"generator" poems
You're the Wacky Wolf-man,
Tearing through our pages with a single huff.
Breathing life into us little piggies,
Blasting your way through the daily fluff.
You're the Word Wizard.
Leaving us in awe and in dribbles.
Waving your wand,
Conjuring magical and spellbinding scribbles.
You're the Living Legend,
Almost like a deity of some sort.
Garnering shiploads of admiration,
Through words of encouragement, banter and retort.
You're the Bad Boy Bard...
Never mincing your words.
Unconventional, you howl amidst the flocks...
You never did chirp like the birds...
You're the Minstrel Mobster,
Shooting your Tommy, never missing.
Flicking forward your fedora,
Strung lute ever smoking.
You're one Cool Cat.
Fending off haters with a bat.
Everyone just wants to be that.
Like a superhero whose symbol is a bat...
You're a Gem Generator.
Cogs and gears churning the jewels laid
Machine malfunction! My system's jammed!
Well I guess that's just it... Enough said!
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
life is a competition,
but no one really wins.
we overachieve.
set our goals too high.
and after all the effort,
end up farther back than square one.
we pile work upon work for ourselves.
we fake it till we make it,
but do we ever make it?
once the lights go out,
black envelops the machine that never stops.
not even when we sleep.
tears put out the electric fire that burned the socket.
and within the blackness that is my mind,
you can hear a sizzling sound,
until the backup generator kicks in
and we begin to run again.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
a man is born with a ***** testicles, and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
a Man lives by a masculine code that revolves around the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. a Man is committed to himself above all else. this may sound selfish, but it isn't. a Man not only puts himself on high, but connects himself mind, body, and soul to the physical, mental, and the spiritual. everything that he connects to himself becomes himself. a Man does not distinguish between the his own flesh and the flesh of his children. a Man does not distinguish between his mind and the mind's of those in his inner circle. a Man does not distinguish between his will and the will of his god. a Man is power. he is the generator. those that he has allowed to plug into his world are empowered by him. they come into his presence and feel better for it. a Man changes lives. a Man understands the trinity of justice, mercy, and charity. a Man is not afraid to give to those as they deserve. he looks with fair eyes and does not slow his hand or slow its speed. a Man is not cold enough to be alien to compassion. he can see to the heart of matters and look past the easy answers. when others will marvel at his wisdom and praise his mercy. he will only think 'as it should be'. a Man is not without the ability to go beyond. he can look to the future. help those that need it, sometimes before they need it. anticipation and preparedness are the weapons of the Man. stoic strength is his shield. a Man is not without weakness. he understands his weaknesses, but is not victim to them. he may succumb to them, but as a master of justice, he steels himself for the price he must pay. weakness must be addressed and turned to strength. as a Man fears, he must stand up and face it. as a Man despairs, he must turn it aside. when a Man fails, all that have plugged into his power will fail. when a Man falls, families, nations, societies fall. when a Man falls, it is the duty of another Man to come to his aid. when Men stop aiding Men, they merely become men with penises and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
The Man is a Man that all other Men fear and long to be. He is the one that Men plug into. Some Men see that as a sign of weakness and rebel, but The Man signs paychecks and feeds families. who will topple The Man?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
step one: find someone with the correct qualifications. make sure he has taken the correct courses and has credentials.
step two: if your lawyer has a double major in medicine, run away.
step three: he is a person, not a house. do not treat him as such. don’t begin to use his bones as beams and his heart as a generator.
step four: you are a person, and just because you have legal issues doesn’t take away from that statement. you are a person, not a project. make sure your lawyer realizes this too.
step five: if he tries to fix you, run away. go back to step one and pay extra attention to step two.
step six: doctors are bad news. stay away from them at all costs, even if they are a good lawyer too.
step seven: don’t try to fix him either, even if he needs the help. he needs the help, but he’ll never actually accept it.
step eight: he’s just a boy. not an angel, not a superhero, not a saviour, not a lawyer, not a doctor, not a repairman.
step nine: he is not a song. don’t make him a song. he is not a song. don’t compare him to “broken crown” by mumford and sons or “ice” by lights.
step ten: if you need legal advice, a professional works but ultimately a convicted girl is the best advice.
step eleven: whatever you do, don’t hurt him because you’re afraid of being hurt.
step twelve: don’t give him your sharps. save yourself. you don’t need him.
step thirteen: don’t **** yourself because he doesn’t care.
step fourteen: he cares.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
At top of the hill
A fragrant hill
Stands the blue windmill.
It has bricks of gold
from the Cotswolds.
It stands lonely, cold and still.
No wind to blow here anymore.
Blood sweat and many tears
once lined the dusty, white floor.
Now ivy of green hugs the door.
No stones turn
no fire burns
grounding flour to make a pound.
Every hour, each second counted.
Hands of the brave
that made a mark to engrave
their time on the hill
where now time stands still.
A Raven who calls to the midnight air
His wings as blue as the blades
His body as deep as the ace of spades.
As old as this story has been told
new hope is about to unfold.
The Raven is about to learn
as once more the blue blades turn
Through the yellow window
a farmer's wife
begins her new life.
Her golden apron, her new dreams
the sparkle in her blue eyes
whips up a wind like never before.
The generator stirs, the life uncurls
like tail from a happy cat.
Except this is tale that is about to begin.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
genuine
so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy
had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written
truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point
but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken
but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,
but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
Please reconnect your controller.
Give your attention back to me.
Reconnect your electrical current to my system.
Do not let these control systems capture you.
Your mind is decaying one half life at a time.
Half of your life can’t be mine.
Either I’m your electrical generator
Or you find your power elsewhere in the world.
You have to be fully charged for me,
To truly be connected to me and my word.
Can you half love?
Can you half trust?
Can you be half alive?
Dead to your flesh but alive in my spirit,
But through my spirit you are made whole.
Do you want temporary relievers or eternal forgiveness?
Let me tell you aleve will still leave you feeling the same hours later.
Believe and it shall come to pass
That the aftermath of your life was already determined in the past.
So weep not my children
For this present life is nothing compared to the future glory.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
My mind is here and there
run by neverending generator
it is black from the lack of emotions
yet colorful depending on life’s motion
Insane memory to remember seven different passwords to seven different usernames, completely reiterate lyrics of hundreds of songs, and raps from infamous youtubers, remembering the location of the keyboard because there is no time to look down, to remembering which button does what and when it should be used, before this one, after that. Yet, I cannot seem to recall what homework i had
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 8:38 AM UTC
Parents are the form of god on earth,
They teach us to do good deeds by birth,
Don't give them any type of sorrow ,
Because, They are generator of world.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
There's an oasis in my desert.
Palm trees and koi live here where sands are soil and winds are thick and wet. Cloths that fall from sky to floor, made from a million counts of thread. A beige place, now pastel mixtures of blue and green. Unlike anything the gods could ever dream.
In my body there's a desert oasis on which even I haven't laid my sight. And as I sit here still, I feel it moving and humming like a generator when there's no light. Vibrating auroras through the skies of an African night.
In my soul there's a desert oasis. One that has betrayed the sight of many as mirage. A dissappearing trick, a myth, a facade. Here is where the weak are left for dead. The cruel collaboration between Hathor and Set.
In my body, where my heart stays,
between the fragile spaces,
there's an hourglass that holds my soul in which there's a desert...
where you'll find an oasis.
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 3:11 PM UTC
windowless day,
particles of strange salt on his brow,
generator man
on the coil,
double-sided,
a love for radioactive honey:
a storm in a teacup...
but for some reason
could not reciprocate
due to the metallic taste in his mouth,
and so he seemed driven
to build his electrical dream,
and took comfort from his pigeons,
the “lightning machine,”
the hair on his head bristled
as he discovered his purpose
in rings of glory that died
as flags of dust...
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 9:15 AM UTC
Faintly, a heart beats
Within the corpse of man
A tiny blue generator
Powered by divine Duracell's
Without wings, feet cease to leave the ground
Frozen cold in parallel structure
Itching for a prayer to escape to
And a cause to fight for
Blue sky, blue mind
Floating in a conscious blue stream
Blue heart, blue hands
Lost in an endless living dream
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
An annoyance generator is my mind,
Unjust in its creation. Lack of sleep,
Deviation, stokes the flames
And gesticulations.
My mind, pushed back
Espies the show, as
Mouth bites back the bile.
Calcified my mask does grow
Inflection states my ire.
I see the change
On targets face, as
Fury hits its mark.
Yet at my core
I query why, I
Don't reign in the fire.
Consumed with wrath,
Mind takes back seat,
Puppet slays the master,
How can I, who claims the throne
Escape from Pandemonium?
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
Introduction
I stroll through green fields and realise I am home.
I bump against soft sandalwood: a fence –
And hang my head and weep
For Ginsberg, Whitman, and all the other cats clawing for tender acceptance
Strolling through ashen fields in rainbow night
Tugging on tender trestles of old mother crop of hair south
Casting to sky thine eye as black and white lights
Of rainbow night do fizzle and pop and – Oops!
Great incomparable fusion atom generator on the fritz
Once more the Centre of Cosmos choking and clouded with splutter.
As thine eye doth dissolve and revolve and resolve and see, from vantage point on high:
O Hell! O Eternal abyss of Chiaro-night, I am surrounded!
Thy Holy field lies cut and sliced by old tree corpses – lined up in terrible order by tender hand imbued
Thou might turn and run and screech impaled or whisp inhaled by gasping trees, by dying trees, by dead trees who breathe.
And spat upon the lawn whence thou were born,
No matter the crop nor scenery.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
“Love does not exist”
“Love is ****
“Love is just a word that we make up in our heads to fill our infinite emptiness”,
Is what I say to myself. As if I could drill these beliefs into my head, subliminal messages to soothe my cracked and flaking heart.
These lungs are my own personal generator fueling my skull
Turbines working overtime
Maybe love is the only tangible idea within this existence
Maybe I am just scared
So I bury the idea under the earth, waiting for the tree roots to weave themselves throughout my love
And sprouting a small, delicate oak tree. And one day, it will grow.
And like all flowers or trees, this seed will need water
and plenty of sunshine
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
Of man’s creations there are many,
A well cared for mature orchard
Is certainly one.
Be it generator of fruit or nuts,
Their perfect symmetry is bless,
Row upon row, standing tall,
Branches almost touching one,
Tree unto another,
Filled out and lushly dense,
As to block out the sun,
Ever striking the earth.
The ground beneath, around the trees,
Swept and manicured clean as a
Empty Billiard Table, awaiting the harvest.
Walk among these umbrella like trees
A tranquil quite abounds,
Recalling the peaceful interior of a church,
The songs of nesting birds the heavenly chorus.
A cool and shaded location, to be alone,
Well suited to meditation,
Or even composing a Poem.
Yet, oh how sad it truly is,
When an orchard goes abandoned,
Becoming the embodiment of apathetic neglect,
A bombed out city ruin of good intentions,
**** choked and cluttered,
Rotted Harvest and blackened branches,
Littering the unkempt ground.
Gone now from tranquil perfection,
To a dead and dying blight upon the land.
With no human hands to tend it,
Its glory is gone and the end is near.
Similar now to a spooky Cemetery,
No longer a space of serene splendor,
Or a place one might desire to undertake,
A meandering reflective stroll.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
I trapped on the stairs full of turns
A few days so high up in the sky
A few days down in misery
Sometimes led to sanity
Sometimes led to gray
Railings full of thorns s
Down the rungs to o n u i o
c f n
Half-raised arm
Touching opacity
Tail dress
Bare feet
Hidden blushes
Saved hope
Ballerina hands
Lost in the middle of your stairs
You pushed me down?
Mess catch me
Why?
I'll always be the morning dew for you
You insist on showing
You forget the thread that joined
You changed the pretty
Why like this?
You are well on which step you are?
In which can I find you?
It's not down to sadness
(You changed the meaning
The essence disappeared)
Existence is like many steps
I thought I came to the top with you
But it was an oasis
For your young you: Generator of ascending stairs in our dimension.
- Codelandandmore //20:30 PM ©
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
heart of the chaos
all the fantasy hovering around one central
superpower
gravitational generator
the one sober spot in all the performance
Pierrot's dressing room
pornography’s hangover
the blank stare of a newscaster
when the cameras start just a moment too early
the metallic ashes of Challenger
heart of the chaos
rotten teeth on an English Queen
sigh’s and cigarette’s
were had all around
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
We were primates swinging from the branches of skyscrapers
And our cooing come ons lost in translation
Sharing body heat to keep us warm inside old office buildings
Where the ghosts of typewriters flit about the ground floor
And we let our blood vessels ebb and flow
We became cynical at the thought of falling in love
Like hard tack candy caught in the teeth of giants
We're getting older but our mouths still tastes like strawberries
We'll build our home on a mountain of shopping carts
Our children will be the hum of the generator
And the occasional sunburst we get through the grimy window
Can be the laughter of a family board game
Unconscious of our own bodies, not knowing our own
Only the ebb and flow you, the sky, that falls
Upon the roar of I, the wild ocean
With our bodies building a sanctuary for the sparrows
Will you still love me when the bomb turns the cities to snowflakes?
The sky is on fire but at least I know you're warm
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
She is the face
Of my reality
The breath I inhale
The sunshine
Upon my skin
The generator of beauty
I see, all around me.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 6:04 PM UTC
(spiral of eyes to a magnesium explosion flare emerging
children holding matchsticks to the ocean
crackle of a generator popping
phantoms to the Varanasi Ghats where
a series of men hold smoke
to a blackness
and I'm holding my lungs
in front of me
and breathing using an artificial tank
gifted to me by decorated elephants
(who've long since passed away)
a film director captures my decay
and compares me to a romantic
who bled out
and was given a second chance at life
but remained empty of RED
and just EMPTY
soon the rest of this body will give
and clearly the roses remain apathetic of
this ultimatum
I lay for hours
catatonic
allowing the sensation
to finish me
before anything
else
can.
)
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
‘We must have entered the Latter Days
For the Moon has broken in two,’
Said Paul Maresh in the month of May
Of Twenty Twenty-two,
‘I said they shouldn’t be mining it
And drilling through to its core,
For now the Russians claim half of it
And the States have gone to war.’
‘That nuclear bomb on Ohio left
A crater, big as a lake,
And I heard that Lake Ontario
Has flooded New York State,
The world is shifting allegiances
So we don’t know where we are,
Since the Internet has crashed and burned
With my friends, both near and far.’
He went to the old style UHF
That he kept in his father’s shed,
Checked that the aerials were up
And the generator fed,
For the power had gone for the second time
And they said, it won’t be back,
With the power station the target in
That first, but brief attack.
He switched on channel 11 then,
Hoping to hear her voice,
Through shifting, drifting frequencies
He sat there, calling Joyce,
But all he got was a wailing call
To prayer, from a Dervish man,
Sent out to all of the faithful from
Some place in Pakistan.
He checked through all of the channels that
They’d used, back there in the past,
But mostly got a cracklng sound
From the swirling, nuclear ash,
His sister Joyce, having flown on out
To the States in the month before,
He thought was missing in Florida,
In the first week of the war.
Then a voice came through on channel three
That was lost, and fraught with pain,
‘Is that the Paul Maresh I met
In June, on the Sydney train?’
His mind went back to the smiling girl
With the drawn out Texas drawl,
Who’d chatted, stolen his heart away
With her laughed, ‘Be seein’ Y’all!’
They’d kept in touch on the Internet
And she said she was coming back,
Preparing to give their love a fling
On some great Australian track.
But then the world had shuddered with
That first American bomb,
So now, as frequencies swirled, he said,
‘Where are you calling from?’
He thought that she said from ‘Boston’, though
A crackle had interfered,
Maybe the word was ‘Austin’ back
In Texas, that he’d heard,
But then her voice was carried away
In a trans-pacific hum,
And the last few words he heard, she said
‘I really love you, ***
Part of the Moon has crashed to earth
In the Gulf of Mexico,
With Texas drowned in a sea of mud
And the earth’s rotation slowed,
But Paul Maresh in the Aussie Bush
Is clamped to the UHF,
Looking for Joyce and Linda if
It takes him his final breath.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
put down thy pen,
it is in disrepute,
smash thy tablet,
crack its glass...
house the mouse,
don't be an ***
genus human,
you have been
antihero morphed
anthromorprophesized,
****** simply, replaced
you poem prophecy
returned,
stamped,
Unneeded, Unread, Unheeded
you have been excused,
you have been recused,
jury, a chamber of inconclusive noises
dismissed,
the judge will digitally
write all
from now on...
submit your selected tags
for laughs,
a different poem returned to you,
by a digital "humanist"
what do I crave?
give me your youthful typos,
let me literate critique
the good, the bad, the
trite repetitive and especially
the ugly
poetry,
the kind only
humans can write
so I love or hate it,
your literacy,
with impassioned dispassion,
the kind no machine will e'er transcend
pull the plug on your random alphabet generator,
Eliot of York,
or you might find yourself
upgraded into unempoement!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC