"copier" poems
Do not glance at the answers of your classmates.
I do not mean this in a strictly literal sense.
Do not glance at the answers of your classmates.
This is a reflection of Ego, the morality of a copier:
Seeking the easy way out; without personal gain.
Self-defeating in the truest sense of the term.
Those who concern themselves with the affairs of others
shall forever condemn themselves to a sort of cognitive hell.
Do not concern thyself with the lives of others;
you have thy own path to walk.
Those who seek overtly to alter the affairs of others
usually presume or at least condescend
and in the process of doing so
allow themselves to go astray.
Do not glance at the tests on your classmates desk;
what is worse: to know you are wrong, or to deny to yourself your ignorance?
Do not look unto others for answers for your problems
for they cannot know what battles you fight each day.
Look inwards for deeper understanding
for it is thy prism that is responsible for thy spectrum
which in turn is responsible for your perceptible reality.
The truest of teachers do not claim to be so,
the truest of scholars do not simply attend formal classes
the trust of sages claim not their wisdom,
the truest of wisdom seems paradoxical.
Look not unto thy peers for the standards to which to hold thyself.
If this seems to be selfish or self serving,
I wish to remind
Illusion is begun with "I"
and "I" is a temporary vessel.
Thy body knows thy path;
It is thy vessel; it has a compass.
Follow your passions while you still can.
Begin thy Magnum Opus.
Nothing else matters.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
In every “Poetry Place”
There is a Copycat Corner.
We know it’s a disgrace
So here’s another “Warner”.
Why they do it I’ll never know,
Those Copier and Pasters.
Their words they seem to glow,
But they’re a bunch of Wasters.
Taking all that praise,
For stuff they haven’t written,
It seems to be a craze,
And many do get bitten.
Just Google their “fine words” or use those plagiarism sites,
And you will find the original poems
Bedecked with copyrights.
I’m sure this place just isn’t free
Of people like this,
Just look and see!!!
The Admins must get their fingers out,
And give these villainous rogues a massive clout.
Me, I will show all due diligence,
But my job here,
Is to show My brilliance.
(NOT someone else’s!).
Paul Butters
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
Let's say
Hypothetically
Someone was
Keeping score
And I had a
Perfect
Unsurpassed
Record.
In that case
There would be
Three hundred and twelve
Pieces of paper
Somewhere
In my house with
Five to thirteen lines of
Text on each of them.
And then suppose
Five and thirteen averaged
Out to somewhere between
Seven and eight.
Then do the math
And tell me what seven or eight
Times three hundred and twelve is
And then think about how
For each line of text on each
Sheet of paper
There is another
Sheet of paper in some
Binder somewhere
Or a pile in the righthand
Corner of my room.
And remember
I'm just one person.
And then think
About the butterfly effect.
Do you know
What happens
In the mail room
When you're not around?
Do you know
Who uses the copier
In the dead of night
Or the morning dawn?
Do you know
Where we go
When we
Die?
Or even
Why we're
All alive
To begin with?
It's sure
As hell
*(Or should I say
As unsure as hell
Because no one can
Agree on anything
Even a universal a
Concept as hell)*
That we're not living
To make paper
To print out our
Personal whims on.
And then think
About the butterfly effect.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Today, my train of thought
Is a bit off track.
It's a dark and confusing smokestack.
You see, questions abound.
So buckle in as I go to town.
Which cider you on?
Apple or hard?
If a tree falls on a copier
And no one is around to see it,
Does it make a forest?
I'm rooting for yes; but quite unsure.
How many coins can a fountain hold?
I wish I knew.
Is Paul dead or the walrus?
Is Paul dead AND the walrus?
Coo coo ca choo.
What's the beef about red meat?
It fills but kills? It sells but fells?
Who knows!
The proof is in the pudding.
All other desserts are unsubstantiated,
I suppose.
If peanut butter leaves Los Angeles
Traveling east at 100 miles per hour,
And jelly leaves New York
Traveling west twice as fast,
Will they become a sandwich when they meet?
What a treat if they did.
Maybe one day these
Universal questions will be solved.
But for now, I'm quite dizzy
From all the lunacy involved.
Catch you later...
Apr 14, 2023
Apr 14, 2023 at 3:42 PM UTC
Their bars are bars there.
It’s just that the taps
have all run dry.
Behind a wall
computers clank, buzz,
dilapidate.
Behind thickened glass
clerical workers
patter like hail
on shingled roofs.
Beyond walls and glass,
sallow-white leaks.
I sit rough somewhere.
Cold, unfeeling stone
everywhere.
A payphone stares
jeeringly at me.
I curl up tight.
Mother and father
surely spite me now.
Brother won’t know,
no, he won’t know.
Others never will.
Don’t comfort me.
I’m in pajamas.
I’m grasping at straws.
I’m falling fast.
I’d like to know
how much is the bail.
“Sixty-thousand.”
My fingers are pressed
on a copier
like those old, dear
library books.
Copied and copied.
Next I’ll be shelved.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
and they were all there, the blond copier, the bill payer
the setter, the psyche, the keeper of the bell, the super sec
gathered together for the food of the day. the red headed one
screeched for there was no food. the earth shook, the skies
darken, the seas grew angry. but alas, the wise man appeared
bearing gifts of myrrh, gold and a big salad.the skies cleared,
the seas calmed, and peace was once again brought down upon the table.
and so they feasted on the bounty of the land with smiles abound
not a morsel was lost as their hunger subsided
they spoke of families and friends, and of enemies to be.of tales of lore
lies, and a raging banter that drove the men to the wine. in the background
was that irritating ring, on the other end was some mindless question bequeathed
upon the great table. yet no one missed a chance to sample the bounty
and the music, ah the music, it seems that only five songa were ever made in the history
of mankind. over and over it blared, relentless mind numbing, with the occasional
chorus of the red headed one.
and when you thought that they had their fill, the sweet nectar of the pastry appeared
they all stared in wonderment,tempted by their thoughts, only to be succumbed by
the sweetness of the snake.
and the meal ends and the jester starts, providing laughter to fill their bellies once more.
the satire continues until they can give no more.
and they prepared to exit from the great table with smiles chiseled on their faces and
thoughts of great friendships, and the anticipation of tomorrows leftovers.
BELCH
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
what's wrong with my world?
peeps not coming through for me
saps my energy
missed deadlines, not showing up
they can't seem to do the math
talkin' 'bout good peeps
I don't know what's happening
it makes me tired
there's too much hustle-bustle
going on in today's world
guess I got away
from always expressing thanks
thankfulness echoes
reverberates, creating
circles of random kindness
so that must be it
got to get back to "thank you"
thank you everyone
for your kindness, timeliness
and just for being good peeps
thanks especially
to the Great God/Universe
copier machine
whatever I put out there
I get copies back, THANK YOU
Del Maximo
© August 7, 2009
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
a glowing tribute
was penned for the infamous plagiarist
apparently the scriber did little research
into the copier's grist
this master replicator
has visited many a poetry site
to steal what others
did with heart and soul write
brazen is this fellow
in his misappropriating conduct
passing off material
which isn't his original product
again he has reappeared
at the Hello Poetry forum
showing his usual
disingenuous decorum
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
The day my father died, my family sat at his bedside
watching a deteriorating man's mind slip from his weak grasp;
Mother, father, sister, brothers, brother in-laws, wife and son
all sat in the cramped hospital room trying to say goodbye
while he hallucinated the photo copier at work wasn't working, due to lack of oxygen to his brain.
His daughter, the only one absent from the room, sat at home alone,
playing video games on the computer he gave me back when I'd never heard of cancer.
The day my father died, my papa left his sons bedside
with his head slowly slumping further past his shoulders as he joined me on the couch.
In my basement, my papa wept. I stared at a wall.
Looking back, I wonder if this was his way of saying goodbye to me
before I'd become someone much different than I should have been.
My mother had never held it together on her own, now alone
My brother'd have to teach himself how to shave, one day
And myself, left to fill shoes that were never supposed to be empty.
The day my father died,
His family died too.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Maybe when she's older she'll understand why
she can't hold a relationship with her mother
and sister and all those boyfriends that left
with sagging hearts and her boss who made it
clear she wasn't ("fit to work in this office") with
him. And when she's home and the tv flutters between cable
news (and reality tv) and her watered down
glass of pinot with the ice cubes dying and
melted she feels at peace. And when the door slams
shut from the outside where another (ex-lover) walks
away and the ashtray he left, (but that she never used), is filled
halfway with his dust she'll wonder why
apathy kills and then go on not caring. Because
with another day comes another interview
for a job (as a copier) and more cute skirts and business
attire to pull her from the house and out that door. And when
she comes back to the plush couch she'll notice
the change in her mood that comes with more glasses of wine and
more slipping opportunity but that won't make it any different
here in the home. She knows the couch is her's, (with its floral print
and frayed pillows and left over stains of ***** and wine),
it can't leave her too.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
Chaucer and the Lightendyten 1
“The Prologue” to The Canterbury Tales
Grinds from the photocopying machine
And thus the casual observer, he wails
That technology produces the scene
And yet good Chaucer wrote in the long ago
Rhymed rhythms to instruct and to delight
The copier came later, as you know -
Our pilgrim was the first these tales to write
Or was he?
So here is a problem, which I you begge:
Of which came first, the cicen or the egge?
1 There was of course no Middle English word for “photocopier” so I cobbled one together from “lighte,” to give light, and “endyte,” to write. Chaucer said it was okay.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
Danger: If swallowed, may cause death
Caution: Seat cushion, is not a life saving device
Warning: Product will be hot after heating
Danger: Do not use while sleeping
Caution: In case of flash flood, climb to safety
Warning: Do not put paper towels in the ******
Danger: Wearing this garment, does not enable flight
Caution: Don't look into the copier during operation
Warning: Please Pre-Pay, in advance
It scares me more than anything
lawyer or bean counter mentality
protecting all the stupid people
unfortunately, a high priority
I say we let nature take it's course
and put no danger or caution signs
permitting intellect to take control
allowing nature's deadly decrees, designs
Ridding all humanity, of fools
that just can't comprehend
wondering the proper tool
that provides, a speedy, stupid end
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
A woman at my work
Resigned
Amid many tears
And bouquets of
Flowers
She'd been with
The same company
For twenty years
She made an announcement
To my coworkers and I
"Tomorrow everyone is
getting together at the
Tap house, you guys are
Welcome to come"
My one coworker
A bean pole with
A ***** blonde
Ponytail and goatee
Agreed to go
Before she had even
Finished speaking
He's 37 and
Still lives with his
Parents and has
No desire to do
Anything
He once told me
That he didn't get
Why people went to
The beach
"Why go to the beach
When I can sit by
My pool? There's nothing
The beach offers that
My pool doesn't"
Anyone that can't tell
The difference between
A chemically shocked
Puddle in a backyard
And
The vast living
Expanses
Of the ocean
Should be considered
A danger to public
Health
Plus
Like people with two
First names
I don't trust men
With ponytails
I figured I'd go
I don't mind most of
The people I work with
Except for the
Ponytailed ***** boy
But then I started
To think about all
The times that this
Woman had:
Purposely stepped over
The morning
Paper so that I would
Have to bring it in
Threw her hands
Up in disgust when the
Copier was out of paper
And told me to fill it
Over her shoulder while
Walking to her office
Told me to fill
The coffee maker
With water while she
Clicked her tongue
And painted her nails
Threw work on my desk
Without a word
Wandering off to a
Higher floor to
Chortle behind a closed
Door with one of the
CFOs or CEOs or
Whoever the ****
But worst of all she
Thought ventriloquists
Were genuinely funny
I figured
That after two years
She was the one
That should buy me
A drink
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Every waking moment I have to live with you
Drives me insane!
Everything I do you do,
I draw
You draw
I write
You write
You are like an itch that just won't go away
This annoying background noise that followers me everywhere I go
And I hate it!
I hate you!
You take everything I am
You are trying to steal my most prized things in life!
You have a constant need to be me
You copy everything I do!
You angrier me so much that I'm like a bull seeing red
One day I'm going to kick out like an angered horse and bite
like a rabid wolf
And your my helpless prey who's had it coming for a long time.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
It has been stamped with dispassionate blue ink,
Signifying its future lack of suitability to sit on the shelves,
Having been elbowed aside by this and that year’s thing
(And the book had not been checked out since the mid-seventies,
Perhaps some young man all but short-circuited
By the prospect of a bathing Julie Christie,
Or some female counterpart shedding bell-bottomed tears
Over doomed love, which, in her cosmology,
All such things were fated to be)
Placed in some temporary cardboard casket
Which once held bananas or copier paper or ancient time cards,
Sitting cheek to elbow with cookbooks, breathless biorhythm tomes,
Buffeted about forces unseen and beyond its control
As it faces the uncertain and uneasy prospect of possible reclamation.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
I arch for attention like a cat under the hand. Look at me. Look at me. Make me worth it. This blessing curse of looking at others dripped like tobacco juice from the corners of the mouth into how I view myself. I began to see myself as a vase to hold the flowers of another, if they chose. I am a herding dog's snap at the heels of another man's ambitions. Distracted by the dust of so many people walking purposely in their own direction. To each their own, but what is mine? Never satisfied with this body of mine, this heart of mine. Pour gasoline in my eyes if it would set my heart on fire, like hers, like his. I've only got half buried desires laid to rest in the graveyard of other people's dreams. Am I cursed to always be a mirror reflecting someone else's smile? Will I ever brush off the dust of another man's feet clinging to the bottom of my shoes, rubbing my heels as I tread a path that is not mine, lagging far behind someone's confident back. A pathetic copier is all I am. This quest for my own authenticity is drying my bones, to become dust inhaled by another's lungs.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
The Report states Stacy has been
stealing staples again
stapling her school work
at work.
Again.
We know she writes poetry at her desk.
We haven't caught her yet
but she has that look in her eyes
like she's happy to be at work.
Investigation ongoing.
Last week she she slipped paper
with Beatles lyrics into the copier
so every time we print one of these
Reports, All You Need is Love
is in the background.
We think she is a millennial. Promotion not recommended.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
They eloped behind the door. Her baggage colliding with his baggage. There was an eerie atmosphere, but they tried to concentrate on their bodies. By doing so, the eerie atmosphere seemed less imposing. Their eyes were red-rimmed. They were heaped full of caffeine and gluten-heavy sandwiches, it was surprising that they felt amorous really. Although there was nobody else present, it felt like there was a presence in the room. This could have been the hum from the insect killing machine located next to the copier. When their bodies met each other it gave off the sound off a shotgun going off, kind of, gentler than that really. Neither of them climaxed, separating without Ill will. They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing regret via the direct messaging app on a well known famous social media app. Much to the amusement of the CIA operative spying on their company.
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
Only a matter of moments
Going the wrong way
Around the sun
Would take me back
To before
Your identity.
One day I woke up,
And you were bleeding
other people.
In a million different colors,
And never ending faces.
I woke up,
And you were no longer small.
You were something that
Could put planets on a leash,
And puzzle piece together
Entire new people
In your mind.
But little brother,
I still treasure
Your simple inexperienced lines
From long ago.
The crooked hand,
And the claw like
Umbrella
Seeming to crash down
On a raincoat figure.
I spilled water on the sheet of copier paper
You printed your masterpiece
Out on for me,
Smudged the rainbows,
Bled yellow into the raindrops.
But I love it.
This beautiful imperfect
Reminder
That you were once
A child.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
Madame, on m'a dit l'autre jour
Que j'imitais... qui donc ? devine ;
Que j'imitais Musset : le tour
N'en est pas nouveau, j'imagine.
Musset a répondu pour nous :
« C'est imiter quelqu'un, que diantre !
Écrit-il, que planter des choux
En terre... ou des enfants... en ventre. »
Et craquez, corsets de satin !
Quant à moi, s'il me faut tout dire,
J'imite quelqu'un, c'est certain,
Quelqu'un du poétique empire.
Je m'élance sur son chemin
Avec la foi bénédictine ;
Cherchez dans tout le genre humain.
Eh ! bien... c'est elle, Valentine.
On ne peut copier son air,
Ses propos et son moindre geste,
Mais son cœur ! mais son esprit fier !
Je peux attendre pour le reste.
Ça me conduira qui sait où ?
Je crois être elle, ma parole !
Au lieu de dire : je suis fou,
L'autre jour j'ai dit : je suis folle !
Ma personnalité, ma foi !
S'est envolée ; et ceci même,
Mes vers sont d'elle et non de moi,
Si toutefois elle les aime ;
Ce serait par trop hasardeux
Que de mettre tout un volume
Sur son dos ; si nous sommes deux,
Je suis seul à tenir la plume !
Oh ! bien seul ! ne confondons pas,
Je suis parfaitement le maître ;
Car des fautes ou de faux pas
Elle ne saurait en commettre.
Vous voyez, c'est bien différent
De ce que racontait l'histoire.
Ah ! Si son verre était moins grand,
J'aurais voulu peut-être y boire...
Il est bien grand, en vérité !
Ne croyez pas que je badine ;
Je boirai donc à sa santé,
Dans le Verre de Valentine.
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