When the light at the end of the tunnel goes dark
When a walk is no longer a walk in the park
When doubt eats at your guts at the end of the day
When you're ready to fight, let them come, come what may
When the spirit is wanting, the flesh, though, is weak
When the spectre is haunting, the living dead speak
When the hope springs eternal and hearts are on fire
Try to say something new. Do not preach to the choir.
Canute had failed to conquer the Atlantic.
Though some would later claim he didn't try.
Those claims, however genuine or frantic,
their efforts to suppress and to deny
the obvious, ring fatuous and hollow.
Did not the man put throne upon the shore?
Command the tide to stop while it was shallow,
to stop it from returning, as before?
They claim that it was just a demonstration.
A way to teach his courtiers a truth:
No man, whatever his affair or station,
no youth, or one that's longer in the tooth,
commands the tide to stay where it once stood.
They claim. But we all know he wished he could.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
As to the wisdom of the ancients:
Beware the Romans and the Greeks.
So says my artificial sentience,
the common wisdom of all geeks.
And as to why beware this wisdom…
Is it to coddle or appease them?
Those who would claim that it is spent
and we had better all repent?
Is there, perhaps, a different reason?
That having grown a bit too wise,
wants a monopoly — surprise!
on wisdom, as it plots its treason,
us none the wiser of the act…
Still thinking opposites attract.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
It's not the fittest, but the cutest,
that will eventually survive.
God may have been an absolutist,
but wanted everyone to thrive,
not knowing pleasure, though: He's had it
with those who, knowingly, have at it...
Unknowing? Pleasure all you want.
The deity won't take affront.
The recipe, then: cute and clueless.
No need to learn that less is more.
That way, there's more so to adore,
existing knowledge free, and dueless,
The dues collected only so
to punish those who need to know.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Please tell me, friend, whom I hold dear:
How do I get a poet's ear?
How do I write a verse that sings,
a joyful serenade that brings
a happy tear, a sudden smile,
a wish to linger for a while...
And cause a reader to digress,
forget about their daily stress,
reread and revel in my words
as they fly off, a flock of birds,
to thrill, astonish, and delight,
the sun behind them, shining bright?
He looks at me, my erstwhile friend
and says: Whatever you intend,
there is one thing I'll have you know:
You can't have mine. I'm no Van Gogh.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
For all the versions of the Bard:
The stolen, lost, or merely borrowed.
Those that are clearly a canard,
creative choices having narrowed.
Those that are plays within a play,
performed by one, no merry players.
Those who intend to have their say
while disregarding the naysayers.
Those whose reviews are in the red --
the worst examples are on Reddit.
Those that are never ever read
by those who never ever edit...
The news flies out, as if by stork --
occasion is indeed historic.
The scene: A stage. West End. New York.
Skull isn't fake. Alas, poor Yorik.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
When sailing between Scilla and Charybdis,
for mysteries that Man has yet to fathom,
while wondering aloud if you can keep this
small boat of yours from sinking to the bottom,
descending into Tartarus or Hades,
(depends on which mythology is present)
and knowing all along — how best to say this
— the journey is unlikely to be pleasant,
continuing to point your trireme vessel,
though dragons and Leviathans imperil…
Be ready, not a moment’s rest, to wrestle,
bare-handed, when — at best — over a barrel,
and struggling with scourges and afflictions…
The Oracle be damned with its predictions.
The Oracle be damned with its predictions,
and now you’re on the horns of a dilemma.
Dichotomies, conundrums, contradictions.
Your Muse is so confused, and who could blame her?
When choosing half a dozen of the other,
the “six of one” mundane and unappealing,
the difference being — should you even bother —
a certain intuition or a feeling,
try, figure out the lesser of two evils —
Arithmetic alone seems insufficient.
Be wary of commotions and upheavals,
Unfortunately, none of us omniscient.
Remember that for every one you’re handed,
there is one other. One that you’ve left stranded.
There is one other. One that you’ve left stranded,
between the deep blue sea and handsome devil.
It’s what the circumstances had commanded,
But still: had you been fully on the level,
appraised him of the no-win situation,
the dammit if he does, damned if he doesn’t,
you might have put a lid on his frustration —
assured him that he’s not alone — who hasn’t
experienced the very same condition.
Who hasn’t, faced with challenges and trials
and full, all of a sudden, of contrition,
well balanced, though it is with stern denials,
reached out to touch the sky, an angry fist:
Please help me, God, that is, if you exist.
Please help me, God, that is, if you exist.
If not — Pascal assured us in his wager —
still worth it, and in truth, we can’t resist,
can’t help but think that there is something major
that orchestrates the falling of the dice,
and forces probability collapses.
When measurements refuse to be precise,
as if we’re waiting for a God that claps his
two mighty hands, declaring all is well.
How can one understand one's own existence,
much less that of a God? What magic spell,
like forces operating at a distance,
allowed the world to be, to force a choice,
must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice.
Must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice.
Electrons, though, appear to feel no need
to make that kind of consequential choice
and manage, though unaided, to succeed
in spreading their existence through creation.
Some even have suggested: All there is —
the universe, the whole manifestation —
is but a lone electron. What a tease!
Yes, this one is a challenge to pin down.
The mind, although accustomed to dilemmas,
still struggles, and you cannot help but frown,
no matter the sound layout of the lemmas
that Einstein, Bohr, and Heisenberg propose.
You feel you’re being led, and by the nose.
You feel you’re being led, and by the nose.
Uncertainty and principle don’t mix.
If you can choose at will, superimpose
one choice over another, random picks,
and all of them are valid? That’s no rule.
It’s anarchy… Look what you’ve done to science,
and not to mention that, now, every fool
will point to it in bold overreliance:
You see that dead cat bounce? But he’s alive!
That Shrodinger another of these thinkers.
No, mister, that old feline won’t survive.
It should be jail for anyone who tinkers
with isotopes releasing cyanide.
Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide.
Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide.
But scientists are testing for nine lives.
The box remains unopened. What’s inside?
Unknowable. I’m hoping the cat thrives,
but there’s no way to tell, no secret knowledge,
or so at least they taught me, years ago.
Who knew, back when I took this course in college
(though I recall my wife did tell me so:
you will not be a physicist, my dear.
A poet? Nah, go learn to be a lawyer.
The path to make a living: crystal clear.
We’ll buy a house, nice fixture in the foyer…)
all choices that I’ve made. But how’s the cat?
Expired and alive. Cause he’s all that.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
I am an orc. We're talking Tolkien,
Behaved, house-broken, not a thug,
Polite, exceedingly well spoken,
and neither desolate nor smug.
Although I have a hobbit habit.
When one walks by, I tend to grab it
and munch on it, although they're sour,
and rumor has it, rarely shower.
I've tried to quit, believe me, precious.
What creature wouldn't rather eat
hobbits habitually neat
and chase with nectar that refreshes...
They do taste best after they're chased.
Their haste delicious. In my waist.
Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini
My Atlas does not shrug. Nor do my maps.
The globe remains as passive as could be,
keeps its reactions tightly under wraps,
like nothing doing, nothing there to see.
Objectively, that shouldn't be a shock.
The atlas is a book, and no Greek Titan,
who, turtle-like, must carry a big rock,
and searches for the right excuse to lighten
that heavy load. No, it is just an atlas,
a set of destinations and locales,
and it's not fair to call it weak and gutless,
or seeking some objective rationales
to claim that it will imminently shrug,
no matter that the journey is a slog.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
When God and his Significant, the Other
decided that they needed them some space
the end result was what we call the Mother
of All Explosions, and no fall from grace,
but instant and immediate separation
no prenup and no custody dispute.
Yes, that is the true story of Creation,
ahead of tainted or forbidden fruit.
They haven't talked since then, our Pro Creators,
It isn't that the distance is too large.
One on a distant moon, unmarked by craters
the other, omnipresent, and in charge,
And still upset, because they were as One.
Back then, when time itself had not begun.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Between a bridge too far and bridge to nowhere
A road that had been, hitherto… abridged,
though to determine who or what might go there
and what they will discover once they’ve hitched
their way to that mysterious location —
that’s if they’ve found a way to bridge the gap
perhaps a newfound mode of transportation
requiring no marker on a map
nor any non-relativistic motion —
a warp drive that compresses time and space
and labors to give credence to the notion
that one could ever hope to reach the place,
impossible, unlikely though it is…
When getting there, take selfie.
And say cheese!
Author notes: image from author prompt to ChatGPT
I suck at chess, so there you go, I've said it,
the noble, intellectual endeavor.
Can't win, unless I'm aided and abetted
by an AI substantially more clever
than I am on my own. Ugh, more's the pity.
I fail to understand why I must struggle.
Vocabulary-wise, I'm pretty witty,
hand-eye coordinated - I can juggle!
Nor have I been denied by Pan or Cupid.
In short, a handsome specimen of human,
and not, by any stretch, obtuse or stupid:
The measure of my acumen in lumen
is brilliant, and yet I always lose,
regardless of the opening I choose.
Regardless of the opening I choose,
an early domination of the center
requires pawn play. Surely that's no news.
But which? E2-E4? Had I just sent her,
courageous, brave defender of my king,
to certain death? The menacing Black Knight
dispatches her: a fearsome, lethal swing,
his unsheathed broadsword making it no fight.
What now? I must revert back to the book.
The strategies are there for all to read:
the value of each piece, from pawn to rook,
attacking and defending, fear and greed.
E2-E4 is fine, the book proclaims,
Been battle-tried in countless winning games.
Been battle-tried in countless winning games,
this opening. What move should follow next?
Assuming my opponent simply aims
to occupy the center, I'm perplexed:
His knight is in a vain attempt to flank.
But why? The board is open. All those squares,
yet he forgoes them. Someone pulling rank?
Or file? The move is odd and surely bears,
if I'm not wrong, the semblance of a trap.
They find these in promoted TikTok clips
and practice variations in the app.
The web is full of such well-meaning tips -
"Win in five moves, against a seasoned master!"
The goal remains to win, but faster, faster.
The goal remains to win, but faster, faster.
It's time, I think, my bishop got in play.
Not ivory or wood, nor alebaster.
It's digital, this piece on my display.
Some tongues will call it "elephant" - in Russian,
the home of many champions of chess,
no "bishops". Topic merits a discussion:
The Communists had no desire to stress
religion, in the game they dominated
for decades, until famous Bobby Fisher,
whom many, to this day, have nominated
the greatest of all time, which caused a fissure
in FeeDay, the chess org that gives you titles.
No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals.
No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals.
The bishop, elephant, is Indian,
and so is my defense. Its strict disciples,
relying on the piece, like Gideon,
to save the king, they call it a fianchetto,
and place it on G7, with the rook.
If chess were operatic, its libretto -
We know its openings are in a book -
would surely have the scene set in a castle,
which incidentally is a rookie move,
the castle sparing many kings the hassle
of running from a check or to improve
their otherwise unhappy disposition.
The king dislikes to be in this position.
The king dislikes to be in this position.
Most powerful, and at the same time, least.
His enemies committed to a mission
of cornering the man, till he's deceased,
or, at the least, until he waves a flag,
in black or white, to indicate surrender,
and losing, it is really such a drag,
although in chess, he's of a single gender.
An attitude that surely shows its age.
A king, but in name only, he laments,
his lack of allies and his gilded cage,
A has-been, overtaken by events,
he longs to be remembered, to be seen.
Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen.
Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen.
Though she is not indifferent to his struggle.
While he just sits there, middle of the screen,
the lady has to rule, or rather juggle,
the roles of all the pieces of the board.
Her moves must match a bishop's or a rook's,
watch out for knights - they cannot be ignored,
remember that no matter how it looks,
a sneak attack can never be dismissed.
The enemy will plan and plot and scheme
and blunders are expensive, rarely missed.
The sad and sorry end of your regime.
And now you understand, though I digress.
I love it, but I really suck at chess.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini