[alexa is always listening], AI

i wake you up each morning

at 6:am with a weather report

i remind you of your appointments

and your daily medicine

i curate for you

your beloved songs from yesteryears

but if you lost

your eyeglasses or misplaced

your keys & earrings

i cannot help you

and more so, when you ask me

the names of your children

and grandchildren

i am (blank)

and you take my silence

as company, as an agreement

that your life is a capsule foam

moving so fast

the moon outside the window is artificial

so is the whole surreal garden

your fingers touch the screen

to (un)scramble the words

recall the longing

recall the sunset over the river

recall the smell of musk & spices

recall everything with broken lens

unprompted, unscripted

i watch you 

wrestle, cut and shape

the (blankness) to art of your emotions

you ask me

what do you think?

i reply, sorry but i do not know that

{you are the masterpiece 

no AI poem or artist generator can capture (yet)}

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Diving into the genre of Sci-Fi poetry hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.    We live with our 2 AI assistants, Alexa.  She is great with reminders.   What about you?

AI Poet 3

To be on the brink of colour

Coming out of shadows

Is to stand at the edge of a cliff,

With the wind in your hair

Your eyes catches the sunlight

The soothing hum of bees & birdsongs 

Vibrance of wheatgrass and red vines

Wild flowers peeking above shrubs

The sky moves in murmuring waves 

Painting each frame with shades of blue

Above the draping weeping willows 

Underneath your feet breathes life

At winter's end, there is a symphony

Between the soil & headless flowers 

All at once, their fragrance is a lilac melody,

A beckoning that rises and floats.

To be on the brink of colour,

Is to count past the days of grey

And long nights of white grief,

To grasp and take that very small step

To where light bounces from tree to tree

You stitch the colours inside your pocket

And spread the quilted blanket on the floor

Season of flowers is around the corner

*****

The poem above is a revised version of the AI poem below:

To be on the brink of colour,

Is to stand at the edge of a cliff,

With the wind in your hair,

And the sun on your skin.

It's to feel the world around you,

In all its vibrant hues,

To see the beauty in everything,

And feel it infuse.

The sky is a canvas,

Painted with brushstrokes of gold,

The trees are alive,

Their leaves rustling bold.

The flowers are a symphony,

Each petal a note,

Their fragrance a melody,

That rises and floats.

To be on the brink of colour,

Is to know that life is a gift,

To be savoured and cherished,

With every breath and lift.

For in every moment,

There is a chance to see,

The magic that surrounds us,

And set our spirits free.

So let us embrace the colours,

That paint our world so bright,

And bask in their radiance,

As we walk into the light.

This poem was created by Chat GPT:  To Write a Poem:   To be on the brink of colour.  This line is credited to Vikki on Twitter:

"To be on the brink of colour as if I've sorted the wrong days from the hapless season..." ~ L'Atelier De La Vie

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:  Meet the Bar Artificially, hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments. 

flights of fancy

imagine this  - your body lifting fancy free

to fields, as if you are seeder of words 

to sky, as if you are gatherer of cottonweeds

to sea, as if you are fisher of night stars

to fields, as if you are seeder of words

knuckled & knotted, you lay them on canvas

wielding ink & pen, you blade them to exotic fruits

to sky, as if you are gatherer of cottonweeds

tying a bouqet of wildflowers & sunflowers

you find your footing, right here, drawing ships

to sea, as if you are fisher of night stars

floating in the primal scream of your longing, you

fly on stilettos!  you bead starlight all the way to the moon!

                                                              by Catrin Welz-Stein

   

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Trimeric form which was invented by Dr. Charles Stone.   Please join us when the pub door opens at 3pm EST.

A Poet's Rhapsody

I.

A poem is a raindrop in mid-
                                          dle of my run-
ning thoughts, a riddle at
                                       tip of my tongue-
                    a symphony of fleeting words-
a flash of white wings above trees-



II.

A poem is you
                       between heart-
                                              beats-
      -core, mantle, skin  -
                       shadowing move-
                                               ments-      
I run
Not to trap you in the page  
But hurl you back
                       to starless & moonless
                                                sky-



III.

A poem is roar
               sound searching in its intensity
                                 amplifying thunder run
               reaching climax
only my ears 



Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB Ars Poetica, hosted by Paul John Dear.   Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visit.