Best Word Processor Poems
Pain as a Hobby Parts I-IX
Written by Tavarus M. Moreland
Copyright 2010. All rights reserved
Sorry Yulli, it was little unfair to suggest the title
You’re only 23 but I promise to leave room
Heck by that time, I was on my 4th heartbreak
Walking on one of the girl of my dreams fulfilling
Other guys dreams!
I can do this in my sleep
Pain as a hobby
I don’t even feel it no more
My tear ducts have ran out of their supply
Instead it drips on my heart
And leaks through my finger tips
Too much water the ink smudges against the pad
When my first major commitment
Accuses me of physical abuse but she forgot
She was the one hitting me in the face in a car while
We are driving on an expressway going sixty miles per hour
I’m not snitching but I would have needed stitches if I didn’t block
the blows, or worse we could be dead.
What time is it?
Set your alarm
To Tavarus’oclock
I own your time now
Because I’m about to go off
O, mama how we forget
O, now I’m the vindictive liar
Because I wrote a book exposing the truth
Truth, amazing how people run from it.
Somehow they remember themselves being completely innocent.
Anything you attempt to use against me I can just turn it around
Call it alchemy but words are my metal
I can turn and bend them with my mind or use them however I feel
But, “Tavarus aren’t you a Christian”
Sorry again, it’s not as easy as you want it to be.
But Tavarus is Tavarus and Christ is Christ and
There is a big difference in between
Why don’t you give it a try since you have an opinion
Instead of trying to criticize
So before you think I have some screws loose
Just imagine yourself going through what I went through
I’m a pain expert, I can teach you want not to do
My word processor can’t handle all my colloquial but it really can’t keep up with
My soul and my mind and my heart.
But I’m winning this race
Form:
Computer
Mouse CPU
Beeping Correcting Typing Learning
Technology Hardware Software Input
Computer
Dear Computer, have I told you what a great friend you have been?
How you tackle my emotions, turn them sometimes to a win?
Having retired from my career and job of nearly thirty years,
I'd already had my share of joys, more than enough of tears.
The computer age was just beginning, quite a bit too late for me.
I didn't know you were a brand new way of living vicariously.
Perhaps I had a latent talent that I hadn't recognized
And more of a yen for poetry than I had realized
When my son brought a word processor in Nineteen Ninety-nine
And asked me to write my memoirs. No way did I divine
The storm of words that would spew forth, the enjoyment waiting there,
Or the many friends that I would find, who would be glad to share.
In less than a month my son had died. He did not live to know
What a wonder he had given me. I wish that I could show
The honors I have garnered on these pages and on more.
My humble poems have been read in this land from shore to shore.
Poets from other nations have reached out to hold my hand
When I wrote of loss and sorrow, just to say they understand.
My first poems were sad and mournful, for I had lost my son.
It was a way of healing and soon I had begun
To try out the forms and flavors that would make me a poet true
I'm old enough to be great-grandma, but as a poet, fairly new.
Dear computer you now work over-time, every evening after dinner.
I'm happily entering contests and striving for a winner.
Rewritten: For this contest 4/2/15
S truck up the task launcher and set up the word processor
I guess you’d say that’s my professor.
T hat’s the easy part when nothing makes sense in my head.
T he hardest part is being inspired.
I ’d swear my brain cells are dead .
N ever had a dry spell that lasted this long
G od, I must be doing something wrong.
A lot of issues have been at stake here,
T rying to shake my faith via fear.
M aybe it’s happening for a lesson.
Y es, that’s it I’m guessing.
C omfort zones act like they are your best friends,
O nly your good is not always their desired ends.
M any times the Lord has to shake you up and
P ossibly remove a comfort zone or two
U ntil one learns what he should really do.
T his I know Lord, is happening now,
E ver grateful, to Thee I humbly bow,
R everently I ask you Lord, to guide us through.
It's a pooible idea that we set our love aside,
It’s a pooible idea that we need to take a break,
It’s a pooible idea that our time has come and gone,
It’s a pooible idea that love’s hiding in forsake...
It's a pooible idea that this poem's only poo,
It's a pooible idea that there's someplace left to hide,
It’s a pooible idea that our worm has not yet turned,
It’s a pooible idea that you've no place by my side.
But impooible’s the thought that my heart beats without you there,
And impooible’s the thought that our future does not shine
Yes impooible’s the dream of our two lives not entertwined
And impooible’s a world that lives where you’re no longer mine!
Brian Johnston
October 2,2014
Poet's Notes:
OK world! I've invented two completely new words here in one poem! What do you think! Actually I was using the word processor on PoemHunter typing the word possible and when I proof read the test I discovered that the stupid software had written 'pooible' instead of 'possible. The rest is history!
The Internet Age
Great, snow-flocked pines, of unimagined beauty
soar over the vagaries of on-line banking
There, among the towering clouds, and
I-pad intentions, a stillness persists,
unchanged for millennia
Alone, in my designs, carefully crafted in words
and images, I invoke meaning from faraway times,
Content to back-them-up in my word processor-
Inspired by the poetry of Timothy Donnelly
12/06/10
© All Rights Reserved
(5) Ode For Me
Don’t be down
Don’t be sad
It was not meant to be
He’s got you
You’ve got him
And I have still got me
(6) Mark of Respect
Oh, I know all about respect:
After all, father,
Didn’t you leave its mark
Many times on my defenceless body
With you ham-fists and leather belt?
Didn’t you sear it into my brain
With your whiplash tongue?
Didn’t I learn respect the hard way
Whilst your were losing yours?
(7) Process
Oh, how I’d love a word processor!
I’d be over the moon; delighted.
Al my s lly spolling misstaks
Would be electronically righted!
(8) Leap of Faith
“Faith can move mountains”
the preacher said.
“I can and will fly”
said the man on the ledge.
The mountain didn’t budge.
Neither did the pavement.
All my friends are poets
and I'm glad that this is true.
I would probably give it up
if not for comments from you.
When I feel it's not worth posting
your comments say I'm wrong.
If it wasn't for your encouragement
I wouldn't last too long.
So this poem is written for all of you
and you know who you are.
I'd never find such loyal friends
if I traveled to a star.
Hey. Star travel. Can't you see it?
Load up the word processor, Ma.
Thanks to all of you...Lary
I entered a little contest on the soup
Where entries were judged according to
Merit and favor and everything good
With a judge who knows poetry as they should
My entry was scribbled on the back of a card
Then written on paper in the form of a poem
Soon I came to the computer’s word processor
And wrote it all down with dashes and a formula
The words came to me through my hopes and ideas
Dreams that did soothe me with a muse that bleeds
Through insights and feelings that prompt me to see
Hues of rich scarlet and gracefully intimate scenes
Soon the words beckoned me with their ideas
To listen to the deliberation of rhymes and rhythms
Signaling delights that fought to be in sentences
That formed stanzas broken only by delightful couplets
I welcomed the verses so enchanting and fulfilling
Calling out to me through the flow of lines and sections
Causing me to see that both poetry and prose belong
To the writer who listens to the call within their soul
Would the judge of my poem see the light it illuminated
Or would they be drawn to the sentences that appeased
The disillusionment and discouragement that flowed inside
The pen who lost sight of the demands that it should win
Clutching at straws, I hoped for a wonderful victory
With the liquid ebony that milks adjectives and adverbs
From the rich prayers that drain through my heart’s veins
Soothing and blessing my aspirations with inspirations
Clutching at Straws Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
September 19, 2020
Ploughing
The farmer has ploughed the land around the almond trees
the earth is rust red I took up a handful it was lumpy, full
of dead plants and still warm from the sun.
A breeze was blowing shaking dust of trees and upending
parasols in gardens of those who do not till this land, but
want to be a part of the rustic idyll, tend rose bushes with
gloved hands to avoid callouses on hands used to type on
a word processor, where they try and fail to share the peace
they have found among small farmers travail.
I have the camera with me, but use it not how does
one shoot a picture of the wind or branches of a tree
moving rhythmically as the second dancer at a Bolshoi
performance attended by the prime minister.
Think I will leave the wind to a painter friend of mine.
I always wake up angry.
Every time.
Every single solitary time.
I'm not joking.
And I jump out of bed enraged.
Sophie Dog wakes up angry too.
She growls at me, as I pull her covers off.
I wouldn't have to do that if she would give me a little space,
but she doesn't.
Butt to butt we sleep.
I go to the bathroom and she taps down the hallway toward the doggie door.
uh-oh. The light is on.
This means we've got company.
It's 3:30, the witching hour, why is the warlock up?
I tiptoe to the kitchen, hoping to make my coffee and sneak back to my
word processor before he catches me.
After fifty years together, he still wants snuggles.
In the morning?
I don't even want to see his face or talk to him.
I get back to my desk without a hitch.
Then I hear his office door open.
Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk.
Did he forget I'm not a morning person?
I drink two sips of coffee, but it's not enough.
My voice yells, "I'm counting!"
I'm always counting.
Syllables.
Wonderful. Three.
Perpendicular. Five.
Phonetically. Four.
Silence.
Warlock's footsteps go away.
I'm such a witch in the morning.
I even despise myself.
The best of years
in a side room where things are put to be used later but never will
there is an old “brother” typewriter gathering dust, bought a day
I felt like Mike Spillane, drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes
while writing rapidly about the hidden crime world of Liverpool.
I went into pubs where the gangsters are supposed to hang out
and were met by people buying me pints of beer and telling jokes.
Then, the word processor came along, spelling was not a burden.
Yes, I know, I sold out for a better life; I miss the tapping sound
Pure nostalgia I wrote a poem of love, the one who disappeared
In wider and wider circles, I walked till she was smoke and mirror.
One day I will take the “brother” out and try to locate her.
I am a word processor the child said.
I am a wordsmith.
I am a word dealer.
I am a word player.
I smiled at the child.
She continued.
I am a word hero.
I am a word expert.
I was so amazed by her six-year-old sassy confidence
That I had no words.
I.
A young boy in a desert trailer,
wishes inspiration will fall in him,
pitter, patter, like raindrops,
transforming into keytaps,
on the ancient yellow-screened word processor
that was his father's pride and joy.
The letters are angular, ancient, precise.
like gemstones that are opaque,
on the dumb surfaces of which
are carved crude words from dead languages.
Miles of moving wind cover the land
where the trailer sits, with the boy inside.
The human drama is tiny.
Paper turns yellow quickly.
People hope for something better.
The boy who once dreamed of gold,
will be overcome by mathematics and despair,
and a homesickness he doesn't understand.
But first:
II.
It is autumn, and the leaves of gold,
fall whirling from the lonely trees.
No frost yet on the windows, just
a shiver in the breeze.
Now summer's blanket, thin and bare
hangs shredded in the sky
where winter, careless, loveless, fair,
runs endless, bright, and dark, and high.
But I forget where I am, and then
when winter comes the river floods,
the dark eyed deer disappear, and leave
the leaves, the rain, the ash, the blood.
I would like to call the World's Wind
from Heaven's vault, as we did when young,
but I fear no leaf will move, no tree
will turn when all my breath is gone.
III.
The boy's feet grow tough from miles of road,
his ears attuned to the mumbling of the world,
he disappears.
But sometimes a man wakes up
and finds himself looking
for something
he doesn't know what.
In Shakespeare’s day there is no doubt,
There were fewer poets, they were weeded out.
For few of them had a will like Will,
To write their thoughts with ink and quill.
With computers at our beck and call,
We can type it out, we can say it all
And then add some more another day,
Even though we don’t have much to say.
How many plays would he have written,
With a word processor to help him write them
Is something we will never know,
Because he lived so long ago.
He lived to only fifty-two.
That’s not much time in which to do
All those famous plays, but without a fuss,
He wrote those wonderful words for us.
And to think he wrote them all by pen,
And just like other famous men
Of yesteryear, he didn’t shrink,
From writing everything in ink.
So listen now, ye men of prose,
Do you think you could have written one of those
With only just a pen to do it
And no word processor to help you through it?
If so, you’re a better poet than I,
For the truth is that I wouldn’t try
To write for my posterity
Burdened by such austerity.
by: Joyce Johnson