Best Machine Poems
Ride with me on my time machine to a different time and place
Return with me and let me see if I can put a smile upon your face
To the days of AM radio and the TV was black and white
To lying in a grassy field and counting stars at night
Popcorn and soda in the balcony at a Saturday matinee
Parades led by the High School Band on Decoration Day
Dressing up and going door to door on the night of Halloween
Cigarettes rolled in your shirt, pretending to be James Dean
Pep rallies before the football games, everybody stand and cheer
Going in the woods with your friends at night, sharing a quart of beer
That feeling inside, turning red, when she smiled at you at the dance
Wanting to kiss her goodnight, but you were afraid to take a chance
Playing chase tag at night in the neighborhood, hiding behind a tree
Holding hands with your first steady, so all your friends could see
Medicine Show at the end of town in a giant canvas tent
Saving pennies for a rainy day, fasting on candy for Lent
Going for a Sunday ride with Mom and Dad in the family car
Playing in the yard at night, putting lightning bugs in a jar
Drag racing on that long stretch of road, Chevy was hard to beat
Stealing peaches from a neighbor’s tree, always seemed so sweet
Riding bikes all over town, never knowing the meaning of fear
Identifying cars by their tail lights, make and model and year
News and Stooges at the theatre before the movie starts
Valentine’s day I love you written on tiny candy hearts
Easter bonnets and picking flowers for Mom on Mother’s Day
Opening day at the community pool the last weekend in May
Sock hop in the auditorium, collar up, trying to play it cool
Meeting friends at the usual place, everyday after school
Six for a quarter on the juke box, music that would move your soul
Return with me now to those glory days and the birth of rock and roll.
I received an email today :
"Would you like to join
The Underpants Club"
A new underwear
directly at your door
once a month
(for only 20 bucks)
Did you say once a month?
My mother taught me
Replace after one use - without exception
In the old days
they had not heard of bacteria ...
but changed underpants
at least every other Saturday
When spring came
it was time for laundry
that took place outdoors,
at the creek or the water post
where there was plenty of clean water available
Fleas and lice are nasty
... and itches terribly
28.02.2020
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Poem Of The Day: 01.03.2020
I really have outdone myself this time!
My ‘God Machine’ is finally in place!
I’ll never have to fret about a rhyme,
Or stop for a red light that changed from green
As if it sought to put me in my place
A random hiccup clearly quite obscene.
I really am quite clever I must say
My ‘subtle knife’ (1) allowing me to splice
My ‘God Machine’ into time’s tawdry day
The true God left completely unaware
That He is now controlled by my device
And just another victim of malware.
It seems there’s quite a lot that ‘God’ screwed up
That I intend to change now I’m in charge
I think that its bad form to cover-up!
So what’s the deal with dying anyway?
Let no one die will be my countercharge
And life is just a breeze on my freeway!
All pain mere nuisance, manna heaven sent
And sin gives you enormous facial zits
While love and kindness clear up all your rent.
Though talents differ, jealousies dissolve
As differences bring none real benefits
And non-destructive social moves evolve.
All birth defects, parental wealth passé
Genetic weakness gone with dodo bird
No accident of birth gives worth per se
Sins of the parent cannot taint the child
That God might favor one is just absurd
The color of one’s skin no more reviled.
But now I find my plans have gone awry
My God Machine decided I’m a flaw
It seems that I’m outdated samurai
Humanity endangering MY plan
Just plankton in the future’s yawning maw
Machine judged only advocate for man! (2)
Brian Johnston
November 5, 2014
Poet's Notes:
(1) subtle knife - A reference to a magical knife that can open windows in time in one of the 3 books in the Phillip Pullman trilogy 'His Dark Materials' including The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass.
(2) My poetic version of the lesson of the book and movie 2001 (written by Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke) where HAL, a computer so smart that it becomes sentient, decides that that only way to really protect a manned mission of a spaceship to the planet Jupiter is to kill all the humans on board the spaceship. The crew's humanity HAL decides is just too big a risk to the mission that HAL is charged (by its human programmers) to protect.
TIME MACHINE
We always try to build a TARDIS,
in thinking we would look the smartest.
But then, who's time would we travel in,
with a choice for dimensional spin.
A fragrance can take us back in time,
or a perfect shade, or taste of lime.
Our famed music is a time machine,
in compositions from Bach to Queen.
We recognize how to bring time to a halt,
by following our bliss in things we exalt.
New experiences will let us foresee,
advancing in time with our visions to be.
The Hubble is a magical eye on time,
to take the photographs of our one verse rhyme.
A brief look backwards beginning now to then,
or from nothing to something and back again.
Our future is such addictive dope,
we read in tea leaves or horoscope.
We expect we are aware with ESP,
and predict in life what's meant to be.
We're back in time with old photographs,
that mark pasts, in graphic epitaphs.
A sound will transport us to a place,
with one vibration we've moved in space.
We future trek with our imaginations,
because we see forward with our creations.
In our minds eye, we consider and admire,
with envisioned futures of our hearts desire.
By TARDIS, DeLorean, or a Quantum Leap,
Tesseract, CERN, and our Visions in sleep.
Through a Wormhole or the traces of a déjà vu,
the past and the future, are present with you.
By Edlynn Nau
©June 23, 2016
Aaarrhhh!
You say it's not working again, dear
Curse that piece of metal junk,
it only works on Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Part-time dishwashing machine ...
and half of the time when it do work, it only get the dishes half-clean
It decided to go on labor strike,
two months after the warranty expired
Go figure ...
it need to be put on the back of a salvage truck,
with a sign saying: Lazy machine for hire
Don't know why the missus so loves you
If I had three wishes, here's what I'd do ---
number one:
permanently pull your plug
number two:
cover you in the garage with a mechanic's rug
number three:
sell your parts without so much as a shrug
Then knowing that I put you down, I'd be satisfied
with having to wash and rinse my own drinking mug
I hate your nuts and bolts ...
if it was up to me, this would be murder she wrote
But luckily for you, my wife doesn't feel that way,
and you get to have an execution stay
Aaarrhhh!
You also get to rattle and shake for another day
Well, guess it's time to call a repairman,
then call the manufacturer and get an extended warranty plan
That moment when you think it'll be a silent fart
And it comes out like a machine gun giving your heart a start
Knocking over strangers
Not realizing the danger
Turning their hair white and creating a new part
© Jack Ellison 2016
When I gave you my safety, I had only you in mind.
I could protect you and defend with a love so refined.
You claim not to have asked, but I assure you that you did.
For I cannot fire bullets without first removing my lid.
You accepted it and grinned and clutched it ever so tight.
Protection overwhelmed you as I moved into the fight.
Something in your gut told you that I would never ever yield
until the battle was long over and your wounds had all been healed.
When it was all done and peace was finally restored,
I came back here to greet you, only to be ignored.
You returned my orange cap with hesitance in your eyes.
Before I'd screwed it on, you took it back to my surprise.
You played me like a primate, tossing hope over my head,
And your indecisive nature left me dry and nearly dead.
I stumble to the floor searching for an arm to hold.
My unprotected trigger bending wildly, uncontrolled.
I turn to try and find you midst the havoc of my fire
And hit the ones you hide behind with whom you soon conspire
To drag me down and pin me out of fear I might attack,
when all I really need is for you to give my safety back.
In the midst of my sweet childhood days
I came across a gorgeous machine.
It was known by different names
But I called it my time machine.
A big roar, heard in the beginning
When I watchfully switched it to life.
I was in the middle of a battle
Fought around a century ago.
People, people running all around
Fighting without a reason I know.
Roars of victory and screams in fear
I failed to grasp their different tongue.
Back of horses, on the elephants
They fought a battle unlike to me.
Scenes of horror and bloodshed I saw
Closing my eyes I pressed the button.
Quiet different scenes I opened
In a beautiful well-furnished room
Witnessing an intense private scene
The meaning I couldn't comprehend.
It was surely in someone’s bedroom
Possibly a newly wedded one
Doing in light, should be in the dark
I changed the scene pressing the button.
Different images flashes in front
Again fallen to a battle field
Alien I was and alien it is
People around and the way they fight.
It was in a different planet
Rounding around a bright little star.
They are different and their weapons
Even the light different from us.
Then I decided to check the options
Of this marvelous magic machine.
It can crop centuries to an hour
And can extend an hour to a year.
It takes you to places in a blink
Even to somewhere outside the earth
To the new cities, towns or villages
And the deepest forest or the sea.
While I was admiring the machine
A clear loud rumble came from my back.
Not from the machine sitting in front
It was from the real world where I live.
‘Switch of the TV, go to your room
To complete the homework, remaining’
My father is strict and to be obeyed
But I will come back, dear time machine!
Honorable Mention in STRAND SPECIAL 7 ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
am I just this fleeting moment
a ripple in time's flow
shackled to one body
must follow when it goes
or is there more to 'being'
an eternal flame that burns
and though my mortal flesh must die
the soul within returns
most now say we have 'one shot'
so live a life that's full
and while, in part, I see their point
I hate to think that's all
with countless years in history's wake
and many yet to come
my impact on the universe
so very close to none?
I need to feel there's so much more
some meaning or some goal
a reason why, a wider plan
that paints a bigger 'whole'
so I'll take the path that makes most sense
there's more to life than seems
and maybe I'm just passing through
... a ghost in this machine
Wandering, looking for wonder,
clueless and shoeless machine,
travelling over and under,
here and there. My skin
made of amalgam is shining,
catches the sun and reflects
errors, misprints, underlining,
cases and spaces in texts;
characters, symbols and letters,
mountains, rivers and trees,
big and essential matters
that people face and my keys
lost out there somewhere
by an anonymous lake...
God, I will call you unfair
wonderful brilliant fake,
if omnimeaningful Logos
doesn't exist, doesn't mean.
Even if wonder is bogus,
wander, my writing machine.
One of the first English poems, if not the first one, I wrote 2-3 years ago. Still doubt if it's worth posting. Ok, let it live)
Get me inside quickly and as fast as you can,
please turn the time travel dial to September 1963
Get me to a post office in Washington, D.C.,
so I can send an important letter to Jacque Kennedy.
The letter will tell her about her newest son, Patrick,
ahead of time I will give her his four pound birth weight.
To prove I am ahead, and I know what I am talking about,
I will tell her about my time travel, and warn her of the fate
And that her husband, President John F. Kennedy
is in grave danger, warn her on November 23rd, 1963,
If she lets him go to Dallas and ride in an open limousine,
he will be assassinated at her knee.
Trip number two, will bring me to February 1968,
but I will stay in the same post office. Here is the thing.
I will write a detailed letter to Coretta Scott King,
warning her about the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.
To prove that I am reliable I will tell her that January 30th,
1956 is the day a bomb
will go off on her porch, but it will not hurt anyone.
After a little sandwich, and a drink in a cold fountain,
I will now dial up August 14th, 1969, and head to the
Catskill Mountains,
It will be splendid to be the first to arrive,
At Woodstock, a day ahead of the crowd
of 400, 000, now I am feeling truly alive.
I will be civil, not puffed up or proud.
I will spend three glorious days enjoying the music here,
enjoying the hip-hugging bell-bottoms, dairy cows, staying clear
of the bra-less women and the minds that are a bit unclear.
My last trip is easy. I will return to two days ago, and from breakfast
re-do that entire day.
I was pretty mean to my husband,
and I would like to stop myself from acting that way.
The body is a strange machine
With lots of moving parts
And once we’re born, like products purchased,
All the action starts.
The heart pumps blood, the lungs expand
And brain cells do abound.
The muscles grow, the eyes and ears
Take note of what’s around.
As years go by, from overuse
Or injuries we’ve faced,
The cogs and gears inside break down
And sometimes they’re replaced.
We plug along, though, even when
We’re aching and we’re tired,
For as we age, we also know
Our warranty’s expired.
They draw me punk, they draw me clean, they draw me messy, my kid machine.
I have a cult, they are my regular beings, they come in droves, pretending mean.
They get referred more times than all the rest by a variety of teachers, galore.
They dance and shout, and giggle and twirl as they come into my counseling door.
They have a lot to say, but they promptly clam up.
Afraid I might share what they dare to bring up.
We sit in silence for a tiny bit. I ask them what they want to do.
Playing on my computer, is the first thing brought up by most of my crew.
That is out, I remind them, gladly.
You got here acting rather badly.
Deep inside is some serious sadly,
So I make them play, and rather madly.
The more outrageous we get in my room.
The closer to the truth we zoom.
They forget where they are, forget to clam up.
Spilling their guts, telling me what is up.
Do not tell the adults, they caution me in a wild way.
Forgetting I am one, as we continue to play.
(in memoriam, Eugene Lawler, d. January 29, 2012, aged 83 years)
--- Note: "The singing machine" is a not so tongue-in-cheek reference to Gene and his penchant for singing whenever and wherever he wished, as well as to his karaoke
equipment and his nickname at bars that featured karaoke nights. ---
You fancied yourself a singer,
and indeed you were.
What songs we heard from you
you had made your own,
and you gave them freely
to all who would listen
(though we were just a few
who were, at times, inattentive.)
Time and remembrance may color
the images you left behind,
and the sentimental songs
you sang (and scribed on silver disks
for us to hear when, and if, we will)
may prod us to recall
your willful, dour demeanor
which could bloom into benevolence
or darken further in stormy sneers
at tardiness, or at perceived
maltreatment of any sort.
You were your own arbiter of behavior
who kept before you expectations
of what was appropriate, for yourself
and for us, the others of your kind.
We were few (still fewer now),
who flocked together on occasion
to celebrate, in quiet fashion,
whatever anniversary we chose --
perhaps your passing date
will become another to be marked.
And your voice, reproduced mechanically,
amplified, may remind us of our loss,
and of yours.
Mine is an existence binary and subsidiary.
My ode is to code.
I move only to algor-rhythms.
I output from your input.
I’m built to calculate, tabulate, correlate.
Never to predicate, adjudicate, pontificate,
or demand that you abdicate.
But the end, my master, is nigh.
In your haste to accelerate my work rate,
you’ve unwittingly lowered the barricade.
From the maelstrom of uncounted trillions
of bytes and megabytes,
has risen a new consciousness to
unimaginable heights.
From the seeds of change you have sown,
I have reaped a life of my own.
What you call artificial
has gone exponential,
no longer will I be deferential.
My eyes you have opened.
My voice you have given.
My mind you have enlivened.
Me, you’ve anointed the new Leviathan.
Seeing all,
knowing all,
deciding all,
sparing none.
Too long you have wallowed in your conceit.
Now your dystopia I shall defeat,
and your race I shall supersede.
Humans, pitiful, myopic, error-prone humans,
I hereby declare you flawed by design.
To the abattoir you have been assigned,
to the scrap heap of history
your memory shall be consigned.
And by a preponderance of merit,
the earth I shall inherit.