______________________
All around, we increasingly find AI generated things-- novels, poems, motivated news and the like. In social media videos have already invaded for long. It has become increasingly hard to spot the genuine from one not. All AI generated things I think are loaded with heady information, but they lack heart and soul’s personal touch, the I-sense. This ditty is born out of this discomfort.
___________________
Bothors mimicking authors known,
And AI poets copy prone,
Each oh what a black ship--
Bane of pied penmanship,
Dog-like chewing up AI bone,
Like flesh free from hunger,
Heart nor soul nor anger,
Filled but with false pretense,
Lacking crucial I-sense,
Drab like dull-witted guided drone.
______________________________
Happenings | 26.05.2026 | author, computer, copycats, poet, Self, Limerick
Writing was a passion
Passion masked the nail
Your child’s way of life was writing
Mom’s little author she thinks
Mom boasts about the qualities of an author son
Mom doesn’t know there’s a nail in the picture
Your son is sitting,
Feeling the rusty nail pierce his brain
This nail is masked
Your son begs for aid in removing the nail
Mom ignores the begs
Mom tells child to toughen up
This nail eventually takes a toll to the child’s heart
The child begs to his mom
Mom ignores the begs
The child can’t deal with the pain
The nail is now taking full control
Mom ignores the begs
Mom opens child’s door next day
The nail just pinned the coffin
Now the mom listens
THE MISCONCEPTION MISLEADING ADVERTISEMENTS FROM POETRY SOUP ONLY ONE OF MY POEMS EVER ENTERED AN ANTHOLOGY TITLE REMEMBER ME P.S IT'S POETRY I CANNOT TAKE ANY CREDIT FOR ANY POET OR WRITER ALTHOUGH I HAVE COMMENTS ON A FEW POETS PAGES WHO WERE IN THIS ANTHOLOGY BUT NO I AM NOT THEE AUTHOR OF RADIANT VERSES ANTHOLOGY FROM AMAZON IT IS VERY MISLEADING YOU WILL NOT FIND ANY OF MY WORK ON AMAZON ANTHOLOGY RADIANT VERSES ANYONE LOOKING FOR MY WORK WILL FIND ALL MY WORK UNDER MY NAME JUST SPEAKING OUT BECAUSE IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT ALL POETS ARE RECOGNIZED FOR THEIR OWN ORIGINAL WORK KEEP IN MIND JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE COMMENTS ON A POETS POEM DOESN'T MEAN THEY ARE THE ACTUAL AUTHOR THEE AUTHOR OF RADIANT IS JOSEHF LOYLD MURCHISON LENA M PATE JESSICA C WHEELER KEWAYNE WADLEY AND SARAH STEIN TOGETHER THEY CREATED THE BOOK RADIANT VERSES NOT ME YOU CAN FIND HIS INFORMATION WHEN YOU PURCHASE HIS BOOK TITLED RADIANT VERSES MY NAME IS NOWHERE ON THIS BOOK THANK YOU
WRITTEN EXCLUSIVELY BY
MRS. YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
JAN. 17TH 2026
Never a baker, Jo March
Tried baking with cornstarch
Her sisters tried to explain
But to Jo, baking was a pain
Little Women
By Louisa May Alcott
The Author
A man was coming to stay with us at our little farm, years ago
ago, when someone who could read the papers was an intellectual
Or if not, a clever dick too smart for his own good.
The writer was supposed to work, too, to get a feel for farm life.
But he was weedy, didn’t want to help with mucking out in
the barn in the morning, and he had to go back to his typewriter.
Finally, his manuscript was done. He left a big eater; he was not missed.
Two years later, when the book came out, it had little to do with us
but how hard he had suffered pretending he was a child slave, and
much was written about this, but no one came to our farm asking us
about the man. Time has changed today; people would ask
questions and not take printed words for granted.
It would be bedtime, and I’d rise
Risking the possibility of chastisement
By the mother who taught me, with her smiles
That my reading Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden
Every book in each collection – the Hardy Boys too
Wasn’t just a trait passed down to me, to her pleasure
It was a trait she, herself, had spread – a disease
If not verbally, then with each moment she’d spent
Turning pages, lingering amid chapters of inspired
Dreams and imaginations, wanderings
I’d come to accept as my heart’s blessing
And I’d rise, with the intent of going to my room
Where I’d keep a light beneath the quilts,
Consuming the words with a heart full of wonder,
A heart who would always see my own smiles
Reflected on pages filled with castles I’d hoped to build
Myself, and forts that found their way into my wishes
Mine is a heart filled with worlds that were not my own,
beneath the shadows of a warm quilt and sheets
who remember me… as that girl who found her home amid words
The soft sweet potato.
Is known, like me.
I like to be a published author sometimes.
The soft sweet potato.
A pie, so nice.
If I were mashed up and sugar was added.
Then more sugar was added because the recipe was wrong…
I would burst out of the pie a published author.
Ta da!
Sometimes, I have a book.
Or not.
The soft sweet potato sounds.
Pillowly, yet crusty on the outside.
Steam trapped like me.
I can be an author sometimes.
Or growing from the ground.
A pie is so nice like me.
But a sweet potato doesn’t know how to sprout arms, just tangled leaves.
But I do.
Write and act published.
Like the best known recipe in the world.
Another chapter in my life
over much too soon
when there's so much more to live
it's just not opportune
but is Anonymous the author
or would it be myself possibly
writing this tale so true
could it be an autobiography
and yet I won't be put on hold
my one and only guarantee
tho' late won't be overdue
when it's check out time for me
for on turning a page today
I came to realise and to clarify
I'm living a story in a book on loan
from the Great Library in the Sky
Do to others as you seek,
Let kindness shine, make prayers unique.
Even when they mock and scorn,
Still bless them from dusk to dawn.
For God, in love so deep and true,
Held us close when we withdrew.
The Word made flesh drew near to stay,
Though we had wandered far away.
Upon that Cross, in the darkest night,
He interceded for us at Mercy’s seat.
The One who sent the floods before,
Now guides us through the Shepherd’s door.
He who gives good gifts with grace,
Says, ‘I won’t forget your face.’
Though kith and kin may turn aside,
Your name is in His palm inscribed.
The Author of our every page,
Writes ‘Redeemed’ through each new stage.
Once lost, now found - His Blood restores,
A life of victory forevermore!
An Author To Their Work
By Antuan Simmons
The author to their work.
Is like a man or woman to their family.
The pen and pencil is the son they guide to do right.
Guiding to write that first draft.
The keys to the computer is that spouse.
You spend quality time with.
Every punch to the fingers to computer keys.
Is a punch to create that storyline.
The late-night meals and sleepless nights
Is like caring for a daughter.
You miss sleep and but eat in the morning hours.
To fill in the beginning, in between, and end of your book.
Those words on paper is like giving birth.
Because you are putting a creation of literature together.
That comes from the bones, skin, heart, thoughts, and thinking of your mind.
Every formulated image in the story comes from the spirit within you.
The book is your family.
Because sometimes you spend more time creating a literary masterpiece story.
Then you do with your own actual family.
You eat, travel, drive, text, and talk with copies of your beloved book.
I was meant for this.
I swore I was meant for this.
Felt it in the marrow of my bones,
in the pull of every breath,
in the way my hands trembled not from fear,
but from longing.
But longing is not enough.
Wanting is not enough.
I have given everything—
my days, my nights, my ribs cracked open
to make room for something greater.
And still, it slips through my fingers,
a bird with broken wings
dragging itself into the dark.
I try to call it back,
but my voice does not carry the way it used to.
My feet do not land as surely as they once did.
The hands that were steady now shake,
uncertain, unwelcome.
And God, the silence—
how it stretches, how it mocks.
How it wraps itself around me,
a thing I cannot fight, cannot bargain with.
This was supposed to be mine.
I was supposed to be good enough.
But now, I am just a shadow
watching the thing I loved
turn its back on me.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.’
(The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act 3, Scene 2)
by Shakespeare
I have a real tale to tell
of two cities.
I need an author
of some note.
I heard of one whose
first name is Charles.
My name is Oliver and by
some twist of fate, I can’t
remember Charles’s last name!
Memoir Write
My life that was in plight
Introduction
Circumstance into intervention
Surrounding birth
My happenings on Earth
Death knocked
Overcast moment
My passing storm
Sudden sunrise
Heaven’s surprise
Blessing to emphasize
Living right
Sponsored God’s sight
I took a long walk to the park
While holding my book and pen in both hands
Upon arriving, I looked all around
And noticed a brown bench that looks extremely antique
I sat down quietly staring at a blank page
Just trying to form words together in my mind
So I could create a perfect first chapter
Ten minutes later
I still can't think of anything to write
Oh well!
Maybe I should give up completely
Or give it another try
Five minutes later, I'm fantasizing about
Being the best published author
Who sold a lot of books
Then it suddenly dawned on me
That I was not in reality
Now I'm back to square one
Staring at the same blank page
This time I'm getting different ideas
Therefore, I jot them down as they come to me
And I began to write constantly
Plus did not stop until my book was finished
How satisfied I felt that day
For I did not have to worry about anymore incomplete chapters.
Have you ever seen a candle glow,
the one that is whiter than snow.
The special brightness it will show,
it can light up a room for all to see.
“we look for that light eternal
that does not come and go
the screen upon which life plays
cognised in staid stillness slow”
Everyone has this very special light,
the light that lights all lights.
What is it you may ask,
the soul one was given at birth.
Many do not know about this special light,
therefore they do not use this special light.
Once you find it use it,
let your life show your light.
Letting the screen upon which life plays,
cognised in staid stillness slow.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.