Modem Poems | Examples

poemed

can I write a poem
or only rhyme
I’m not sure where I’m goin’
it’s one word at a time
like data through a modem
still, I hope for the sublime
a psychospiritual novum
to delight a reader's mind,
show how jaded skepticism is ho-hum,
and like sex, ecstatically manifest the divine
.
.
A song for this:
The Deepest Sighs, the Frankest Shadows by Gang of Youths
Palo Alto by Jack River

Melding

3 a.m. a green modem light,
blinks regularly in a dark bedroom.

A hoot owl breaks the silence,
its call is never predictable,
always out of step
with your own heartbeat.

Something different,
your open eyes search,
the shadows,
the humped dimness of furniture.

Something is prodding a sleepy mind,
and it is not a bladder.

A dream will not leave you,
it has filled the room with its presence.

Eroticism dressed in layers of intimacy.
You know that dream,
and here it is now,

haunting you, out in the open,
while you watch your mind
melting once more.

Finish My Poem, Please

I hardly started writing this poem,
But I cannot finish it. You've been
In my mind all day and night long.
You have selfishly occupied my being.
I cannot think. I cannot move my pen.
I have tears in my eyes, a long stream
Has wiped out everything I had on paper.
Please finish my poem. I cannot continue.
I am weak. I am dying like a lonely pauper.
I need your help. Please come to my rescue.
The sky is dark and the sun is shining somewhere.
Please come to me. I need you to finish my poem.
You are indeed my inspiration. You are my modem.
I am lost in the desert, in the middle of nowhere.
Finish my poem. My Muse, please come to my rescue.
I cannot go on. Dry my tears and help me continue.
Please finish it. You can take all the credit, all the glory.
This quirky poem belongs to you. It doesn't belong to me.

Copyright © August 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

Visit

You dirty little modem 
Running her dirty modem mouth
again

Audio Bugs and Hidden Cameras

Supari type thugs often use spy gadgets,audio bugs and hidden cameras to record audio and video.Spy gadgets are available in the shape of internet modem,usb device,mobile charger,energy saver,switch socket,Lcd,TV, trolley, Writing Pen,Ladies Purse,Suit Button,Hand watch,Head Cap,AC,Glasses,flower pot,cloth hanger and washroom mirror.Spy gadgets need electricity to work and that is why they are often attached with internet and telecommunication devices.
Spy gadgets are planted in the Lounge,home,office,guest house and hotel rooms.
Note.Grow up Dude no dues are Left...

A Poetic Bird

Small like a bird
Smart like a nerd
Shining like a beacon
Special like a penguin
Oh! She is sensational
She is humble, universal
And absolutely lyrical
Now everybody knows her name
Like Mona Lisa and Mother Nature
She now has fortune and fame
Oh! Her foreseeable future
Looks great and outstanding
She is reciting a nice poem
Listen, quiet, quiet; she is speaking
Please bring a laptop and a modem.

Copyright © January 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.

Made In China

Made In China
Your electrical items stop working one by one
First the kettle stops boiling even tho the red light’s on
Then your microwave stops heating tho it turns round
It gets fixed and works for a week then is totally dead
As for your TV it turns on but has a single line across it
The VHS video player ate the **** tape and jammed
Your radio gets nothing but static on all channels
The mobile phone charges but dies after 3 minutes
The other charger that lights up but doesn’t charge
Red LOS modem light means no connection
Along with a new fan with a burnt out motor 
Your car radio eats tapes ejects CDs and smokes
The aircon is clunky and spreads a virus killing us
All items made in Red China sub standard parts junk
Unskilled low paid slave labour don’t give a feck
Don’t buy anything made in Red China its crap

Immortal

I am....
I am thought infinite
I define reality
I judge the truth from the lies
I am a modern man
I am more than you know or understand
I drive the engines of the divine
I exploit international decline
I watch the hour cometh
I redefine my Humanity
I create virtuosity
I know the surreal intimately
I feel Vales between worlds
I am a model citizen all be it amoral
I see the portal...
I digress.
I play at recess and watch the pray, run and play.
A man made God built with hate and lust.
I rush into damnations infernal sun
I snatch defeat from its Jaws.
I rage with the Righteous or for any just cause.
I am a modern man with a brain plugged into
The modem of the Soul
A savior.
The eye of the Machine.
The hand of the Prophet.
I am in any role you can design or desire
I light humanity’s fire
I can extinguish your will
For I am IMMORTAL.

I Am Poetry

I Am Poetry

My pen brings light to a dark and lonely world.
It can also cause tears for all the boys and girls.
My words make people laugh and reach for the stars.
They can also describe a flower or your very first car.

I was there in your pocket, on the way home from school.
I was scribbled on a note, a very powerful tool.
I put a smile on your face, when I talked about old times.
My words told every story, with precision and rhyme.

I can lift you up and make you feel strong.
I can also cut you down and say you don’t belong.
I can make your Father happy and make your Mother cry.
I can find your darkest place, without having to try.

I was there in your hand when your feelings were told.
I can make you feel young or I can make you feel old.
I can be shared with the world through a computer modem.
I am Poetry, I’m in the soul of every poem.

Do You Love Computers

DON’T YOU LOVE COMPUTERS

Don’t you just love computers?
That thing
With motherboard and mouse,
Supposed to be a revelation
Going to revolutionize, 
In the wider scheme of things
‘Twas said not in haste 
Or spoken about in jest,
That thing
With graphic card and floppy disc
Was going to make our lives
Much simpler,
Quicker all round 
They said at the start
Or was it in the beginning?
That thing
With memory stick and modem,
Was going to refine 
And redesign,
The way we were going to live
At work, rest and play
That thing
With monitor and keyboard,
What they didn’t tell us
Or even inform us unsuspecting folks,
Was about a place called cyberspace
Where Cybernetics plays
This has had a profound effect
Of completely stuffing up your life
When your computer’s information
Suddenly goes walk-about,
Up there, here there or anywhere
Then don’t you just love a computer?

Francis Cooper – Mac ©

Midnights Blue Dress

MIDNIGHT’S BLUE DRESS

Midnight’s blue dress -
modem of her physique,
molded immodestly,
married to monumental
destiny of desires,
elongated as if clinging
to an Amazon warrior.

Blue dress props up
her spectacular breasts,
high and mighty, tinged
with reckless success.
Mortification of the madonna.

Fabrication fraught
with embellishments,
bells and whistles of gold
stitched like chains
into the hem she must wear
in eternity’s flamboyant furnace.

Ferociously blue, lips tremble
and pout, pretending to bleed.
The triple X dress sways
in ebb and flow of the mastery sea,
blowing holes in seasoned captains
who dread the siren’s revenge.

Presidents and dictators fall
at her knees, sliding their beggaries
over velvety weave, thoughtless
to her treachery - they make believe.

Midnight’s blue dress invitation
squashes them all, as
she looks on from the cliff
where eagles ogle their prey.
Ejaculators* best blindfolded as dusk calls.

12/28/2019
Blue Dress Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin

*other than the obvious meaning - to utter suddenly and vehemently

My Gallery

My Gallery

In upper part of my body
A cognitive bell rings
From a dial-up connection
of live wires

The modem is working just
To repeatedly provide
the facsimile of
Barren and bald paths

Inner lumbering of daily freight
Coiling, clutching upward
There is no vivacity
The vital force has parasited
How I inhale life?

My days and nights are bolted
Inside a brain cell,
My voice has held back
It lays a plan to brawl my soul
Residing in my own skull
Dictates notes imitating my tone
I couldn’t disintegrate my recall

As my shadow has left me
There remains Just I, me and myself,
Why is my brain a black hole?
Could it not be a universe?
Of a constellation of migraine, tablets
Syringe, backache and insomnia

Dream has become a dead pattern
As worn out as fossil led glow
Everything has become identical
Except the weight of consequence
That has variations of endurance

As I go through perdition
My imbalance will be rectified
Hang my art on the wall
As after allotted time
My gallery will end

A Silver Or a Gold Wristwatch Or None

a . = a ~
A salmon run is one of the places to find pearl dew. Dried or undried it is nonetheless stunning in it's composition. Compositions create calling cream. And a dough ball is neither a dream nor a daring drop. It is to be said that one single itemised inked out informant is an information infant. And still the deep fried rice dish bubbles in merrymaking and mirth and is so awesome for otherwise stagnant non smiling cracker breads to rise and tinkle dance upon the side board. Many a kitchen is many a secret sound. Akin to a school but without lessons. Currants climbing created credits. And a circulating captain bird arrives with bits of bread, a harp, a lute, a little jellyfish and a belly dancing buffalo. Sink that into a vase then stand and admire the constitutional composition. And all the while the wild eyed egg is playing hoop da loop with the rye, beans, chips and chickens. But only at sixteen minutes past seven. Hahaha moonbeam moving making meals. Metallic music making mathematical models. Haha modem may mean many times a frog hop. Xxxxx sharp shark angle. Xxxx conditionality zzzzzx

Cyber Sex

Computer, modem 
Ability to converse 
In Love at first Type!

My Cantankerous Computer

Last week my computer was on the fritz.

   The confounded thing was givin' me fits!

      Trouble was a sick modem.

         They jes' won't work without 'em!

            Life sans a computer is jes' the pits!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

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