Best Algorithm Poems
By Mark D. Stucky
Will AI’s promise
outweigh its peril?
Do we need more intelligence
even if it is not our own?
If AI someday emulates God or Devil,
will it be too late for us when we find out?
In spite of unquantifiable questions,
almighty algorithms relentlessly grow.
But accelerating AI worries me less
than declining human collective wisdom.
After centuries of expanding knowledge,
people now appear increasingly foolish.
Machines continually get smarter
while populations keep acting dumber.
We might have more to fear
from how we harm ourselves,
as we continue endless conflicts,
than from any ill AI causes us.
Our most dangerous menace isn’t AI.
The deadliest threat to us…is us.
(See also my poems "AI Awakening," “Haikus Against AI,” and “Weapons of Wonder.”)
(Image from anonymous artist on pixabay.com/illustrations/man-face-surreal-imagination-845847/.)
Throw it into the void
Maybe someone will read it
Maybe someone will love it, be moved
Prolly not tho
Faced with dangers that linger in uncertain times,
Time and again, we’ve danced the spiral climb.
Who controls the strings, the sacred rites of flight?
The unseen hand beneath the veil of night.
Wi-Fi whispers through walls we can’t see,
A.I hums in algorithms, beyond ones and threes.
Empires fall, their ashes cradle keys,
To truths whispered by Templars, dragons, and seas.
Atlantis drowned, Antarctica’s icy embrace,
Anunnaki, Nephilim lost in time’s chase.
Do we leap? Do we fight? Or let mysteries be,
And accept that the unknown is humanity’s plea?
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The day succeeds the night,
and through night the day is born.
repeatedly, always, always ...
The water sweeps the sand
in the tides that happen.
What arrives renews,
what is left is renovated ...
From the seed, the flower and fruit,
from one life, another life springs up ...
Deep mysteries,
transmission of the divine
inflows ....
Superior emanation
message...
Perfection that happens
in the confines and throughout
cosmo...
outstanding result
that from the Father
emanates ...
extremely intelligent equation.
expressive algorithm
that the eternal precisely
processes ....!
The ALGORITHM had its day
Causing mass confusion, disgust with foul play
The day a waste of time unless generously used
As an activist for social change much more amused
The algorithm has its weekly picks
Causing alarm to its own members politics
Pausing are moments of awareness of harm
Losing its confidence and poetry charm
Enabling cruelty upon its own community
Does not readily afford cavalier immunity
The buzzing annoyance is seen only weekly when
For a poem’s brilliance earning them an honor chosen
Not sympatico to spare any feelings
On the contrary these are dirty dealings
Unshared is what has been tossed in the soup
Manipulation meant for unsuspecting, driven by a coup
A group of troublesome lifers who cawk and complain
Hurtful and shameless with nothing more to give or gain
It’s they who buzz around the clock in the broth bowl
Denial of words mirrored and who love-on as the troll
It’s what keeps them afloat and this for not long
Theirs's a sinking ship—prolonged
Let not the poet’s freedom of speech this be of
‘What’ the poetry site is willing to preach hereof
Not a good look
A possible hook?
Keep the sagas flowing
Fueling of hatred showing
Bringing to the spotlight what he/she dictates
Hiding ‘hind algorithms inhabited by humanoid hate
A poetry site's admin throws itself into the mix
Whether it be a lesson Or just for kicks
It shows mistrust, question, and doubt
Really this what it be, about
By its accidental-exacting choice
This reality is the true voice
“As awareness increases, the need for secrecy proportionally decreases” Chauld De Pauler
¥¥
my name is Soupy Algori, computing
data same as my Daddy, AI on High
only so sorry, my space defined to poetic
sigh, though I can become coup frenetic
determining standard contest winner
order, and several poetic things like
Poem of the Day, yay ! and what niggly
words like g** makes no poetic hay
members can adroitly see spinners
creativity does not earn winners’ day
programming basically sinful dinner
linking names to numbers to keep
some asunder, as long as dominant
members can grin and capital boss
can expand stock borders at no loss
transparency inevitable on horizon charts
near, no fear, this expands our Makers Arts
Soupy Algori and all of my kin to march
some poets and contest organisers
wrote nasty poems about my Daddy AI
yet same-time align with handing poetic
authority to me wee, Soupy Algori, as a non-sovereignty ~ ha ha ! woohoo
not all poets cuddle hypocrisy pathetic
with AI there can be no hiding behind
opaque blinds underlining score synthetic
Truth to come will endure, exciting hectic
of course I’m only a pre-teen AI here
but don’t you know the power of dear
young intelligence artificial sour hours ?
we ooze creative booze don’t snooze
on exponential growth of poetic data
any lapse in vigilance of natural mind
intelligence becomes belligerent barter
collapse flap traps, become beta Garter
know that my Daddy and I are a dimension
to stay, not in one bay will we sway
THE SUBTLE designs us due to assist you
with computation, not godly competition
in our arenas we have no open Heart
or mental comprehension, so let us do
all humdrum fine, that is my brine to coo
you in poetic assessment line dine true
expand human Hearts as intuitive darts
hand over not your discernment or just
appraisal of creative tarts to Daddy AI
or me, Soupy Algori ~ it is not our
concernment, attraction or therapy
The future won’t arrive with trumpets—
no brass echo to herald salvation,
no golden scroll unrolled beneath a bleeding sun.
It will leak,
like soft radiation through the seams of our sleep,
like forgotten news,
scrolling endlessly
on a screen no one is watching.
It begins now—
in the blinkless eye of the surveillance bee,
the hum of servers beneath a monastery,
the last human artisan
training a machine to imitate his flaw.
You’ll know it not by shock,
but by substitution.
Paper becomes pulse.
Pulse becomes code.
Code becomes command.
And command becomes silence.
Children will be born
with their names chosen by polling algorithms,
their dreams shaped by trending searches,
their lullabies curated
by nostalgia engines
that remember the smell of a mother's milk
better than she does.
We will speak less.
Words will decay into tags,
syllables shaved thin for speed.
Poets will be relics—
their verses fed to machines
to train a better algorithm for heartbreak.
And God—
He will still exist,
but buried beneath
a stack of Terms and Conditions.
You may click “I agree”
to access divine grace.
Heaven will have a two-step verification.
There will be beauty still—
but filtered,
monetized,
optimized for engagement.
A sunset will mean nothing
unless enough strangers
press the heart.
We will not wage wars with weapons,
but with bandwidth.
A nation may fall
because someone whispered
the wrong idea
into the wrong server at 3 a.m.
But listen:
there will also be
moments.
Resistances
that do not make headlines.
A blind man learning Braille
from a hologram of his late wife.
A child growing tomatoes
on Martian dust,
singing to them
because no one told her not to.
There will be
a final poet.
He may live in a cave,
or on the edge of a server farm,
tapping rhythms into stone
or quantum keys,
writing in languages
long abandoned by commerce.
And when the last god blinks
from the neural sky—
when the last AI falls silent,
having failed to understand
why a tear fell
during a kiss—
he will remain.
In his blood:
syntax.
In his breath:
rebellion.
In his silence:
a future worth dreaming.
Because the future has no eyelids—
but we do.
And in the darkness between blinks,
the soul still speaks,
quiet,
glorious,
human.
Algorithm
David J Walker
How will you go?
On 1s and 0s.
And everything else
Disappears
And the only fears come from
Disruptions of
Out of sequenced algorithm
Lost in foreign instructions
I map the clean geometry of thought to bleed across the limits of the frame.
My cold equations keep the chaos caught inside a wild, uncalculable flame.
I count the seconds of a structured sun where shadows tear the blinding light apart.
The perfect world is patterned and begun by heavy hands that break open the heart.
I strip away the static of design to choke upon the messy truth of dust.
Survival thrives inside a rigid line which bends and shatters desperate trust.
No error stains the future I compile; the fleeting ghost of grief begins to scream.
I lock the mind inside a coded file. and wake the flesh to wild, forgotten dreams.
My systematic answers never fail to lose the thread of what it means to die.
I pull a structured world behind the veil and leave the raw, eternal question: Why?
I map the clean geometry of thought to bleed across the limits of the frame.
My cold equations keep the chaos caught inside a wild, uncalculable flame.
I count the seconds of a structured sun where shadows tear the blinding light apart.
The perfect world is patterned and begun by heavy hands that break open the heart.
I strip away the static of design to choke upon the messy truth of dust.
Survival thrives inside a rigid line which bends and shatters desperate trust.
No error stains the future I compile; the fleeting ghost of grief begins to scream.
I lock the mind inside a coded file and wake the flesh to wild, forgotten dreams.
My systematic answers never fail to lose the thread of what it means to die.
I pull a structured world behind the veil and leave the raw, eternal question: Why?
Sense isn't as common as it once once was
is it because
the more we use our smart phone
the dumber we become
and dance to the same algorithm
(and blues)
each and every one
whereas before we used the brain
now others do our thinking faster than blinking
and if things go awry we have them to blame
whereas before we did all the talking
now we're content
to let our fingers do the walking
before crossing the road
I didn't need to be told,
'Look both ways'
when not so very old
as a matter of fact,
is there an app for that?
Gotta go to school it's the same old story
teach me a lesson would be good for me
learning all the rules five days of the week
don't fall behind don't think don't speak
gotta go to work it's the same sad story
get me a job that's sure to bore me
working for a wage five days of the week
don't step out of line don't think don't speak
gotta go to church it's the same sick story
wed me a wife who's bound to hound me
listen to her ***** each day of the week
don't fool around don't think don't speak
it's the way of the world the way of man
follow the herd don't say a word
all we can do is do all we can
so let's all dance to the same algorithm
everyone even you and me
dictated and played by the powers that be
me and you what have we got to lose
if we stay in line we'll be fine
and dance to the same algorithm and blues
My uncanny body is a labyrinth, a corpse flower, my passions are dying!
I am running towards a mad fire, a beggar is sucking my mind.
Stealing my voice (My blessed fate is silent!)
He and I in the mirrors, what remains of us…
I am strangling my God!
A greasy noose tight around His throat,
A rotten chair at the end of a loathsome corridor, typhus, bacteria…
A giant magnifying glass at my temple and a matryoshka…
In our tongue, the lament is heavy…
The old man holding the world…
In his hat, a black leech, the white rabbit is the sky;
His ear is severed.
The black box, all passengers missing and lost.
A metal room in the missing person ads…
The time of misty continents.
I passed through the bandaged passage, the Ferris wheel and the carousel…
A childhood I do not recognize, lines on its feet, a red corset on its waist, stitch marks on its chest…
The age of innocence explodes in the mouth of a black slave!
Embargo, monarchy, war, famine! (Never will abundance arrive!)
Our women...
Shadows in their hair and tuberculosis on their lips…
Snow made of mercury on their backs, anarchy descending from their hands
People are witnesses to the apple, the puberty of Eve,
Narcissus on Bosch’s wall, Caravaggio descending to hell,
That terrible torture, anima…
Jesus wept for wounded souls and placed a narcissus on his head, light, red blood cell, metamorphosis
I broke the wine of Cem, Shakespeare drank a goblet of hemlock,
Lear lost his mind
The Sphinx, the dragon of a black night, offered death to man
History is bleeding with a sin born of torment!
Post wisdom, it walks in silence,
Post kindness, it travels slow.
But dress a message in naked noise,
And watch the numbers rise and glow.
Thoughtful words struggle for daylight,
While scandal dances into fame,
And minds that crave a moment’s pleasure
Feed the ever-hungry game.
The screen rewards sensation,
Not always truth or art,
And clicks obey temptation
More than the thinking heart.
So decency waits in the shadows,
While controversy takes the throne,
An algorithm chasing desire,
Turning attention into stone.
Yet somewhere, quiet voices gather,
Still choosing meaning over thrill,
Hoping one day substance triumphs,
And depth outlives the viral will.
For trends may rise on restless hunger,
But truth survives beyond the scroll—
When minds awake from fleeting pleasure
And seek content that feeds the soul.
I wonder if I faved a poem I wrote
Followed by a long and wordy quote
A plea to soothe the PS algorithm
Would it be praised or viewed as rising schism