It's a game, that in order to play it well,
Requires strength, and precision with touch.
Where no one would claim to be born with it,
But it's acquired by long hours and such.
While it's mentored and played mostly socially,
The lengthy practice is a solitary pursuit.
When one learns of themselves and their limits,
As they search for the perfect shot to execute.
So these players swing and stroke to oblivion,
Since that's required to perform and display.
With countless hours bearing all the expense forwarded,
To achieve levels of greatness along the way.
No matter when one begins in this journey,
It's soon realized that this is a lifelong exam.
Even as technology tries to improve one's every effort,
The basics remain, all the rest is a scam.
Now history would grant the Scots with its origins,
Yet the world now possesses all the blame.
Though it seems to disallow for any favor,
Towards any unwilling to improve their golf game.
It's as if this love for her is an infectious disease
But I am still stubborn
To my heart's troublesome manners
Liquid bliss to my taste buds
I can only decay from the leak of her
I immerse myself daily in the thought of her
She is disgusted by my rage-full desires
Diligently I preserve my soul for her
I can only wish for her thoughts
And dream of her love's embrace
Countless hours of tears
As it rains upon my pillow
I swear, if it wasn't for this hopeless desire for her
I am hopelessly lost without her
In my mind, preoccupation
Occurs from time to time.
One example is me trying
To make my words rhyme.
Beside my creativity
Exists a certain place...
So, I introduce to you
My video head space.
Often, fragments of cinema
Appear inside my head.
These can be triggered at random
Or thought of instead.
Television was a mentor
When I was much younger.
Its visuals and soundscapes
Would satisfy my hunger.
Countless hours would be spent
With eyes glued to the screen...
Mesmerized and memorising
Details of a scene.
Shots, action, and dialogue...
Played in repetition.
Looking back, I laugh because
I made it my mission.
Nowadays in times of boredom,
Speech or certain actions
Of a movie sometimes surface
In parts or small fractions.
I do not re-enact them
The way I used to do...
But still, my video head space
Provides me with brain stew.
Every day, questions arise anew,
Who would you prefer, AI's blessing or curse, happiness, or me true?
He spent his life in a methodic trance,
Solving problems with algorithms, in a perpetual dance.
Dreaming of AI to crack century-old codes,
In his lifetime, just solving some math with his loads.
Countless hours, days, and nights he toiled,
Debugging his code, his passion unspoiled.
I wondered who this new mistress could be,
More captivating than sharing life with me.
What is happiness, fun, vacations, travel?
Spending money on good food and wine to unravel.
He can craft love poems with AI's might,
But none for me in our silver jubilee's light.
I offer love, happiness, and sorrow's embrace,
But maybe no one should marry a geek in this case.
As a spouse, should I leave him to his AI devotion?
Leftover pasta and potatoes, his token of emotion.
Love needs reciprocation, hearts drift apart,
I hope he chooses AI, happiness, or me, and restarts.
Time to touch the forbidden button
Years of searching for its location
Time is not on my side
Countless hours dedicated for a split decision
My youth hindered my coordination
Going left, knowing I wasn't right
An unattainable reaction drove me to my detriment
For the button remains a mystery,
Never to be found by the common man
It lies dormant until awakened by the extraordinary
"Is tomato soup more important than friendship?" by Poet
I try to talk to her
but she's too busy eating her tomato soup
I hit the chat machine
and all I hear is falling parmesan cheese
but the drama in the online community is too wide
I only wish that I could find a friend
a friend that has time away from her soup and cheese
I try by proclaiming my loneliness
my life without tomato soup
but a chicken souvlaki salad is what I eat regularly
with jalopeno poppers and chicken pastina soup
why isn't my soup better than hers
and why does she spend more time with her soup
than with me
I pray one day I'll find the answers
but for now I spend countless hours alone
while she sips and devours her tomato soup
Time to touch the forbidden button
Years of constant searching for its location
Time is not on my side
Countless hours dedicated to a split decision
My youth hindered my coordination
Going left, knowing I wasn't right
An unattainable essence drove me to my detriment
For the button remains a mystery
Never to be found by the common man
It lies dormant until awakened by the extraordinary
Two fresh plates to adorn my humble chariot.
The one on top had the honor of being mounted at the front,
as my customary parking pattern
is to back into a space on the far side of the garage.
But soft ... was it an honor?
To be figurehead, first to see, noble vanguard,
and yet,
bombarded for countless hours by suicidal bugs,
dust, gravel, and mud.
The rear plate will soon be far cleaner,
and has the quiet, reflective view of what has passed.
Though it might wish for the electric thrill
of seeing things first.
I wonder which the plate on top would prefer,
if it had more claim than its fellow below.
But fate granted me judicial clarity.
Top is front; bottom is back.
Different fates - each with their own charm.
Grow not envious, o plates.
Your positions both have great beauty.
18 November 2022
What do we have here
It's the twenty-four impure hours
that precede this exact moment
in which we realize that the past day
once again had no qualities
and it was just and again
the amorphous happening of empty facts
repeating the constant tonic
of the previous countless hours
in which our accounting demonstrated
that is not only wild
but also cruel in the essence of its meaning
because the extract of everything is a gigantic nothing
that accumulated formats what we are:
the tasteless layers of recurring thoughts
the monotonous routine of deficient organisms
the outlandish bet on a losing run
the unnecessary accumulation of obsolete items
the incessant search for the essential but non-existent
logical sense to our incoherent lives.
Her Night
Santa is out of sight
It’s Christmas Eve
He’s on his reindeer flight
The elves are on a short vacation
Mrs. Claus stays behind to enjoy the peace and quiet
Having spent countless hours helping Santa and the elves all year
She looks forward to this break
This is her night to rest and enjoy whatever she would like
She fills a plate with finger foods and pours a glass of wine
She puts them on the table next to her lounge chair
After getting comfortable, she begins to binge watch
All of her favorite shows that she missed during the year
Eventually, she falls asleep
To awake to the sound of reindeer bells and Santa’s sweet kiss
time is all he has
how little no one knows
the end is near
of that he is reminded daily
he sings the blues
for anyone who’ll listen
imagining scenarios where
he’s in love and life is sweet
hallucinations swirl inside his head
as pain killers of every color take effect
between imaginary and surreal
life floats unfettered
the blues his only lover
he sings as best as loud he can
meandering the path alone
down towards the great unknown
countless hours down the hourglass
he ponders the many questions deep
those of life and death
but mostly about meaning
tears in the night
strumming his old guitar
the flow of memories streaming
bound to leave no stone unturned
Read on air by invitation ~ July 28, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC"
AP: 2nd place 2022
Originally posted on July 28, 2021
I can remember a time not so long ago
When children whooped it up most all day
Playing outdoor games with made-up names
And caring little for come what may
But now, they spend countless hours
Manipulating hand-held electronic gadgets
And have absolutely nothing to say.
Written June 17, 2021
Time stops for nobody;
Even if we beg it to.
As each day brings forth a new page,
We tend to forget that each day can bring new pain.
Everyone begs for the happiness or the fearless hours.
But for those who can’t move forward,
All they can do is wish for the best.
The wisest people in the world know that pain makes us stronger.
They know that only being happy is wishful thinking.
That’s why we have to move on.
Even if pain is all we known or felt,
We move on.
So, even after all the late assignments;
Sleepless nights for tests;
Countless hours of studying;
Time continues to move on.
For some, this year has been the worst, normal, or best.
They still move forward to the new day.
Time will move on.
For most this year will be remembered,
As others will soon forget.
But for me?
I will remember and come back to the year I mature in.
This isn’t my goodbye or my farewell.
It’s just me saying it’s time to move on.
"And if my private universe scans right, // So does the verse of galaxies divine ..." - from the poem "Pale Fire" by Vladimir Nabokov.
In Wonderland, with Alice I would walk
and speak with Cheshire Cats and one March Hare,
then through the looking glass, a Jabberwock,
as Tweedledum and Tweedledee would stare.
With Lucy in her diamond-studded sky,
newspaper taxis and cellophane flowers,
I found myself sharing marshmallow pie
with rocking horse people for countless hours.
In Narnia, I met the Pevensies
a Faun and Lion past the wardrobe door.
In Middle Earth I learned of talking trees,
and hobbits, dwarves, and elves - brave to the core.
Between the lines of lyrics, prose and verse
flew rockets in my private universe.
written 17 Sep 2020
Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command
concerning salient technological knowhow,
far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest cutting edge binary wizardry.
Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry for knowledge
includes protracted time
fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours
tutoring son(s) and/or daughter(s)
patiently mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing netiquette)
aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einstein)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).
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