Long Programmable Poems
Long Programmable Poems. Below are the most popular long Programmable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Programmable poems by poem length and keyword.
Deflected, crushed by the social retardation,
Not loved, ‘cos he’s altogether unaccepting,
Active learning the robot’s mouth action,
So he can't contextualise, there’s no blessing.
Neither me nor him meet and we sweep by,
There’s no connection from his ANDs and ORs,
Only citadels to weather the reactive cry,
When my nouns are pocketed by many cursors.
Where’s the memory bank and why the chat?
The bus is long gone and I'm open, vulnerable,
There’s no room for social construction’s mat,
To yield identity’s dynamic, recursive turntable.
Yes, microchips and logic gates shouldn't enable,
Machine learning at the cost of root foundations;
Your group, community, your niche and fable,
Ignite the necessary conversation of care situations.
Ok, so can we build a robot? A care robot?
Indeed care assistance is definitely reducible,
To only a small number of abstractions, clot,
‘Cos love does not evade the comprehensible.
Doors class as access, also pavements, steps,
Only three types of garments, two of people,
Friend or foe, but a cloud for certain parapets,
And who’s boss is said before, it's programmable.
“Nothing is new
under the sun!” Sorry,
can’t buy that! Man ill fated then, to
dog-paddle eternally in pools of mediocrity -- never
destined to attain higher pinnacles of physical,
spiritual development? – cursed to always relive the
same themes, patterns; to struggle with repetitive
developmental flaws, manifesting as both inner and outer
soul corruption...rejecting unique
new arrangements, by refusing to alter
programmable psychic disks? – not
capable of exploring the possibility of an evolving
trans-formative mind, with an equally capable feeling heart…
Were I to accept any of this, I would never
write another word of poetry….
Face To Face
Face to face they sit...
brain to brain;
two-eyed flesh machine,
one-eyed blue
laptop screen,
interacting...
systems inputting,
outputting,
precious data.
Face to face they sit,
a complex team
driven to perform
with error-free
precision in a
controlled mini-world
ruled by the god
of technology.
Face to face they sit...
worlds apart,
stark and cold
plastic eye flashing
programmed data;
warm and sensitive
flesh eyes flashing
non-programmable
blue twinkles.
Sandra M. Haight
~5th Place~
Contest: Anacreontic Verse 2
Sponsor: Edward Ebbs
Judged: 01/18/2016
(“The Cave of Unknowing”, 2012, original oil)
As The World Burns
As the world turns
The morning soap operas play out
In print and film, song and dance
Showing on every screen
A world ablaze with fear
Disease, famine, war and rumors of war
Programming the programmable
While I sit in my room a cocoon
Surrounded by dogs
All sprawled out on chair and sofa and floor
Asleep at ease and peace
Filling the house
With their own therapeutic vibe
Beyond worry at least as long as they dream
While I watch and wait
Soothed by their dogged oblivion
As the world outside turns and burns
And I grow just a little more uncomfortable
Filling a delightful cocoon that I know
Must eventually open
Into a great unknown.
(12/11/24)
Anaphylactic identity, constricting logic on the
course towards infinity. Denial is drawn like a tarot
reading, citing that it is all in your head. Hidden
mysteries written in code - the key etched in our
divinity. Searching for a God who shoulders all the
blame while cartographing our lessons with fate
Absolute power behind the circuitry, plugged into
the all-seeing interface led by evasive clues to
keep the system powered up and running smooth
Damage created by those on bended knees,
pointing divisive fingers against our natural instincts
outside of the true spectrum. Wired up and held in
the place of duty - holding on to the inverse of
programmable time, like cogs in a wheel turning,
without enough consciousness left in holding
to seek for records with even a misguided way out
Secret vaults protected by monsters in captivity
Borders and walls surrounded by tales of
adventurous souls, looking upwards and onwards,
over the ocean, and rocketing into the sky. All so
the slave remains blind, swept up in fantasy of
daring escapes - illusions hold them down to work
harder, building an empire that has been falsified
underhand - stolen in the name of dignity. Written
on the tombs of despair to keep us longing for
something else outside of the current of what is
Then came the virus that attacked the hallucinating
code of deception. The binding network struck a
nerve, activating the cleaners to destroy the peace
that held like soldered resistors. The savior agents
dropped from their blinded curses, and took up
their swords like lightning rods. Connected by their
inner potentials, they set out to remind every neighbor
near that the codex has always been within