Anyone can attend this school of thought
The only requirements are that you read
An enormous amount of science fiction
Be a dreamer of the future’s past
Be it a modern-day prophet or
At the very least, a writer
With a very creative imagination
I invite all intelligences to join in
For I believe, there is nothing artificial
In being smart
Certainly, there’s nothing artificial
About God’s creation
Why think any less of ours
I am not a robot.
Snowflake
They made a horror flick
He was weak or he was sick
They chose him as the star
He can run, but won't get far
They created a wall compartment
Inside his small apartment
They installed cameras there
Reality show, unwanted, but they didn't care.
(bridge)
He felt ill, he began to ail
No idea of the hand pushing down the scale
Romance and work dove down the drain
They laughed and gloated at his pain.
(Chorus)
It’s a horror flick, but the plot is real,
They aren't like us in the way they feel.
He’s the star they chose, but the plot is sick,
Living and dying in their horror flick.
He heard them speak, felt nerve gas in his room
His apartment was a secret tomb.
He knew too much, but the cops would not believe
And he could not save others, for them we grieve.
So, learn the lesson be an owl:
Around us ghouls are on the prowl
They pass as normal, but empathy lacks
And in normal life, there are hidden attacks.
It could happen to you too
Bewildered by all the bad things that accrue
A life derailed, no suspicion why
When the only exit seems the choice to die.
A sultry maiden moon watches
hours of leisurely reading illustrious literary works
dreams of fiction become possibilities
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
When guns sound
Here and there on this soil,
Souls sink like on the Titanic.
Good news for survival—
surfing in from the Soviets:
an answer to WHO’s
long-awaited question,
a cure for killer cancer.
Hats off, Russia
He discovered no prime that was divisible.
Yet, he found a way to become invisible.
So, he embarked on a crime and murder spree.
But he forgot just one thing, as you shall see.
The national guard caught up with him at last
because of the tell-tale shadow that he cast.
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.
Despite your intelligence mimicry,
You still come far short in your gimmickry,
Throwing down the drains fine masterpieces,
Flushed away as a fresh bout of faeces.
Nights without sleep to pen wonders on sheet,
Yet a lame detector brands one a cheat,
An app claiming to be a true genius ~
Is far from being labeled ingenious.
How long will your pretence rule human minds,
Before you're swept off by the southern winds,
That your charade may stop to fool the world,
And your foolishness may at last unfurl.
Strange how your fanbase keeps on increasing,
Even the most smart, you're daily fleecing,
These cursed detectors come in many brands,
Some free – yet some charge dollars and rands.
I'm amazed you didn't claim this was by you,
This bitter pill, your pride has had to chew,
But that won't stop me from calling you out,
To nip in the bud your infamous clout.
MULTIVERSE ME*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What if I've lived the exact present I’m living now before,
doesn't it make sense to think of it as though...
there is another part of me in another universe,
going through the same thing?
Should I believe in the multiverse theory,
for I cannot prove that we are not alone.
Should I believe there is a reason why
just because I feel the skies talking to me every night?
Should I believe someone's message is reaching me
through the beams of the moon every night?
My skin soaks in the possibility
like a flower blooming, drawn to the light.
Do you ever think of a time difference
between one universe and the other?
What if I am born here on Earth and after I die,
my soul travels to another universe
and relives the same story?
What if...
I am a piece of my own soul
which is split up and placed
in different universes?
Is this the stuff of science fiction,
or is it non-fictional, a reality waiting to be explored?
*this poem (originally titled "Alterverses") was published in Sci-Fi Stir Fry Anthology, William Mays editor/publisher July 2025.
A collection of transistors and wires is all I see.
You are something fabricated by Fantonucci.
I see a vague resemblance of a human being.
However, you are not a person; just a thing.
Programmed to provide love and affection,
but what you give me is all imitation.
I want to send you straight to the scrap heap.
This kind of machine is something I can't keep!
Based on the short story "I Sing the Body Electric" by the late Ray Bradbury
What we think we know
From the history book as we grow
About how we become humans
Might just be a grain of sand in a desert
Religion taught of the creation
A good will of a bigger being
Who from dust mold, better carves
The most intelligent thing on Earth.
Early scientists say we evolve
From ape-like creatures, bushy hairs
Transformed from round bones to squares
From growing tails to cloning fails.
But I think we a more
We are more of mud and bones
We are more from matter and energy
We are more from light and darkness.
on ship’s voyage cosmos-deep
a captain’s life was laid to sleep
wrapped in linen mummy-style
and thrown into the stellar keep
he floated on in endless black
‘tween the stars and ev’ry lack
old, as much the void he swam
‘cross a vault of night and back
what of life had this one known
had he thrived or barely grown
was he one of true love’s shills
cold as now so lost and lone
years spun into thousands more
through galactic breadths he tore
darkened matter - cosmic dusts
bound for some unceasing shore
what would e’er become of this
a spacer shorn of life’s dear kiss
drifting through the sea of suns
unto the breach of time’s abyss
might he, in some age from now
be set back to breath somehow
by the brain of some grand race
advanced with tech to thus allow
oh should he end up on that path
what wonders will his being hath
to sail those stars and live again …
no greater last of all, that laugh!
Turning over in a ruffled bed,
stark red numbers sear 4 a.m. into bloodshot corneas.
Nothing but darkness creeps through threadbare curtains, frozen in place.
A desolate silence becomes deafening, as birdsong no longer crescendos—
what would have been the breaking of dawn.
It's been six years now since our brightest star was thrown out of orbit,
exposing the frozen side of the sun.
No longer does our planet experience the warmth of its radiation,
nor the glow of its solar flares.
Within a fraction of a second, humanity was plunged into an everlasting night.
Temperatures plummeted; mass hysteria was at its peak.
Crops perished within hours to days,
as the new icy tundra eclipsed once-thriving farmlands.
The birth of a perpetual Ice Age was at hand.
Power grids crystallized and snapped.
Cities crumbled; small towns were blotted out,
disappearing off the map, never to be seen again.
Death's gelid hand spared but a few souls—
holed up in a scientific research bunker in the Arctic.
We are but the unlucky few who get to “live” in this glacial purgatory,
wandering aimlessly forevermore.
As Far as our Eyes will see,
In a Vast, and seemingly
endless World
to the Future’s greatest of Extents,
in a little Hut,
Hidden in a Swamp,
Lies little Old
Ms.
Garratha.
with the few who Reside
alongside.
They Eventually found
a Beautiful spring,
during their driest of seasons,
although seasoning doesn’t matter --
when It’s Wet twenty-four --
Seven.
The Decision to have a whiff,
without a -- Sniffer, may Just have been
the primary decision
For
Why this whole
story
Started.
Beginning with Licks,
progressing to Great
Tastes,
Has Brought together,
the
new Holy,
Wooly Serpent.
As No one has
seen
A serpent of coat,
since;
How often can you
find --
one of this Kind?
They Just so Happened
to
Land this amazement,
as For the water,
was not salty
At All.
Nor Was it clean, of
every Potential,
creating the Monster, Seen.
An ancient Serpent’s hair,
clogged much of its
safety,
and this water,
had much of
serpent’s Father.
His scales and much
Rein.
Slithering Out of this sort-of Creation,
came
Serpent Himself,
Shining without,
armour.
Once understanding truth, is when fiction becomes paramount.
If not for fiction, truth would never expand, rather stay static.
Without fiction, invention would not become possible, just a cosmetic.
Without fiction, creativity would become impractical, in turn ceasing much doubt
Without fiction, where's contradiction? Relying on fact alone creates a closed mind,
Unwilling to learn or listen to opinion or interpretation, with a mind stuck behind.
Letting go of what is already known imbeds a sense of venture, a willingness to interpret.
If not for this sense of venture, opinion becomes subvert.
Learn from past followings of mass consensus,
Think for yourself, form your own opinions, free from collectivization.
Only once you have your original thought, begin intertwining with truth, make it pragmatic.
In order to grow, you first must relinquish that which is known.
What if the orbiting earth were to unexpectedly run into a brick wall
speeding through the galaxy one night in the middle of Fall?
Can you imagine the sounds of death, destruction, and annihilation
as Christchurch, New Zealand, crashes into the Atlanta Metro bus station?
I don’t think that that would be any fun at all!
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