hair arrangements, and most subdued attitudes.

He spoke: “We meet here for the sake of Kasimira Chenko, our fallen comrade. I didn’t know her well, and I can’t find anybody that did. My experience with her on the job was always good. Kasimira worked hard and cheerfully; I was glad to have her on my crew.

“Administrator privileges gave me access to her personal space on the network. I found a diary—unfortunately there aren’t any entries since we awoke. The last one is dated the day we checked in for hyber-sleep. It was a dry statement of facts. I want to read to you another passage; so we have a memory of this fine young woman. The date is six months before we embarked, and marks an auspicious moment.

“She wrote: The Planetary Foundation says our ship, the Prairie Schooner number 17178, is finished and ready for us! There’s a party out in the barracks and the excitement is insane. I’m giddy—like I’ve had champagne but I’m sober as ever.

“Four years some of us have been here, and now Academy is finished soon. I’ll miss it, even the barracks and calisthenics before breakfast.

“But the news means our future is at hand. Reality comes to replace classroom training. I’m ready!

“I’m full of energy when I think of the work ahead. Full of hope and anticipation. Our own land and house, room for the family!

“We can’t have doubts about this. We will make a future, and it’s going to be strong. There isn’t a choice.

“I believe this colony is the best group of people ever sent to start a planet. I’m honored I’m in the pioneer group. Do all the hard work but I get to be everywhere first!

“We have a great job to do, and a great world to make. We make it our way, for our people, and our future. I only wish there was more of me to share the pride.”

Homer paused; then: “I love that enthusiasm. Many of you share it. Like Kasimira, I’m  proud to be of this group. She loved us all. Let’s have a moment of contemplation… ”

Heads bowed.

A minute later, Homer continued: “Her remains were cremated. We designated the vacant lot across from the Biology Hut for a memorial park. We have a stone carver—Marcus, would you stand up?”

Short, dark, massive shoulders and arms, a block of a face with scowling dark eyes and a big jaw. Marcus nodded a few times and resumed his seat.

“Marcus will make a monument.” An awkward pause. “Before we conclude; would anybody like to add any words?”

A woman stood; tall, black hair, bright eyes. “I’m Suthra. I didn’t know Kasimira well—she liked ‘Kas’, actually—we were in the same berth and had tea most mornings. All her friends are in hyber-sleep; I hate to think of telling them.

“Kas was in a partnership with a half-dozen friends from Callahan. They intend to found a produce marketing cooperative, she was on the pioneer crew to scout land for their farms.

“She had three suitors—they planned a double marriage and a huge rambling house with space to have a dozen babies. Karleen, Nelson, and Dennis; their life is torn apart, and they don’t know it. I’m so sad for them…

“I can’t think of more to say. I only had tea with her a few times. We mustn’t forget her, even if she was only on Cardomon for a couple of days; Kas is part of us…

“Thank you… Thank you, Kas.”

Suthra sat down.

No other words.

Week 3

They entered Commissary. Jody and three others readied the room; tables collapsed, folded, stacked; and the chairs set out in arched rows facing the stage. Snacks and drinks, hot, cold, salty, sweet, caffeine, and light alcohol; against the wall, stage left.

          Meeting time in fifteen minutes. Colonists filtered in, voices and laughter echoed.

Paul and Mellisa went for the treats. The young scientist saw eyes on the physician; suspicious looks, angry glances.

Scatology

What are the fly's favorite snack foods?
Feces Pieces, Poop Tarts, and Eskimo Cowpies

GARBAGE SALE

Why do we fill our heads
with such useless information?
A question oft I ask myself
much to my consternation.

Life would doubtlessly go on,
probably even finer.
And what does all this have to do
with the price of tea in China?

Why nothing, I assure you,
it’s just to make you think.
Some of the crap that fills my head
belongs in the toilet, not the sink!

So if your dreams are nightmares
and peace you cannot find,
Hold a mental garage sale
for the garbage in your mind.

Michael

i’m luckier than jesus

i’m luckier than jesus

i’m not god's misbegotten son

i wasn’t sent here on a mission

i didn't come to ransom anyone

i wasn't born in a stinking manger

I wasn’t nine months in a womb

though i’ve been hurt and slandered

i’ve never been a dead man in a tomb

i’m luckier than jesus

and his twelve apostles too

they tried to maim me in a circus

and made me fight bulls in peru

i never rode a donkey like a king

that never knew his life was lost

before the crowds turned into fiends

i wasn’t broken on a cross

i’m luckier than jesus

my words are not a scandal

i never healed the deaf and blind

i don’t wear bloody sandals

sexually and physically abused

i could always run and hide

i never had to live the truth

unlike him i always lied

i’m luckier than jesus

and king and ghandi too

he turned water into wine at canaan

i just entertain the well-to-do

so i’m luckier than jesus

i’m not god's misbegotten son

i wasn’t sent here on a mission

i didn't come to ransom anyone

alex

Mr. Debonaire

       Ronson was the kind of guy that kept a chainsaw near the bathroom sink for his biannual shave. He used straight lye for soap and shampooed with gasoline. He was known for his impeccable grooming. The doorman at the Slimepit always led him to the head of the line; much to the envy of the starlets and gigolos in the perpetual queue.
        It's nice to be a VIP