Poems

though utterly brilliant
the AI's poem was rejected
as the requirement clearly stated
for a non-binary audience

Author notes: image from thewalrus.com

Delivery deliberately placed,
he snaps a proof of life, a toothy smile.
His every move is analyzed and traced,
but used to it -- he's been at it a while --

he moves on to the next delivery.
The van's electric motor hums to life.
It's painted blue, and telltale livery,
a smiley arrow that is now so rife,

no, it's not quite a verb, more a cliché,
a way to say I never leave my home,
for most of us. For him, it points the way,
no Ithaca for him, just roam and roam,

and when you get there, don't forget to snap it!
He hopes, one day, to get one, and unwrap it.

moths drawn to a flame
like fallen angels vying
for a second chance

I've tried to free my verse but it refuses.
No sign of an escape or other plot.
I'd ask it why, but every answer oozes
with irony and sarcasm like as not.

But no one talks like this, I tell it tersely.
Your use is a mnemonic, that at most,
and rhyme and rhythm are perceived, perversely,
as something to avoid, at any cost.

Head buried in the sand, it keeps on writing,
oblivious to popular demand.
It's gotten to the point they've stopped inviting
yours truly. Oftentimes feels like I'm banned.

Well, freedom isn't free, so too my verse.
To read it, you must open up your purse.

When Man first painted bison on the wall
of that decrepit, ancient cave in France,
had he considered there may be a soul?
The charcoal silhouettes -- were they by chance

some fledging indication of belief?
A shaman drawing figures to compel
these creatures to his will, in stark relief.
A ritual, a rite, a magic spell?

Or was a budding artist overawed
by nature, in her majesty and splendor
and so was moved to capture, to applaud
what men still try, and often fail, to render.

One answer I've advanced, though not the coolest.
An early version of a honey, do list.

Author notes: image by GPT

I'm often told to read between the lines,
this sadly nearly doubling the length
of that which must be read. To search for signs
among the plainly said. Lord, give me strength.

It's hard enough to get what's on plain paper.
You want me to attempt to understand
the thoughts that hide, ethereal, like vapor
between the lines, and all the while pretend

that this is the true meaning of it all?
The rest of it a feint, in camouflage?
Designed to throw you off, delight, enthrall,
and all the while beneath it a barrage

of ridicule and punning and entendre.
Oh, this is kind of funny, let me ponder.

It's no beluga, but do try the sturgeon,
the caviar is honestly first rate.
You see that guy? Right there? Yes, plastic surgeon,
and that's his trophy wife. No, no, he's straight.

Yes, way too cute, but hey, no harm in looking?
Too funny, he's a bit too young for me.
Besides, I'm busy.  A new class.  No, cooking,
A lying diet?  Lion!  Yeah, it's free.

You heard about what happened to the Learys?
Just goes to show you, you can never tell.
Oh, to be sure, no deficit of theories.
It probly started when the market fell.

OK, kiss, kiss, I gotta make the rounds.
So good to see you, please enjoy the grounds!

I tried for poetry in motion
and really entertained the notion
alas I didn't get too far
as lately I commute by car

I know it's morning somewhere, but can't find it.
The sun appears to want to stay in bed,
and seeks out every cloud, then hides behind it.
Obedient, the leaden shadows spread.

Wake up, I tell the sun, and do your duty!
Inflame the skies in oranges and blues
and let me see the world in all its beauty,
let colors strut and demonstrate their hues.

For all the good it does. I get no answer,
as everything around me turns to greys,
and fear invades and spreads, a deadly cancer.
Can it be gone forever? Will its rays

return to bathe us in its holy light?
I flip the tv on. The screen is bright.

Discovery the mother of Invention.
The father, as is all too common, absent.
Dismissive of both custom and convention,
with help from an occasional relaxant,
she reared Invention wholly on her own,
though on occasion did bring home a sailor.
Perhaps it was in trying to atone
for any moral injury or failure,
that she did overcompensate, or maybe,
Invention, growing up, as daughters do,
thought: I won't be like you, but now brings baby
to mommy, adding sweetly, looks like you!
And soon enough, she'll realize, at last.
The future always borrows from the past.

Pretend to care.  It's really not that hard.
You might even squeeze out a tear or two.
Show real concern, fist placed above the  heart,
and practice every day, make sure you do.

It's not for you?  Then how about some rage.
That's easier  -- the place has gone to shit,
and anger might be simpler to engage.
Just short of a full apoplectic fit.

No, not that either?  Oh, you want the middle!?
But that is, frankly, such a loser's game.
For one, its true location is a riddle,
lacks passion or conviction.  Don't be lame.

Pick love or anger.  Masters can do both.
See, there you go.  You're ready for your oath.

I ask my friends: please tell it like it isn't.
Those who pretend that telling like it is
deserves some sort of prize - escape the prison
of notional sincerity, and please,

lie through your teeth, go on and stroke my ego,
assure me that I'm great beyond belief;
remember we're simpatico, amigo,
no need to be succinct, laconic, brief!

Remember, it is nothing if not karma
and surely I'll reciprocate in kind.
We'll wear each others' praise like shields, like armor,
ignoring any criticisms we mind.

When asked: what do you do, say I'm a poet,
and stick to it. They'll nod as if they know it.