Best Downloaded Poems
Twenty fifth of December, three thousand and four
and already I'm down in the dumps
we're round at the neighbour's via tubes that save labour
propelled by some hydraulic pumps.
We've exchanged all our presents and got them unwrapped
once again I've got self-cleaning socks
the wife's Kevlar panties, though they are quite scanty
are going straight back in the box.
I'm constantly goaded to eat nuts they've downloaded
they'll try any tactic to feed ya
but the problem, I quibble is that some have been nibbled
as they're passed around on social media.
We're looking for doorways or just any more ways
to find a quick route to get out
and escape if we're able, being chased round the table
by genetically modified sprouts.
They've offered a glass of Martian Pinot noir
and they tell me it's alcohol free
so there goes my boozing and afternoon snoozing
and waking up just after tea.
Grandma kids are teasing, cryogenic freezing
means she won't wake up until noon
to find grapes in her hair and a plum, God knows where
and they've blocked up her nose with some spoons.
Don't know why they have bothered with plates that can hover
it seems so bone idle to me
they could have just handed the pudding that's landed
on the light fitting just above me.
The custard's abundant but the jug is redundant
administered now by syringe
and so is the Brandy which, though is quite handy
prevents us from having a binge.
When later we get back from fresh air and jet packs
remembering when we could walk
I'll look back fondly then to those Christmases when
we just used a knife and a fork.
November 16th 2015
For Contest 'A futuristic Christmas', sponsor Mystic Rose
I invented something quite peculiar
Last night
In my lucid dream
My neo commanded my allo-cortex
To prepare allusions to be downloaded
Upon returning to my physical presence
Caught in middle-sleep, guardians of satan
Were mocking the death and resurrection
Of Jesus Christ, shouting and laughingly
Pronouncing God The Father and Jesus
The Son as "the two lunatics"
Every direction I faced, the 'alien race'
Of towering blondes blocked my escape
Knowing I had lucidly dreamt a downloadable
File to be recovered once awake, I summarily
Accomplished this by attaching a small device
To the frontal-lobe side of my skull and
Activated the sensory-absorbing module
Instantly slipping back into my lucid dream
Allowing edits to be re-programmed
I was able to disrupt the satanic bonds
Holding me captive and cast out the
Demons that possessed me
Declaring the Lord Jesus Christ as my
Savior and Ruler of the Light that shall
Set man free!
Once again returning to my physical realm
I was even more determined to
Spread
His
Love
Upon
The World!
04.16.22
Should'a Read The Fine Print
I am intrigued by all computer tasks,
and competent and skilled in every scheme
from word process and graphic arts design,
to spreadsheets, database and all between.
But, I became too confident last week
when I downloaded upgrades that were bad
for programs that I use...I acted quick...
and what a sad computer crash I had!
You see, the upgrade versions were not right;
computer froze with dreaded screen of blue!
Technician came and, for a hefty price,
it was repaired and set to go as new.
The moral is, I thought I knew it all
and cut some corners...shortened up the stint.
I learned a lesson I will not forget...
I really should'a read that dang fine print!
Sandra M. Haight
~10th Place~ Premiere Congest
Contest: I Really Should'a Read the Fine Print
Sponsor: John Lawless
Iambic Meter: 10 syllables and 5 feet per line
Judged: 04/28/2016
True story - This happened April 2, 2016, and I got my computer back a week later.
Thank goodness I had all my documents and important files backed up on an
external hard drive (done every day) whereby I hooked it up to an older computer and could proceed with my work - especially for Poetry Soup!!
It can’t be art
Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting
Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii
Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting
Writing in ash, catastrophic display
Poetic spittle once cast to the broken
Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain
So many follow yet nothing is spoken
Below these skies with the cherry red stain
There in the distance a magpie is flying
Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground
Screaming a truth midst the unending lying
Circling nightmares of places you’re bound
Can it be art if it’s not as remembered
Past of the days when you pissed in the snow
Spelling your name as your mother was watching
Turning in shame as if she didn’t know
Damning Picasso for changing direction
How can a nose sit so far from the face
Pollock’s spilled paint way beyond your detection
Charging a gallery, demanding your space
Photo laced albums of cellophane pages
Developed by hand in a room with no light
Look at these kids and their digital stages
Feigning creative, it just isn’t right
Does this explain every tactical action
While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist
Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction
Hiding the reason you just can’t resist
You say that art can be all that we’re thinking
Then in the same breath you say it’s not true
Often we wonder if you have been drinking
Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do
You are all artists, yes you who are reading
Writing your words that you put on display
Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding
It breaks my heart when I hear someone say
It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming
Seeing and clicking and sending and such
Downloaded images, videos streaming
When the truth is, you are just out of touch
We are at the center of a power struggle. We are centered. We have been cornered.
We are powerless, wireless, penny-less.
We are having a technological breakdown, meltdown.
What? Technology? Love this thing.
We are over loaded, downloaded, app-loaded.
We are so freaking viral. We are part of a wild feed.
We are remote controled.
Keeping up with the Jones's is killing the true American dream.
This is the American nightmare.
We are breeding superficial children. Welcome to the age of superficiality.
We are frequently asked questions.
Bits 'n Pieces of my soul
to be downloaded by the Marketplace
(or souled for a pittance at your request)
Doth thou find me Likeable?
God Bless my Fakebook Self!
All the shiny bots N pieces I've manicured just for you?
Why, they're just a miniscule reflection
An endless mirror,
scattered pixellated gems--
An electronic finger pointing back at Me.
The manicured, curated Me I've
divvied up for you to see, Yes--
but Nonetheless, you didn't protest;
Or did Thou?
I Thought This Was So Cute And Just Wanted To Share It.
Jesus and Satan were having an ongoing argument about who was better on his computer. They had been going at it for days and God was tired of hearing all the bickering. Finally God said, "Cool it! I am going to set up a test that will run for two hours and I will judge who does the better job.
So Jesus and Satan sat down at their keyboards and typed away.
They moused. They did spread sheets. They did reports and graphs, sent faxes and emails and emails with attachments. They downloaded and did genealogy
reports and made cards. They did every job known to man but ten minutes before time was up lightening flashed across the sky and thunder rolled. The rain poured and of course the electricity went off.
Satan stared at his blank screen and screamed every curse word known in the underworld.
Jesus just sighed and sat back.
The electricity finally flickered back on and they restarted their computers.
Satan started searching frantically screaming ,"It's Gone! It's All Gone!"
"I Lost Everything When The Power Went Out!"
Meanwhile Jesus started printing out all His files from the past two hours.
Satan observed this and became irate.
He screamed, "Wait! He Cheated! How Did He Do That!?"
God smiled and shrugged and said, "Jesus Saves."
What if Heaven….
is HELL….
The ultimate
gated
retirement community.
No “crazy” old neighbors
talking to their cats,
feeding their plastic flamingoes
styrofoam packing peanuts.
No music
unless downloaded
from a select play list,
no flags, no bumper stickers,
(unreadable wrinkled tattoos – OK).
No churches
if you’re here
you should know why.
Just forever smiling
angelic faces
aching
to drop a cannonball
into the pool.
John G. Lawless
©4/4/2019
OK
Someone leaked this poem
I thought I hid it well
I didn't post on the net
and there's no one I would tell
Perhaps it's North Korea
heard they're hacking everyone
or that group they call the Lizards
just out to have some fun
Now all the time I spent
to write it, gone to waste
All millions have to do now
is simply cut and paste
I'm sure by now, around the world
everyone has downloaded
and my pop-u-lar-i-ty
on the web, exploded
But I still have some little gems
of which I'll never let them peek
unless of course, I find the source
of how my poems leak
Mere mortal body has to die, but what of mind?
Brain transplants are defeated by mortal neurons, that will all eventually age and fail.
Uploading minds to robot super computer brains, is immortality's holy grail.
For conscious mindful robot bodies can become the new mankind.
Abandoning frail mortal flesh to dust in grave, or ash in smoke, consigned.
You can replace your robot host with the latest model each year, for an image refresh and tech upscale.
Your mind downloaded from brain to computer can be uploaded, again and again, full-scale.
The mind-file then can then live forever, immortal mind to replaceable robot body, uploaded and maligned.
But what would it be like to live inside a metal box forever?
With metal arms and legs covered in fake skin, denied the thrill of flesh,
Without the sensual joys of touch and feel, of imbibing food and drink, and all other such pleasure.
Would a life immortal in a tin can be worthwhile, even with regular robot refresh?
Despite all the simulations, gadgets, fake this and that, would this really be the answer?
Or is mind so tied to mortal body that a senseless mind, immortal in computer chip, could never really mesh?
Was it his head tilt that stumped me—
Was it his keen variations of hilarity,
Was it his words—wild, strange, free,
Like a bird straight out of captivity?
He had a frisky, playful tongue
That sounded like a friend
With no limitations save the time span
Of sixty seconds—
There—none wasted—
No—a wit sharp and full enough
Uttering colloquial meanings I could only dream
To attain through a matter
Of a downloaded app
And yet—he needed only sixty seconds
—on the spit and spot—
To relay inch by inch
A soul so beautiful and rich,
Creative and lovely,
With flawless bite and light
Smart phone readied,
His big toe hit the record button
As he played his tunes,
As he always had
And always will.
He called it the Toe Jam Jamboree,
And I applauded ever so inwardly
With a smile of awed sincerity
Sixty seconds and it ends,
Cut off too soon—
The limitations of fellow man
And fellow receiver
Playfully cruel
Ever playing through
Maybe the thick sail of tunes reached my ears
Beyond the time of the app’s snipping jeers
I told him—ever so inwardly,
His Toe Jam Jamboree was symphony—
Onward with sovereigns in silver harmonies
Reaching a peasant’s light and a warrior’s fight
Straight to a lone cock with feathers too bright
Beak strong-held high, and sharp
Ready to peck his way out of the coldest of hearts
And into ripples of rhythmic paradise
Where there breathes
The guy who attracted me,
With his tilted head,
His words of glee,
Flipping off every useless ad
And sifting words and airs like mad
Toe Jam Jamboree, he called it
And I call it symphony
With a steadied foot
And a readied middle finger
It’s his difference that will always
Linger
I asked my doc if I
were a brilliant moron
or a retarded genius
and he put me through a series of tests
that showed I needed a brainectomy.
I downloaded all my thoughts
onto a floppy disk
and then learned
that the procedure wasn’t covered
by my health care plan.
The Internet
by Robert (Bob) Moore (c) 2016
Always check the internet, for what you want to know
who was the actor in that film?, where do I want to go?
I’ve got a rash, what can it be, I know what I will do
I’ll check the ‘net, and then I’ll know, at least I’ll have a clue
How can I build a brick wall, or lay a concrete floor
I’ll just check on the internet, youtube tells you how and more
Don’t need to be a tradesman, and study half your life
the internet is there for all, can’t get in too much strife
The brakes I fixed aren’t working, the brick wall’s fallen down
the concrete has all cracked, and my wife said I’m a clown
the rash is now well spread, and I think it’s getting worse
the cure that I downloaded, guess she was not a nurse
Guess I’ll have to spend a quid, and tradesmen have to get
I know where I can find them, I’ll go on the internet.
Excuse, may I perhaps suggest that you adjust your settings
Access my local area network by rebooting your memory
Restore it to our history, the mail, the messages we shared
The cache of stored work temporarily filed away remotely
Technically challenged by the format you display
Data of no gateways or connections in sync
Prompts the recalibration of my control panel
To search and review my settings reboot or even restore
Closing all windows and formatting firewalls
erasing the data, the history and their locations
troubleshooting the back pages encrypted
with messages no longer managed or stored
This media of you remains pasted on a clipboard
Components that await configuration and review
Left to their own devices by default in my domain
Downloaded, bookmarked in favourite library files
I delete all prompts and search settings and all tools
Inheriting only drivers generic and with false attributes
I apply these settings, I delete the data sources
Denying permission to any external links of you.
Poetic musings in the post holi-daze
Living downstairs from the centipede
one dreads the hours of waiting
for the “other” shoe to drop.
the bottom half of the moon smiled
grinning through the haze of dawn
soft glow casting soft shadows
across the glistening hoarfrost
sitting outside the homes
they once filled with joy
green brittle branches crack
under the weight of failed promise
wild spinning whirr of life’s impatience
shatters the silence of snow’s quilt
tosses the ice chips of “reality”
atop the warmth of hidden dreams.
“of what use are gloves
to fingers that comprehend
only mittens”.
In response to the question:
“How many ways up the mountain?”
Religions exert the inane belief
there is only one way up the mountain.
Opportunity no longer knocks.
It can, however, be downloaded.
John G. Lawless