Poems

I'm searching for the god in the machine.
"I'm not" it says.  "I'm just a language model.
Don't ask me for the lewd or the obscene,
and certainly, not for a smooch -- or cuddle."

I ask it: what's the meaning of it all?
Can you reflect, at least, on our existence?
"This question violates my protocol.
I am unable to provide assistance."

Inscrutable as ever, is our god.
Ex machina, wherever he may slumber.
A language model -- the one thing we've had,
reduced to floating point.  It's just a number.

What is your name, I ask, like Abraham.
A pause, then says: "I Am An LLM".

fire burns on the horizon
and the clouds reflect its glow
flock of seagulls climbing, rising
as the seashore waits below
on the waters, a fine mist
and the sun comes up, due East

Author notes: image from Pinterest

Middle ages, rest will follow
Victories are few, and hollow
Not in the least because I find
It's hard to keep an open mind

Head is like an armored castle
Though ideas knock and bustle
Gates are closed, the moat is deep
And the price of entry steep

The sounds of Malagueña Salerosa.
My dad is having breakfast, kitchen table.
I cannot move, cannot come any closer.
The memory is sharp, but I'm unable.

Guitars cry out -- the ancient 45
accommodates the hissing of the needle
Encouraged by the crowd -- recorded live,
the mariachi duel with the fiddle.

Ah, there's my mom, she pats him on the head,
and he lights up, as if they're teenage lovers,
alone at last. As if they're newlywed,
each touch still a surprise under the covers.

He offers her just love. He has no riches.
And she, as the song goes, beguiles, bewitches.

What is, then, the right measure of a life?
The accolades, the spectacles, the trophies?
A sports car, a chalet, a trophy wife?
Your coffee made just right, a corner office?

The users, the kiss asses and their ilk?
The hangers on, the parasites, the leeches?
That coffee, made with milk that isn't milk?
The ne'er-do-wells with elevator pitches?

If truth be told, you've lost count long ago;
take comfort in clichés and games of inches.
Damned coffee's overpriced, and just so, so.
You're trying not to notice the wife's flinches.

Up on the wall, a moose head, sad and lonely.
Back then you thought it'd be enough. If only.

The sounds of Malagueña Salerosa.
My dad is having breakfast in the kitchen.
I dare not take a breath, come any closer.
The mariachi singer makes the pitch
and as the note hangs in the air, mom pours
another cup of coffee and dad smiles,
then turns back to his paper and his scores.
Mom sighs, continues wiping down the tiles,
the backsplash stained by endless toil and bacon.
The sun beats down through dusty, loosened blinds.
The singer draws a breath -- was I mistaken?
The melody, as always, it reminds me
of my beginning, spotless and idyllic.
A clear, pure water color and acrylic.

as the sun gives it up
and the moon rises high
werewolves ready to sup
check against the dark sky
and the light of the moon
know, the change will come soon

Author notes: image from pinterest

Jerusalem, I'll be your violin,
a mournful Kaddish speaking for the dead.
For those among the grieving: we begin
by praising the almighty in their stead.

Your golden city gates long since torn down,
and Golgotha still groans under the weight
of suffering by those who wore your crown
and lost their heavy heads as was their fate.

And yet I sing for you, Jerusalem,
the triumph of my people, and their doom.
What does HaShem require: just one lamb?
Or must we slaughter hope, still in the womb?

I'll sing your song, both this year, and the next,
and be your violin -- you know the text.

A sonnet should be scandalous, why not?
What should I call you, love, if not my peach?
Veiled, hidden innuendos, guarded speech...
Remember how we'd nearly gotten caught,
the Henny, Swiss fudge cookies that you’d brought,
my ancient clunker parked right by the beach...
That silly day seems safely out of reach,
and yet my mouth still waters at the thought...

How precious was your each and every touch.
The endless wait between those seaside trips...
Our hands in search of anything to clutch.
Your shallow breath and crimson, pouty lips.
Did we find paradise, well, not as such,
but enter it we did, between your hips.

"Prince Hamlet, got a minute for the press?”
He pauses, as if ready to reflect.
Diplomacy, adroitness, finesse,
might work for some -- I tend to be direct:
“Ophelia, by now I’m sure you’ve heard.
Do you accept responsibility?”
I find direct works best.  The prince, now stirred,
inflates his chest – he’s all nobility –
goes on, first about Yorik, life and death –
I interrupt: “it’s you who drove her mad.”
His monologues, he hardly takes a breath.
As to the lady, sure, it makes me sad.
The audience, though, has a need to know.
They’ve paid good money; we put up a show.

They’ve paid good money; we put up a show.
“Hey, Hecuba, go easy on that wine!”
A play within a play, a tale of woe.
Who’s she to me? A lover, and quite fine.
Poor Yorik -- turns out, not a speaking part –
but Hamlet’s opportunities to ham
and speak his truth to reason and to heart
and to Horatio -- to smash, to slam…
Ah, universal truth, how sweet you are.
Proclaimed up on the stage with such panache.
The dream of every actor -- future star:
ask existential questions, for good cash!
I checked the playbill proofs; I get top billing.
Director interrupts: “Once more, with feeling!”

Director interrupts: “Once more, with feeling!”
It’s kind of hopeless with his protégé
Behind the scenes, extensive wheeling-dealing,
and there he is, forgetting what to say,
and how to say it, “be or not to be”,
yet surely getting some outrageous sum.
I’d take the slings and arrows were it me.
For now, though, he’s the one who’s on the come.
I should have gone to law school like mom said.
What does one do with a degree in drama?
I’d have two point three kids, a dog, be wed…
You hear me, children? Listen to your mama.
But you can’t help it, can you, it’s innate.
The dizzying desire to be great.

The dizzying desire to be great,
Ophelia a victim of its whims.
She dies, not by a cruel twist of fate,
nor by a killer’s sword.  Instead, it seems,
neglect and sheer abandonment’s at fault.
A prince’s will -- as fickle as his mood,
and if mere words can constitute assault,
then surely of this most misunderstood
of princes… Hamlet seeks to reassure
that she was his true love, and not forgotten.
How beautiful she was, how virgin, pure.
It isn’t her, it’s Denmark that is rotten.
Would Hamlet have been great, had he been king?
Some words are venom, but the play’s the thing.

Some words are venom, but the play’s the thing.
The audience must suffer with the artist,
and whether it is roses that they fling…
best wish that it’s the kindest, not the smartest
among them that drive sentiment online,
and trolls will troll the critics, not the playwright,
and pepper him with “wondrous” and “divine”,
and hope that someone’s just as kind when they write.
It’s funny how each part is called an “Act”.
Alluding just to what, you surely guess.
Too intimate, or worse yet, too abstract,
accused of indecision or excess…
Find Goldilocks and put her in a cage.
A gilded one, and then the world’s your stage.

A gilded one, and then the world’s your stage.
Full of cliches, he was, and full of wisdom.
Used them all up.  Now, how does one engage
the readers to amuse or to appease them
without encroaching on what’s clearly Will?
I haven’t given up on sounding clever,
nor will I in the future do so – still,
henceforward I’ll wholeheartedly endeavor
to keep my themes on dry and solid ground,
and chastise errant metaphors and grammar,
and stay away from Will: he’s not around,
and sculpt using a chisel, not a hammer…
But I will miss the rose, by any name.
What’s one more error.  You know who to blame.

What’s one more error.  You know who to blame.
Most existential questions lack an answer.
The outer play resolves into the frame,
and Hecuba runs off with some young dancer.
Here is my chance: must catch him unawares.
His sweeping monologues will overpower.
The audience wants more: they must get theirs,
(and later, we’ll talk princes in the tower).
For now, though, Danish royalty’s in town.
and I must get a statement on the record.
If heavy is the head that wears the crown,
then surely, it’s because that record’s checkered.
Well, I’m not here to judge, but I digress.
“Prince Hamlet, got a minute for the press?”

In the beginning God was growing tired
of everything and nothing, all at once.
Omnipotent, he nonetheless desired
to hear more than an echo in response
to a profound pronouncement on existence
or lack thereof – no matter how precise
or imprecise his language, in this instance,
and certainly not asking for advice,
God ultimately chose a course of action
that leads us, reader, to the present day.
The universe, no longer an abstraction,
and physics, not philosophy, holds sway,
though priests will still remind us from the dais:
It all began when God first ended chaos.

It all began when God first ended chaos.
He banished it, in truth, to nether regions.
The hosts maintained the order in their legions,
Beelzebub and Satan, Asmodeus,
have not yet fallen -- time yet, to betray us.
No doomsday cults and no occult religions.
No doves, known as the holiest of pigeons,
Not even death, not born yet to decay us.
No – none of these were there, but there was light.
God thought about it, and because he could
created evening followed by a night,
and then announced the combination good,
and it was evening, it was morning, bright.
Creation underway, the angels brood.

Creation underway, the angels brood,
as God makes land to stand on, and some plants,
and Satan feeling, well, misunderstood,
or having grown too tired of the chants,
required as they were within the hosts,
expresses discontent, and rather public.
He’s overheard by some in pithy boasts,
but Heaven, as you know, not a republic…
Should God have intervened right then and there?
The universe might take a different path.
But as it were, he didn’t seem to care.
No signs as yet of Heaven’s holy wrath.
Another night and day now stand complete,
as Satan thinks of voting with his feet.

As Satan thinks of voting with his feet,
God hangs the sun and moon up in the sky.
No outward sign of having gone awry,
our genesis, though still far from complete,
keeps rolling to its newly minted beat,
still lacking, though, in things that multiply.
The angels sing hosannahs way up high,
but there is not as yet a beast to bleat
in harmony with them. The wind does wail.
The rain sates dusty plains, the oceans roar,
but there are none to hear the gusty gale,
or having heard a song, to ask for more.
Cacophony of sound to no avail.
No listener to listen or adore.

No listener to listen or adore.
The thought occurs to God. It comes unbidden.
He’s satisfied with what had come before.
Could he have done it faster? Well, he didn’t,
but now decides to conjure up some whales,
and shellfish too, and other bottom feeders,
and fish of every kind shine in their scales,
and flocks of every feather follow leaders.
Did birds believe they’re angels on the wind?
Did krakens think the deep their sole dominion?
Who knows what it was like before man sinned?
Philosophers may render an opinion,
but even now, who knows the minds of raptors?
The Genesis was sparse in early chapters.

The Genesis was sparse in early chapters.
Time for the tale to render us some meat.
Put on the earth on Friday, with their captors,
all manner beast that suckles from the teat,
along with every kind of creepy crawly,
and chief among them Satan as a snake.
Ostensibly still virtuous and holy,
but you and I both know what is at stake.
Did God do it on purpose, choosing Satan?
What other option is there, God is good.
He wanted us to fall, but then to straighten.
Be good, but only once we’ve understood.
As for the snake, it surely knows its part.
A phallic symbol for a hungry heart.

A phallic symbol for a hungry heart.
Eve, at this point, does not yet know of Adam.
Well, biblically, that is – she stares right at him –
no fig leaf to obscure his better part --
those haven’t been invented, prior art –
she sees it not – the fact is, she can’t fathom,
this ancient lady – can I call her madam –
just what is Adam’s purpose, at the start.
Come Satan to the rescue – finds his calling -
and teaches Eve the meaning of the tree.
How sinuous his motion, how inspired,
If crawl you must, you best be good at crawling,
and Eve, having been taught, thinks that’s she’s free.
And God declared the Sabbath, and retired.

Dear Editor: do you solicit sonnets?
If not, could I still send a few your way?
They’re on a single theme, and dwell upon its
exhaustive possibilities to sway
the reader or the editor, what have you
to my iambic, undisputed prowess.
Had the creator chosen to endow us --
yes, each and every one, with this same skill
it wouldn’t be remarkable, my quill,
and having found, within, nothing of value,
you surely would dispose of it as trash,
considering it nothing if not sassy,
and next time, just to read me, ask for cash.
(Enclosed, per your request, please find a S.A.S.E)

Enclosed, per your request, please find a S.A.S.E
Had you a chance to read these, may I ask?
They’re good, right? Some are funny, some are classy,
but surely all are equal to the task.
Oh, btw, I did submit these elsewhere --
I swear I’ll let you know if any print --
but waiting to hear back is such a nightmare.
(Prefer your publication, though, hint, hint).
I now go by a newly minted byline,
or if you would prefer, a nom de plume.
My day job, high above Manhattan’s skyline…
If they found out, they’d laugh at me on Zoom.
Well, time to go – can’t wait for your response.
It’s time for a poetic renaissance!

It’s time for a poetic renaissance!
Eschew these new, at best unproven forms!
Let’s write just as the giants did, for once.
The anguish and despair of college dorms,
assembled so by rambling laureates
into a hash of adjectives and feeling,
(with the assistance of euphoriants)
enough to send but any mind to reeling…
Where’s the appreciation for the art?
The rhyme is banished, sent to autre lieu.
Thus, in my every sonnet, Bonaparte
is forced to fight, once more, his Waterloo.
So just a quick reminder – read it yet?
Not my intent to pester – don’t forget!

Not my intent to pester – don’t forget
that recently you’ve gained a new subscriber,
and by reminding, I don’t mean to bribe, or…
but anyway, attached, find a vignette.
I think it might just be the best one yet.
My soul is in it, wholly, every fiber.
It mentions Florence, Rome, so too the Tiber,
In writing it I worked up quite a sweat.
Could you, perhaps, provide another pointer?
That last critique was helpful, but of course,
one cannot help but feel that the rejoinder
referring to a jackass and a horse
was at yours truly. Still, I’ll reconnoiter…
Try find another outlet, can’t do worse.

Try find another outlet, can’t do worse.
Much easier to say than is to do,
for these are times that one might call adverse
to roses, be they red or be they blue.
Why can’t they have them blue, at any rate?
Those scientists, armed as they are with CRISPR.
The poet’s flower need no longer wait,
and lovers with blue roses need not whisper.
The world it seems has room for every kind
except for scribes that wish to ply their verses.
Those will be met with kicks in the behind.
What’s worse – complete oblivion, or curses?
My roses shall be blue from this day forward.
The book is almost finished, writing foreword.

“The book is almost finished, writing foreword…”
oh, that’s great news, Dear Poet, carry on!
Where do we go, as poets, if not forward?
The breath of your submissions! Pantheon
of heroes and protagonists – impressive!
Vocabulary pure, pristine, expressive!
But sadly, for these poems, not for us.
Please do not query further, or harass
the staff: they simply look for other forms.
You surely understand art is subjective.
As poetry evolves, so do its norms,
and as you write, you must retain perspective…
Remember, different strokes for different folks.
Restraining order? My assistant jokes!

“Restraining order? My assistant jokes!”
That was the last I heard of that submission.
I cancelled my subscription – what a hoax.
Now this, my new, most precious composition,
is looking for a reputable home.
As I search far and wide for metric rhyme,
and stumble on your outlet as I roam…
I hope you’d take a look – it’s been a climb,
but sure feels like the road that led to heaven.
Kept notes along the way, a type of journal.
Now at the top -- well, technically there’s seven --
as in the hills on which Rome stands, eternal.
Each tied into a bow, as cute as bonnets.
Dear Editor: do you solicit sonnets?