Does it snow on the moon? Is it sparkly and white,
and will make lovers swoon, and will not be denied,
'cause it's covered in snow, permafrost wonderland,
icy crystals you know you can't grab with your hand
but you wish that you could. Will you reach for the stars?
Grab a handful? You should. She is yours. She is ours.
Author notes: image from Facebook
A cemetery of abandoned plots,
unfinished poems, stillborn compositions.
Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots,
a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions,
all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze.
No storms here, those have long ago diminished,
and vision bends along, with practiced ease:
Why fight if you already know you're finished?
Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud!
Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors
as sunshine penetrates the permacloud,
a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers…
Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply.
Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly.
Committed to a sonneterium.
Reduced to limericks, haikus, and puns,
with neither Rogers nor a Merriam,
nor Webster to consult, I feel a dunce,
unable to compose a single verse
without resorting to pedestrian
line endings, though I’m not at all averse
to an occasional equestrian,
but not in sonnets, well, unless the goal
was all along a stanza on the birth
of a well-bred, thus consequential, foal,
one not as yet accustomed to its girth,
then I might use equestrian to fit,
and judge the sonnet, with its use, complete.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
What do Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos, do, when they get together at last?
Grab a lunch? Out for cocktails and tapas, or a heartier, fuller repast?
I imagine the Fates as three yentas, sitting, gossiping over your threads,
matching outfits, in pink and magenta, then snip, snip as they send their regrets.
Author notes: image from Freepik
She was born from this foam, Aphrodite,
fully formed; she was Love at first sight,
Lust and Longing to render her mighty,
as no other divine power might.
Born, but never entirely free.
That is why you, too, long for the sea.
Author notes: image from Unsplash
Here's my list of Christmas wishes:
Robot, you will do the dishes,
and while I remain a bard
do some work on the backyard:
Leaves need blowing, overflowing
grass obscured, no longer showing
Logs need splitting, time permitting,
while I write my poems, sitting.
Also, too late for the turkey,
long ago reduced to jerky
but the Christmas table ham
cooked, while I read Sam I am
would be perfect. Inspiration,
two-thirds, they say, perspiration,
I'm concerned, however clever,
Robot won't help the endeavor,
and I might be forced to labor,
or worse yet, to greet a neighbor.
Compare selfies, sing, and carol,
ugly sweater, my apparel…
Unacceptable, I tell you.
So dear Robot, I compel you,
yes, dear Robot, set me free.
Too bad, Robot, you are me.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT
Talk of honor: abide…
Are you sure it's not pride?
Are you certain you haven't confused
for your personal sake,
having made a mistake,
ego wounded and battered and bruised,
pride with honor? Will you
take a moment or two
to acknowledge you're merely a man,
one who falls and who tires -
that's what honor requires.
And then laugh, as God does, at your plan.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Fall is here. She feels like dancing, feels the summer wash away,
as the season crawls, advancing. before winter has its sway.
She is young enough to welcome futures turning into pasts.
Young and pretty. She continues to believe the present lasts.
Author notes: photo thanks to Sylviane Nuccio
Little peanut, eyes open.
She's not dreaming, she's hoping.
Playful whimsy to carry her.
Starry night becomes starrier.
Go to sleep, tell her so...
She will not wanna go
Author notes: image from Pinterest
The one-eyed man was searching far and wide:
had heard an unsubstantiated rumor,
initiated by a clever guide,
(a man with an appalling sense of humor)
that there exists a Kingdom of the Blind,
and were he to locate this fabled kingdom,
however hard the place might prove to find,
if battles they will wage, he's sure to win them,
and, soon enough, proclaimed as lord and king,
he could proceed to reigning and to ruling,
sit pretty as his subjects kiss the ring.
In short, the task was apt, however grueling,
and so he went in search of. Had to try…
Of course they promptly took his other eye.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
a painter sees you in the canvas
a sculptor frees you from the stone
a writer moves you out of Kansas
into a world you've never known
a playwright uses parts of speech
to make you laugh, to make you cry
a poet sees waves on the beach
and writes a poem. Calls it Why?
Forgive the little ditty -- the "Why?" poem is most assuredly there, you won't have to scroll far
It would have been easier to answer your question if you were juxtaposing a Rothko to a Da Vinci (or Van Gogh).
these criteria apply to poetry (actually to most writing, but especially poetry)
1) Is it distinguishable? Does it have a recognizable style? Could it have been written by anyone? Two, three lines in, do you know who wrote it, the only person who could have written it? (putting AI imitations aside)
2) Does it wish to be remembered? Are you moved to quote it, in the way that you'd quote not only Frost or Shakespeare, but a Tarentino movie? Does it play on your tongue, wanting to be repeated again and again?
I would venture to say most free verse written today, whether on this site or even in lauded publications, and by various poet laureates, fails one or both of these tests, and most formal modern poetry (to the extent it is even visible) is rightly dismissed as pedestrian, which, if you examine it, also fails both of the above tests.
AI is sycophantic, but it's able to judge style and mechanics, and if pressed, can offer real criticism. That can help in the absence of a human reader. Human reaction is priceless, of course, but is rarely genuine on this site.
What is Paris, you say?
Sail a boat on the Seine
Walk up Champs-Élysées
as a November rain
falls on you from above.
What is Paris? It's love.
Author notes: image from Facebook