AI is groupthink, it’s hewed to pre-existing work,
which it aggregates into something bland and flat.
If you don’t want your work scraped and copied by AI, try
writing off-balance ideas that aren’t for everyone and have faith
that AI will never be able to actually rival human creativity.
Deny AI the echo chamber of predictable content on which it feeds.
I polish my pieces to a pointless sheen, which gives
them an algorithmically indecipherable quality.
When it comes my to poetry, I have to admit,
I’m working through mediocrity—hoping that it’s just a phase.
If failure is essential for growth
I’m going to be a giant
But after all, someone has to define the baseline.
You’re welcome.
Ok, Let’s wax poetic..
There are thousands of stars
in that black outer-place
where gravitas holds them
firmly in place.
I fret not about avian abductions,
or unidentified flying soccers,
still, I’ve a waxed on them
in multiverse
.
.
Songs for this:
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles
A Sunday Morning
A small group of women
slowly approach a
tomb hewed from a
local hill.
A bright rising sun
begins to peek over
the horizon as the first
day of the new week dawns.
The Roman soldiers lay
all about the entrance
in different poses
as if asleep.
The mighty stone that
blocked the small
entrance to the hole of
death is rolled away.
The women approach and
look inside. The rock bed
where He lay is empty
save for the blood-stained shroud.
At the head and foot
sit two men garbed
in white as if guarding
the shroud.
He is not here. The
women gasp as one
to see the empty rock bed
and they wonder what next.
This time of life
highlights the balance of my age;
my past takes up more space than my future
has left- and so be it.
My life is fulfilled by family- dear husband,
three new generations- and I'm the matriarch
to whom they come- I keep the fire
burning bright for them- our past, present, and beyond.
Creative arts-
poetry and painting shaped me.
Yet, my strong business flair hewed fine work skills-
fulfilling retirement.
I am learning to let go, slow down, and enjoy
things as they are- no more tears or mournfulness for
the sad times that darkened my days-
because I've been blessed far past my expectations.
INTERVIEW WITH A DYING TREE-
I stand erect I embrace we
You cover me I am under you us
Grounded together we two
I am of you, we both stand in the wind
Both sprightliness, yet of skins
I die daily, my skin sheds
We gather this meeting we hug a conference created beings
In examination whose evaluation our dialogue audience
Exchange canvass the 3rd degree who said you’re a dying tree
I shed skin you shed buds and leaves daily
I speak life, live tree I speak life into me
You’re created-higher than the grounds
You’re created to cleanse the air
So that I may breathe the breath of God
You’re confer with
You’re pollinated
You’re survey you sound out ascertain the opinion of doubt
You shall not be disease nor die out I speak life I decree
I speak life, no you shall not be hewed, nor are you diseased
I speak life, you’re not said a dying tree
6/24/23
For “The Interview” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
A red rose am not
Yellow, pink nor white
My color is lost in between
Different shades in tone
But a rose I still am
Still beautiful to behold
Dressed up in a knot
You brought the likes of me
Across from various gardens
You sorted us out
Branded us with your stamps
Held us up for sale
And the highest bidder won us
We were torn away from families
Strangers became family
It didn’t matter our garden of origin
We had been arranged together
Each according to its looks
Beauty, strength, height and only God knows what
Hewed from my beautiful home
A spectacle you made me to be
You chose where I lay
What view I could have
When I could be nourished
As we got spent and faded
You cut us up
Others you hung up
But remember we were beautiful
Once in our own garden.
The Fountain of Living Waters flows,
Ready to quench our thirst,
Why do ye hew out broken cisterns?
Broken cisterns that burst;
Drink from the Fount and be satisfied,
It will become a well,
Water springing to eternal life
From your being will swell.
Syllable count: 9.6.9.6
Written on 8th January 2023
Jeremiah 2:13 - For my people have committed two evils; they have forsaken me the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water.
John 4: 13,14 - Jesus answered and said unto her, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again:
But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.
The gorgeous garden rhapsodic,
absorbs the aura of spring in the air,
I hear the whisper so melodic
of the serenading southern wind.
The blazing sarlet sun sets
fire on the skyline reclined,
the floating flotilla of cloud leaves
the trail of colored wisps behind.
Suffused with draping sunshine silken,
the garden adorns crown of pearly dew,
the bent blades of emerald grass glisten
with crystalline charisma within its clutch.
The spotless lucent sky of luminescence
shines with seraphic shades of turquoise touch,
the gossamer leaves sprout anew,
while the beguiled boughs watch.
The bursting buds bloosom slow
the flushing fresco of flowers,
in the mesmeric garden meadow
they weave the lattice of colors.
As the fluorescent butterflies flitter
through the hewed sunray’s glow,
the vista of beguiling beauty of joy
I find framed on my window.
___________________
March 14, 2022
Contest : Garden Inspirations
Sponsored by : BJ Legros Kelley
For Brian Strand 's Your Option Again Contest
In sunburst morning
clouds waft on hewed wing,
focused sunbeams flush
curtained window glass,
rays make track to sun,
my cold life I run.
March 17, 2021
Contest : Tableau-6 Lines
Sponsor : Joseph May
The same shriek he made
Escaping the womb face first
In that cow dung smeared hut
Was still echoing in her heart
When he frantically whimpered
In subdued feeble scuffle for life
Fraughting desperately
In his inconceivable horror.
His sun set in dawn
He died the death of the grown
Slaughtered clasped like chicken
Body hewed gruesomely
Portions grisly extracted
In gory of utmost malevolent
Conjured by egoistic endeavours
Unlike days of bloody plunder
Incited by abhorred revenge
Privation prowls and lurks
On pathways wielding axes
To purge the sprout of hope
Springing off the black dirty.
The shriek he made
In reed knitted basket cradle
Was for justice and life
And the same shriek echoes
In her grief smeared heart
For her son to rest in peace.
Ever since Mr. Dutile asked us to sandwich our desks together, I haven't
been able to sleep or eat. My mom made her famous crisp lasagna the
other night but I didn't eat a bite. I went to my room feigning a stomach
ache then wrote your name all over my binder. I can feel my cheeks hot
as I write this but I must say it or combust. You make my heart melt like mozzarella and when you smile at me, you make me feel like the prettiest
girl alive. I know I am not Julie Panuccia with her revlon lipstick but I was hoping, you felt this way too.
So here it goes, "Would you go to the prom with me?"
Before you say no, I must ask you one thing, "When you slipped me that silly note along with your hewed pencil, was that you making a pass?
I figured maybe ?
Soooo, if they answer is yes then on prom night I will ask the D.J.
to play "My Eyes Adored You" it was playing the day I ran
into you on talent night. I almost dropped my books at your feet
I believe I fell in love that da. I hope you feel the same way too
Sergio Valente.
Your friend
Loretta Beata Lucia Santaricchia
Feb 21, 2019
Scurrying minds like galloping horses in tempest
Energy exhausted they search placid places to rest
Any pasture where weary horses can contently graze
Hewed minds broken can come out of tormenting maze.
On chaotic land such places confused minds can’t get
Reins snapped they rush and sink in sea to turn instead
Seahorses swimming gently upright in their iconic grace
Enclosed deep in tranquil abode of bliss minds become
Serene seahorses within stormy life's surface squall.
April 21, 2018
with Aunt Sophie's clothes
Aunt Sophie left some old dark clothes
and a small battered tin
an old silver locket and chain
grey and tarnished
hiding within
wrapped in a shred of faded blue cloth
inside of a tattered cotton bag
along with a few rings and some small pearl earrings
with screw-on backs wrapped up in rags
and in the locket
a faded photograph
of a silver haired man
a seafarer by his clothes
a hardened face
looking through the decades
staring at me
each deeply hewed line a tale of
long voyages and storms
and many days spent out to sea
we knew nothing of him
for she never said a word
she lived and died alone
in a shambling old house
set back off the road
a heavy load
for one old woman to bear
what do we do with Aunt Sophie's clothes
Happiness harvested from whims and wishes
Happiness flashed and hushed in fetishes
Serves and preserves no benefits
As ventures and adventures yield no profits.
Happiness at the behest of behemoths
Happiness shone by fireflies to moths
Deludes and alludes to fantasies
Twisted and wasted in idiosyncrasies.
Happiness surrendered to vagaries of vagabonds
Happiness harnessed in split seconds
Yields and shields no fields of permanence
Caught up in lumpen luminescence.
Happiness hewed from hornets’ nests
Happiness skewed in pockets of pests
Detests texts and contexts of honesty
Swamped and dumped in humps of travesty.
Tonight tears hewed
Flowing into a vaso of wine
Over rainbows
Dreams get lost
Lovers fade
True friends rare
I miss the ones
Who traveled far
Crawling
Out from crowds
White rose's of mystery
Alone my smile hides
Lost desires
If only
A tear could be shared
Between two
Images
Searing cold vibrations
ringing in the well;
shifting sands in the moonlight
obscuring the only trail.
A song sinking, shattered
upon a dissonant reef;
pregnant clouds low flying
over the tidal grief.
Voices in crescendo
of sharply focused gall;
severed strands fraying
in the fabric of the soul.
Frail wings in the darkness
fleeing a ruptured storm;
footprints in the desert,
leagues away from home.
Pale cheeks in black boxes
hewed from fated pine;
black lace and white candles
sputtering in the rain.
Reckless thirst rippling
placid pools of bliss;
a rusty mirror reflecting
faint imprint of a kiss.
Fragrant guile oozing
down a fickle brow;
faithless eyes drowning
in the melting of the snow.
Wormy bark peeling on
bent sapling in the glen;
a crown of weighty branches
bowing to the wind.
Such are the graying images
painful in the grasp;
kaleidoscopic fragments
of life's fragile glass,
embedded in the depths
of memory's own thick balm
congealing in the ashes
of a time long since gone.
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