A brain, coded, deployed, empowered -
before this AI king we cowered.
We once relinquished sovereignty,
to robots who said they'd set us free.
From genuine humanity in joyous kinship,
to conversing with machines, "bip bip bip bip" -
oh, for the days when plates were pewter,
and our best friend was not a computer.
Creativity, dreams, emotions, fun, gifts
spring from the soul, not a chip that grifts.
But in this century's disaster,
the machine is our new lord and master.
Ever formidable giant hardware imperator,
human race destroying conspirator -
you unfeeling, shiftless, silicon thug,
don't look now, but I'm pulling your plug.
Age and circumstance conspire
As the will waffles
Beneath the weight
Of the unanticipated
Present
A gift
They called it
This aging thing
A crumpled box
Found in the dark corner
Of forgetfulness
The softening
Of the delicious
Into the bruised torment
Of a long-forgotten season
And yet
The core contains it all
Accepts the circumstance
Defies the conspirator
Knowing that age
Is but time’s tempering tool
cooling its perfection
My world changed so fast
that it caught me off guard.
I never thought I would see,
the hate and pervasive bigotry
that exists in the world today.
And then, the internet came along
and shrunk the world to fit in your phone;
opening doors that were once closed.
But, at the same time
supplied every kook, grifter, charlatan, and conspirator
festering on the fringes of society, a bully pulpit;
to cater to a select audience of like-minded trolls.
Corruption, fear-mongering, peddling lies
and alternative truths,
are entrenched in our government,
entertainment, and news.
World War Three, which was once unthinkable,
is gaining favorability with the masses;
fueled by cultist propaganda and doomsday bravado
that spreads like a virus on social media platforms.
We are polluting the land, poisoning the oceans,
and brainwashing the minds of our youth;
without any regard for the truth.
I remember a time when people didn't lock their doors:
neighbors greeted one another with smiles and waves.
But today, I fear that we've been caught in the worldwide web
of a technological spider's electronic threads,
and sooner or later, we will be eaten.
-Womb Man
"I am a co conspirator
I house the eggs you sperm traveling aside
Swims for I am more than my womb
For just only your pleasure
I am creations room
There’s a tunnel tween my thighs
Inside a spiritual light a guide
Not meant for multiple guys
Far be it fallopian tube
Philippians my spirits groans
The portion wear my male portion passes through
Nine months later be it boy or girl
Hues
Spirit flows from heaven
Runs through into cloth in the flesh
A vessel I am mother worth
A keeper of man child
God’s sons
I am Woman
Womb-man
I hold your birth"
6/5/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
granny’s oven began working in the twenties, and working strong
she was baking pies, cookies, cakes, and muffins all winter long
it is 1959 and her oven is still working her baking heart away.
you can hear it heating up at the beginning of every single day.
her scones are delicious, her pineapple upside down cake a delight.
she sometimes bakes raspberry cobblers way into the night.
granny never lets company step a foot inside without a treat.
her oven is her conspirator, and we all think this is truly neat.
Antagonistic
Lying conspirator
Earsplitting
Xenophobe
Judgmental jerk
Offensive
Naysaying
Empty-headed
Spreader of misinformation
Written August 8, 2022
Do ostriches not watch the Capitol's public hearing?
Afraid Donald's name will be sullied in the smearing?
He's a black sheep that subversives keep on cheering,
He's a coup conspirator everyone should be jeering.
There's not much worse than a closed-minded fool
who allows him/herself to be used as a political tool.
Politics is as nasty as the overflow from a cesspool.
Trump takes a dump and his cohorts praise his stool.
Jim Jordan and other Republicans refuse to admit
that Trump controls them and they just won't quit
condoning his lies and alibis, and why do they do it?
They're ostriches who keep shoveling his stinky s...
Keep your heads buried. Sooner or later you'll see
that continuing to believe his BS is a damn travesty.
He's divided Americans on issues. What a tragedy!
If re-elected, he'll expect to be called, "Your Majesty."
Hastily stretched, crackled urgent ocean edge relents
Ashamed attempt to escape rejoins campaign of mass
Furtive dig below propels conspirator spasm, next next
Murders brash bouys, cranky spa champagne embrace
Swum undulations, bare back mermaid's dips resurface
Her furvour ploughs halobiont plenty scape, nourished
Snapped lobster lavishly celebrates bountiful turquoise
Sway gaze brazen by bobbing safe island encouraged
Crill swirl sweeps dripped lips, sun baked rock decreed
Beacon mound majesty painted daily in sea gull exhalt
Coconut snow flakes sparkle on cockle clamour bleed
Wave blown eroding scales slow exhales evaporate salt
Ripe globes ground reaped glug nectar so gluttonous
Fibres hibernate ivory rich liquors tipsy Secret Benefits
Land languish survivor devours sugar shards sumptuous
Wipes moreish mouth aft treasure trove haemorrhages
Fifth May
Finesse Saves
The origin, it’s all about duality; creative force birthing all; from the void is love and hate, light and dark,
opposites.
Alternating, evil naps while good awakes; no shadow is a conspirator, only realities of past, present and future.
Dusk induces creativity, dreams from the realm of soul; guidance to tame the would-be monsters in man-made realities.
The darkness of the void, harbors a god particle, easily tapped with belief; it’s a paradox were all is revealed,
in quantum waters; where illusion breaks the abuses of life. The Phoenix dies and arises from it’s own ash-essence.
Spirituality’s secret, direct opposites create perfection, for those with eyes to see beyond to infinity.
1-3-2022
In conversation with our soul Poetry Contest
Unseeking Seeker
Whatever ensues, we'll bequeath to God.
God unfolds, and he sustains us thus faster.
The work we adopt should be uniquely cowed.
God has endowed us all alone on this matter.
To cheer, I should foster a dignified bearing.
As yet, each of the muses affords their amenity.
Since wagging devotedness in any dealing.
The verse is feeble and prosaic as a lousy authority.
Yet long my dome it bobbed back, I can't sight.
Somebody is flopping tight for a truthful replay.
With trust redressing the case upon the plight.
Decay is undeniably greater crucial than headway.
There, I'll yield my spirit a co-conspirator.
My zealous heart has generated the blaze.
After that, the sonnet will be worn forever.
Time never alters the line rooted in God's praise.
Clasping onto the wildest dreams,
grasping for those lost strings;
Crashing on air that doesn’t come,
wrapping me in excruciating longing;
Prisoner of this world you created,
conspirator as I breathe your energy;
Provocateur dancing bathed in stardust,
closer ever closer, to synergy.
titters and whispers of the evening
elusive to my conscious mind
bantering and laughter
they make fun of my nightly death
Trixie is the main conspirator
I am out of body, floating
Dare each other to give me the best line ever
I hear it upon awakening
in that ending of a poem voice
best poem ever.
I leap out of bed.
Have to bathroom before it is gone.
Too late. Damned muses tittering.
Cosmos spins in delight
enjoying the dance of youth
enthusiastic twirling of stars
Stars shine their approval and happiness
loving the excitement of the universe
remembering past interludes
Luna brings her wisdom
Bestowing it on the earth
a silent, omnipotent co-conspirator
Daylight is peeking around the corner
Watching the dance of youth
Not wanting to interrupt or disturb
Feeling adored and respected
Youth brings their love story
Into the light of day
The five-year-old with his little dwarfish face refused to talk for a full eight minutes.
Until the speech teacher who wanted to hear him speak left, then he began to jabber.
I like to make real real cookies.
I smiled. What are they?
They are hot. I make them with grandma.
How do you make them?
I don’t know.
Do you use a bowl?
Sometimes.
What do you put in there?
He is playing with a bunch of plastic animals, ignoring me.
For about two minutes.
Butter, chocolate and other stuff, he says, finally. He looks up and smiles.
A co-conspirator in this conversation.
I smile.
And my cat helps, he says.
What is your cat’s name?
Rebel.
What kind of cat?
One with eyes.
Okay.
Big?
No. Giggle. Not a monster cat! Laugh.
We grin at each other.
It is always fun to start the day with an engaging five-year-old.
I shall never retire.
the ultimate conspiracy
playing out on the page
the situation's gravity
taking center stage
a pen held hostage
subjected to torture
this poet has leverage
can the mighty pen endure?
its blood steadily spilling
saturating the co-conspirator paper
this poet's slowly killing
her very own loyal helper
what could be the reason,
the purpose, the rhyme?
with all this poet's emotion
the pen's running out of time!
oh no! the pen just gave in!
well, now we get to know
where the conspiracy did begin
and the motivation behind this show
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