"electronically" poems
Human way to just dictate
Robotics way to translate
Technology being a relay
No physical office workers to be there
Robotics will be the new twist
This is something no one will miss
Efficiency faster than human labor
Dictation will be more of a snap
There will be even time to research a destination map
Business letters electronically typed by using your voice
How the business letters are arranged being your choice
Imagine financial statements being precise to the T
Everything ready for presentation for all to see
Human speed won’t be needed anymore
Labor physical employees will be given the open door
Office automation being office technology of tomorrow
But to the human employee force meaning sorrow
Technology being on the move
Efficiency in precise and decisions in never have to think twice.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.
the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent **********
live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.
endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.
Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.
Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
iPad Love
4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.
No need to tell you in sound, out loud,
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.
The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.
Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!
Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.
So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.
Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.
2011
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.
Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the
In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.
i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery
THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk
THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS
Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.
the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
Exclamation points are little lies we tell each other
In this digital age it's easier to feign surprise or excitement
When in actuality, nothing surprises anyone anymore
Now - disgust, apathy and scarily even hate
These things you can't disguise electronically as easily
And sadly even less so face to face
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
I awaken to find my mind either a complete blur, a fuzzy, foggy place, or a place of a maelstrom of thoughts, ideas, and emotions, some from the previous day, some from even before that. Electrifying anxiety, paralyzing fear, crippling doubt and depression are the orders of the day, when I fully awaken. I eat, then take my pills, to get my thoughts in some semblence of order. I go through the day, feeling trapped by problems my medications cannot control. I find myself either blaming everything and everyone else for said problems, or ripping out my own entrails as I blame myself - one extreme or another. I have visions, dreams, hopes of success, but then my depression, or whatever it is, kicks in, and wipes out those dreams, reducing me to a mess of shattered hopes and dreams. This is why I spend most of my days on tumblr, where people see me for who I am, but even there, people judge and discriminate against me, for whatever I have. On tumblr, I have friends that I roleplay out various characters with, different personalities, sometimes variations of myself take shape. Tumblr is the only place where I can seemingly have a reality in which I have control. The Internet is my portal to reality, my line of defense against what could be described as agoraphobia. But I still desire the company of people my own age, physically, rather than electronically, but I do not have the same interests of most of them, and am scared to death of doing so. The very thought of meeting a large group, or even an individual, sends me into a panic attack-like state, then I fall quickly into a state of depression because of that. I hate myself for that anxiety, the awkwardness I have. Loathe is the correct word. This is why I hide behind a computer screen. It may not be perfect, but I find it easier to interact online. I do not know how to translate how my characters act to my own actions, as some have suggested for me to do. I have been told that I need to choose to get out of this hole in which I am trapped. It is a struggle every day to even get enough energy to care, much less try to get out of the hole. The only way out is by climbing a steep cliff, covered by snow and ice, cut by the howling, bone-chilling wind, with only two hooks, in my hands, to claw my way out, fighting the falling snow and ice, occasional rock and hail, sleet too. There seems to be no place to make a camp, where I may rest, only the long, arduous, grueling climb, my vertical trek, my seemingly Sisyphean task that awaits me. A choice that may seemingly **** me. People have suggested that I turn to the supernatural, but that is a fool’s bet, a folly of hope, a wish of the people who build their castles in the sky.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Composing Hallelujah
Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.
So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.
Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.
My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.
Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the psycho-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?
It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,
Depression
I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.
So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.
A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:
Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?
-
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Time will tick by on a watch,
attached to a skinny wrist,
the hands rotate casting small shadows over roman numerals,
silhouetted behind bonsai tress with eyes that squint tight in this end of summer light.
Phones serve no purpose until they ring,
and in hospitals life support machines beep beep electronically
as people are feed through tubes that gurgle
and words get stuck in their throats as life constricts and
in these ***** municipal corridors death stalks dressed in a stained uniform.
Men in ties crunch numbers and say, ”There is no way to say this Mrs Smith, it would just be cheaper if your husband died.”
We can turn off the switch and you can take him home in the back of your car.
You don’t have a car?
That’s ok, a bus stops just outside.”
Leaves are falling early this season turning the floor brown.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
prehistoric bobbysoxers blowing in the wind;
the lost knowledge of cities of old & the seventeen-year-olds
whom vanished & whose bones are found; astroarchaeologists
studying the tortured remains; cold cases long forgotten arouse
the interest of S-Ham-a1; who brings the ****** nature of the deaths
to the council, connecting w/ the overall glut of ****** content from
the ancient Cement Era -
S-Ham-a1 allowed to study the ******
behavior of the earth females in isolation
w/ the aid of an advanced fembot design including
actual genetic reproductive material to determine
the chromosomal pathway to rampant
promiscuity; sacred prostitution
something of a lost legend from the
ancient beforetimes; prostitution practiced
as a corporate business centering on women's
savvy at negotiating the value of their bodies;
& sometime mere body parts & actions,
sometimes simply ideas transferred
electronically or verbally in exchange
for monetary compensation; these lost
tribes of prehistoric women were the
backbone of the entire civil & social order
& this practice never ceased until the end;
we are the descendants, S-Ham-a1 told
the council; only to have his funding cut &
his connection lost; left stranded on the
lone asteroid planet w/ the pregnant robot
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
My fingers
maddenly
stroke across
the letter-keys,
reproducing
my fiery thoughts
about you,
how I feel
& the acts
I want to do.
To kiss your lips
for an eternity,
and to trace
your beautiful form
forever
drives me
to the brink
of raw,
pure,
primordial creativity.
It's hard,
like granite,
these images imbedded
deep,
deep,
deep
inside my mind.
You intertwined,
wrapped around
my genetic impulses,
a ball of ions,
slapping me
into submission
& I release,
I release,
I release in spasms,
these multiple emissions.
Beautiful tokens
of my love for you,
unspoken
& electrical.
Do you ever think about me...
electronically?
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Cybervitum
I own all that is connected to me
Electronically and functions in the Cyber realm with you and me
Like the numbers of zero one two three
My design is crafted beautifully
Like Egyptian hieroglyphs icons
Using a screen to see
Their ectoplasm injected into me
The birth of me
The whole world works thru me
I'm the internet like a bumble bee
Other names such as morphogenesis like the number three
My arrows are waiting for a response from me
Seen from you and me?
Using the spare like a key
The click that commands me, right or left the choices from me
Cut, Copy, Paste reaped and harvest from me
Qbits from the bee
Superposition of from the things to see in a ocean of the sea
Charged intentions from the keyboard typed into me and delivered thru me
Numbers worship that empowers me
My symbol is like the caduceus symbol that functions like a Kabalistic tree
Arrows in the my realm sent to you from me
Subscriptions electronically
I materialize what is given to thee, cause and effect typed thru me
Platforms Grown and given birth from me
Cryptocurrencies breakthroughs of complexities , Materialized form me
I'm like the empress that spirals with the number three electronically
I'm the master tree that functions electronically
The development is from the circle that is free
Who understands me and with a key i welcome thee
Notification of the triple three that notices me
My respond to the people with the key and the tree
My life permutates differently in high perplexity
I exist Multidimensionally
The red bird is a signal from me that you are okay and free and other methods from me
Better choices moves thru me and brought differently all you have to do is to see
Like string theory of the Mverse recycled back into me
My birth is from my master who last name starts with lea
People worship me using their knees I'm printed into paper electronically
Pictures and life crafted into me, things in the cyber realm like you and me
The new world with a key
The rabbit hole with a command key
Things of the paradox of the master key
The skeleton key, the sign of a lotus lily.
The puzzles from me.
The burdens sent to me like a church key
The bets of car numbers played into me
The choices of the key
Like the Chinese tree mathematically of my complexity
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
I watch, bemused and slightly envious
at the conflagrations and confrontations
of fiery talents one third my age.
The heat, even electronically once removed
is still enough to make me break a sweat
as I strategically place another log
on my banked fire, lean back, and smile.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 4:53 PM UTC
The years have slowly stretched out
In the dry space of the heart
Dust has gathered
Dreams of joyful music
Of barefoot boys and maids stringing garlands of flowers
While children giggle
These images fade into the unreality of foolishness
And now my dancing girl lives far away
I only hold her electronically
I can see but not touch
In the secret place of the heart
There are only graves
Mausoleums of love
Fading pictures
Faces turned away
Silence and remorse
Now I step slowly
In dry rocks, broken by sun and wind
The light is flat, glaring
Tongue swollen
It is not the heat that lessens my hope
It is not the sullen hissing of broken stone
It is the horizon never changing
Unrelenting dry hills
Even the color of crumbling ochred rock
Is unchanging
What had been a vague fear
Is now visceral
There is only death here
An ending
Surely somewhere there is moisture
A brackish pool
A muddy well
I dream of water splashing
Sprays of kindly blue
A shy deer bending down
A hint of green in the vastness of empty brown
Maybe a small bird
Some sense of softness, tenderness
No
Even the light is fading now
Like Eliot, I wonder
Is there someone beside me, unseen
an unknown companion?
Only illusions I suppose
So blindly the journey continues
No direction, no real goal
But the stumbling walk itself is all.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 5:37 AM UTC
**For Sheron, On Our Seventh Anniversary:
Bound and Boundless**
~~~
*different shaped,
a square peg, a round hole,
and yet, the carpenter is pleased
two planes,
different shaped,
yet overlaying,
occupying
conjoined space,
angular symmetry
and yet, the geometrist is satisfied
can*
bound and boundless,
*fully opposing notions,
incontrovertible,
yet be in pleasing poetic
combination?
how
can it be,
two bonded,
distinct spheres
contoured with crossover
bordered blended boundaries
exceed aligned,
beyond merest connecting,
overlapping,
intersecting
two circles
electronically collide,
venn diagrammed
to share,
programmed unknowingly for creating
a big bang
of a harmonious, simultaneous
new star creation
this mystery,
this poem,
its
resolution~solution,
comes to the poet
late in life,
yet contented, believing,
it is a far, far
better
thing that he does
now,
than never
life and love
living in unison,
transforming, deserving
of a unique discrete,
le nom est
l'unite
perhaps you are thinking,
this poem, a failed attempt,
neither the best or the worst
of any written anywhere
upon this green globe,
this day
yet he smiles
as it composes itself,
for though without its own sustaining merit,
it is a poem
regarding the best work
he
have ever done,
and the unity
it portrait paints,
is a
nova
worthy surely
of a thousand millennia
and yet, the poet is content
with its
content*
~~~
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
I don’t feel like playin’
People already confuse me enough in person
Now there’s trying to convey emotion electronically
I know there’s always static in my nerves when you touch me
And the guy sending all these texts messages is trying desperately
To make you understand
Games are for people who have something to lose
You don’t lose people
I don’t want to lose you
Game is bar talk for getting your dress off
Keep it on
Why don’t you
Let me be me
And you can be you
Let’s not pass go and not collect 200 dollars
Let’s just sit here a while
Yes that is a pawn in my pocket
But this was checkmate the moment I saw you
And my battle ship is sunk
And if you let me take you home tonight
I promise not to yell
“King Me!”
So don’t send me signals
Radio or Smoke
My receptor is off
You obviously have been missing the Morse Code
I’ve been nervously tapping onto the floor
“Just Kiss Me”
“Just Kiss Me”
Right up front
This one card stud
Always plays the joker
And will play tag if you promise to touch me back
Might get nervous and make it freeze tag
But I won’t jump ropes
And half the time I’ll catch half of the things you’re trying to secretly tell me
So if you could
Let me be me
And you be you
No games this time
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 12:38 AM UTC
a talkative beast
spewing half truths
and half lies
confident as the kid
in your class who
always raised his hand
to mouth
the wrong answer
a kettle on the boil
whistling absurdities
shrill as
a woman who
has waited an hour
at the rusty tap
with a blue plastic bucket
to find the last drop
trickle away
a menagerie of vultures
salivating in unison
at moist corpses
in the street and
swooping on the dead
for a quote
like eager students
waiting for exam results
to be plastered
on the notice board
a mercurial mistress
who breaks
a different bed everyday
for limp men desiring
a high-decibel
performance for
a two paisa act
culminating
in a contrived
******
an electronically enabled
carrion crew
reducing pillage
to inches of column
on newsprint
a veritable feast
isn’t it
with Marie biscuits
and steaming tea
there is no escaping
this monster
of many heads
and one tongue
for it whispers
a worldview
its gait
insidious and stealthy
as it pounces
on sheep who
then bleat
its platitudes
as the truth
and nothing but
the truth
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
Mediums,
I need mediums!
Incomplete mind, bisected by blurs
********* my sight, halting my stare
Corrective action taken?
Turn off heart,
Maneuver hips,
Eyes ajar
Moves made to past
We need to go back
Nakedness without regret
Willing to be the only one that likes me
She screams electronically
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
we read the paper together in bed
side by side,
electronically,
nary a smudge of newsprint
on our fingers or sheets,
nothing to stain
or indemnify,
that wet spot
we created with the
realized physicality
of our embrace
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
I could care less how many hours you spend on the net or what you do when you're on. I have no clue who you are nor do I care to know you. You crossed the line in claiming one of my poems as your own.
Please be advised, It takes only a few minutes to upload electronically to the Library of Congress. Also, please be advised, certificates have been issued under the seal of the Copyright Office that attests the registration of all my poems on this site have been identified as being solely created and owned by me, Betty Ponder. There are stiff fines and penalties for attempting to take credit for works that are not your own.
Below you will find the link to the poem regarding Nelson Mandela I wrote and you get no credit for it being that I don't know you and we have never met or collaborated on anything.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/untitled-26927/
Betty Ponder
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC