Poems

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.

Large table. Happy faces all around it.
A bit of packaged up Americana.
Back then, when the traditions were first founded,
before prefrozen turkeys, before Santa,
before the Hallmark cards and selfie pictures,
the faces were both dirtier and meaner.
No smiles. A solemn reading from the scriptures,
thanks given, though the tables were much leaner,
then back to the mundaneness of survival.
Some surely feel that way about tomorrow
and brace against the seasonal arrival
of specials that would seek to steal and borrow
somebody else’s misery for sport.
Please give, they say. Could use your full support.

I once composed a wholly metric verse
to measure length, and that within an inch,
and while the subject matter was perverse,
and might induce a curse or worse, a flinch,
it was, no doubt, a valiant attempt,
and worthy of admiring reposts.
That, rather than the venomous contempt
which I received from the ungracious hosts
of said sad competition. Pound for pound,
my measure, although decimal and metric,
was perfectly reliable and sound
and had no biologic or obstetric
or other obscene purpose except size.
And all for those who'd wish to feast their eyes.


Author notes: Image created by author prompt to ChatGPT

The lion, as he's lying with the lamb:
goodwill itself, and holiday-themed cheer.
The turkey, and the stuffing, every crumb
all welcome the arrival, every year,
of "wouldn't it be nice!" and "oh, what if!"
and "let us come together, Peace on Earth!"
The sermons, some belligerent and stiff,
some gentle, all in welcoming the birth
of one, albeit well-intentioned teacher,
who dared imagine, for a bloody second,
that Man can be a different kind of creature,
and was dispensed with, having never reckoned
what each of us already understands.
That Man prefers the wringing of the hands.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

Sands of time beneath my feet.
Cloudless sky above.
Day would seem to be complete,
but you're not here, my love.

Gentle breeze runs through my hair,
dries an errant tear.
Seagull soars without a care.
Air is crisp and clear.

Bonfire remnants on the beach.
Bottle bears no message,
or is the message out of reach?
Little crab seeks passage,

carried like a stowaway
on the floating bottle.
Where he goes, I cannot say,
but he needs no paddle.

Would that I were like that crab,
carried by the ocean,
days no longer dull and drab,
motionless, in motion.

Waves are rushing to erase
my footprints in the sand.
Why can't I recall your face?
I don't understand.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT