Long Programmers Poems
Long Programmers Poems. Below are the most popular long Programmers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Programmers poems by poem length and keyword.
Manifest Destiny
by Michael R. Burch
When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.
Manifest Destiny?
I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.
When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.
I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.
We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.
Originally published by Black Medina
NOTE: I wrote this poem when I had a home-based software business and had hired two fine young black men as programmers. They both had keys to my house and I was a minority in my own company. That seems like progress but still doesn't begin to atone for the horrors of slavery.
From one film to the other, your creative styles,
Rebels joined, save a world, then you, sacrificed a girl,
Online programmers that you had caused their riles,
Mr. Santino wanted New York as part of his world,
New bodies agents inhabit, mafia's list, you've been added,
Earned right to learn 'new school', while brother played you for a fool,
Oracle knew that you're the one, as bodies piled while on the run,
Trinity loved you, that you knew, with a price on your head, all wanted you,
Only machines rule off humans' body heat, get Santino, so to be complete,
Just when things weren't cooling down, Cassian searched all over town,
Of the agents, leader wanted to get ahead, on the train, he wanted John dead,
His team want to rescue their own, Cassian he warned, or he wont be around,
Neo wanted to go alone, instead, but Winston told John, "Not here", he said,
World saw the light, Neo did the trick, John didn't have it, he must split quick,
In rousing dance, chants, people are one, eyes o'er shoulders, he's on the run,
Can Neo have a new machines flick, more dinner reservations, 3rd John Wick,
Keanu's versatile--better to none, persona and lifestyle, simply being #1.
~~Born 09/02/1964, Beirut, Lebanon, mother English, from Essex, UK, dad American, from Hawaii, mixed race with Native Hawaiian lineage~~
I hear it said AI in art it is cheating, destroyer of creativity, yet it seems to create something beautiful even if it wasn’t formed by human hands. I use spell check to correct the myriads of spelling errors I make. I use Rhyme Zone to help me find a word that eludes me. A clock tells me what time to get up and suggests what time I should go to bed. No person rings the bell to tell me I left the fridge open or that my frozen meal is finished heating up. If there is a contest for humans in art, we should have one for the users of robots too. I am confused (which isn’t unusual) but to go back to times when we didn’t have artificial intelligence scares me so much. I agree that there is no creativity if I use a robot's brain to paint a picture, write a book or a poem. But if it can do these things it should be praised. AI has a place in this world and it will grow even more prevalent. As long as there are programmers to create AI in all walks of life, we can only benefit. Be proud you have created something wonderful by using AI but admit it. Don’t pretend it was your feelings, your words your creativity. I am not against Ai. I am against folk who secretly use it pretending it is their work, they are plagiarists stealing the credit from robots. Viva human creativity and viva AI to make our lives easier.
Let both have a place.
In this crazy human race.
So AI embrace.
You.played Dylan a song
Is it me or is it you
They buried whats true
Whats life mean to you
Did you turn your back to mother nature
Discovered the beauty with all its order amongst disorder
A hero a pair of all stars,rolled up Levis and a pack of cigarettes
I could only hide
The delicate space of alone
Citizen of a beaten down town
Don't give me any alibis
I can't lie I can't swim if I tried
Its
Accomadating
Modify
Thinking straight
Then getting high
Thinking straight again
Paradise is a song by Guns N Roses
We give our work to the bots
Your welcome programmers and controls
Give me drones or give me New York
Flagship floated
Down a river of
People helping people
Laughing at direction and being out if control
Give me what I shouldn't have
Tie me down with soul fed nothing but toxic soup
But with closed eyes
As a Composed assassin
The serial killer cat
Just knowing him was my demise
Looking at benediction
Artificial sanity
Taunting a nothing of a morning to attention
I heard you play that song for Dylan
When you were done
You were nowhere to be found
She did what she wanted
She found a part of me
Like a numb limb
A branch of destiny
Just nothing you can see
Life a season
Greater than the shadow you cast out
All the time or just
Once in a while
When its never right
Do it twice
Over and over again
Tonight I will not write
of stars, nor moon,
seeds of wisdom--
just mind flattering
bloom--
Nor will I write of love--
neither here nor above;
though our dearest
sentimentality, the heart,
too often foolishly enacts
its own fatality;
and if I decide to write
(which I have not yet)
it will not be the common
dark vs light--
No, not this, low, literary-fruit
will I harvest, arm and lather;
pick high and low to gather--
likewise, I will divest of
good angels vs evil counterparts--
my rules, my pen; therefore, for me,
some spades can be clubs,
and all pointed diamonds I declare
are now well-rounded, suitable, hearts--
Nor will my Poetic-theme
be of great, vast seas;
nor smaller phrases
of streams—the writer’s
usual surge to roar
that calms to a sleepy bore….
and certainly not
will I write about depth
of self esteem--
the shallow image of self
often incapable of
of deep, worthy gleam;
though seldom do others
see us mere puddles
as we to ourselves
are wrong to deem
(though never approaching
the great-self,
alas, most of us
will only let dream)--
so, tonight, self for me will rest...
and if brought to theme
it will only be for rhyme, my easy best;
Oh! That Poetic Shopping-cart:
shelves of prose! Aisles of mesmeric gleams!
like Poe’s mystic schemes--
clouds feeding voraciously off headless peaks—
those fantastical shoulders we desperate writers
must climb if to find our lofty seeks--
all creative mind’s begging for such volcanic leaks—
No! I will not pontificate on these, for the best programmers
many do still believe are little more than
Charlatans or geeks--
Nor as subject will I attempt the Divine;
our soul’s hope to progress, as wine,
to some vintage state--though, without tasting,
when compared to life’s offered new...
such abstaining, perhaps, not worth
the spirit's residue--
Nor will I attempt metaphors yet more mysterious--
maybe, even delirious; though often told
such intoxicating views, like the morning dews
can be practical lifesaving for both greens and blues--
sadly, such pasture-valleys thoughtless men
have turned to breathless, rat-infested alleys;
No! Tonight
should I decide to write
I will write of other things…
I will write...hum….
I will write… simply, Goodnight….
The optimal life is simple for girls, one pregnancy a year, from puberty,
living with parents and leaving the burden on their tired shoulders,
assuming twins or triplets, you reach a dozen children by college.
Graduate in three years, practicing programming with intensity and zeal,
secure a job at a major tech company, the dream of every heart.
Then transition to become a man, the moment carefully chosen,
transition after being hired, but before actually starting work.
Very important to respect the order, take the signing bonus and a house in Dubai,
where children and nannies find their place, a refuge from the world's chaos.
After two years, seek remote work, transfer the job to the firstborn,
other children watch and learn, all work when they reach the optimal coding age.
After five years, you have twelve experienced programmers and three million in savings,
the world expects you to create a startup, your children to be the dreamed workforce.
No, you're a nonconformist, buy a commercial barge with a maritime loan,
with three million down payment, a solid fifteen-million barge with included housing.
Children continue to work remotely through Starlink, forming a rationalist fleet,
you smuggle oil for Russia, across seas and oceans, under the distant sky.
On your thirtieth birthday, you "die" at sea, grandchildren cry, a performance worthy of the stage,
FBI closes its investigation, the curtain falls on your unforgettable story.
Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
To found a village here or there or town or port to call
Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul
With Able’s fruit—either high or low— yielding no good life
The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
The good ol’ boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields
And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed
The lonely feeling of afternoon apperitifs or stiff strong drink
Even the sparklin’ ladies in their feather, plush and mink
Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
Without really any curious gal or curious guy
The world’s tallest buildings reaching into ‘thereal night
And lights flashing on hovering spacecraft above, whose flight
Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
Within the Solar Domain and towards them that wander
The astronauts in future, and from before, won’t know why they came
to this planet Earth, since they will have left with nothing, even blame
Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
Bumpin’ up slow, passin’ Dante on the left–or Janice Bishop’s rump
The Robots are here, with more every day
to mimic our actions in work and play.
They're programmed to help in all that we do
and serve with allegiance, steadfast and true.
As time goes by, increasing their score
with added AI, their "brains" do much more!
Expressions will change as eyes flash, beware;
belligerent smiles strip away care.
Intelligence shows a semblance of thought;
programmers express, “what have we wrought!”
Compared to old days of witchcraft fear-
new era of Robots- lord keep us clear.
Those Witches of folklore, evil or not-
won't match the terror of what we begot.
We were still free to dream,
however, a tax on any imaginative writing
that contravened the rules or regulations
for literary acceptability
or worse
were deemed counter-revolutionary.
In Poland, the last of the hold-outs
wrote odes to Chopin
but essentially all was well ordered and
compliant to the powers that be.
Now that Chinese is a compulsory language
for third graders
many have become re-programmers
for the old and recalcitrant,
but like all wrong-headed reactionaries
the old dwindle only to fade away
in disgrace.
All the false history books
have gone out of print.
Now we study the history of
our brave new world. It is
always sunny here in our
equally allotted cubicles.
Any misinformed die-hards
that wander the streets begging
us to return to the old ways
are quickly rounded up
and sent to our happy
and well attended
correction schools.
Chopin has now
been put on a no-fly list, but few
have heard of his dangerous sonata
or think of it at all anyway.
Facebook and the Senate
By Franklin Price
4/10/2018
Facebook and the Senate that I have seen today
Make it so apparent that the swamp intends to stay.
The self important Senators, who have shown up for the day,
Are grilling Facebook's Zuckerberg in a misdirected way.
It's clear that they don't understand the way that Facebook works.
They huff and puff, but fail to hide, they're uneducated jerks.
Facebook forces no one to join the family.
To sign up without any charge, read and sign the privacy.
Set up any profile, that you want the world to see.
Be prepared for saturating ads. Facebook doesn't run for free.
Facebook doesn't sell your info. They don't have to, and here's why:
They direct ads demographically to users who will buy
Advertising's run this way, has been for countless days.
Facebook is no exception advertisers sing their praise
Some products you may feel and touch, some only for your mind.
No one's forcing you to buy them; the choice is yours, I think you'll find
Facebook is a company with programmers galore
Who can break down demographics, through software, AI and more.
No matter how hard Facebook tries, there are hackers at the door
Who can find out everything they do, find FB users by the score
If you don't want them to find you, don't be a user or a friend.
No matter what your efforts they will find you in the end.
I'm sure Facebook will do everything to keep you safe for now
They don't need some useless Senators to try to tell them how.