bots are not real
friends
a “I” has a soul
bots are not good
buds
you cannot see
their eyes
thus
their highs
and lows
programmed to be
informed
about the kids
whereabouts
and find
what lurks inside
stay out
of the light
with
a shadowy din
a bot
not unlike
a ouija board
could be unobviously
a familiar
spirit, a lesser god,
a demon
hidden within
tin
AI, artificially
intelligent
put your money
on the other guy
the way
truth
life
The Creator
I am not a bot
you are not a bot
you’re of a special lot
one not made
by human hands
but held
in high regard
saved
by a sacrifice
a bot’s
headed for
the junk pile
and his spirit
for eternal damnation
depend not
on the oil can
if
the mouth moves
you
might fall
for
its deception
Categories:
junk pile, angst, friendship,
Form: Free verse
Plastic bag pixie
sealed with her four leaf clover
was thrown out like trash;
Bubbling magic
left to die in a junk pile;
Shimmers were fading
on cardboard like rainbow oil
as a boy walked by;
Luckily he saw treasure
amidst the grime and pyrite;
Rainbows reflected
fascination on the street;
Picked up a sparkle;
Discarded gold alchemy,
much more than a speck of light.
Categories:
junk pile, emotions, feelings, magic,
Form: Free verse
Rusty cans and unknown skeletons
Once useful in structure and convenience
Now sculpture the red clay and pine knots
Of the hidden gateway to the backwoods
My memory loses the battle
With a toy cash register whose numbers
Still shine black on white and flash higher
As they display, and the bells jingle
Tires and more tires carry worn treads
With water greasy from time and nature’s
Slow and steady return to her own way
Sloshing willingly into my shoes
Mats of old shingles once weathering
Storms and sunshine now lie quietly
Clinging to one another like lost children
Cowering in their barren vacuum of loneliness
Old men with tales of battles
And stories of crops, and cattle, and kings
Probably sat in that old chair
With whittled arms and broken legs
Sporadic visits teach a wondering history
More mystical and convincing
Than the fact-riddled pages of tomorrow’s assignment
Or the tainted explanations of our teachers
Categories:
junk pile, appreciation, change, education, feelings,
Form: Free verse
THE JUNK PILE
By Jerry May
Orange with rust and gray with weathered
worn decay,
the heap behind the shed has seen it’s useful better days.
Every discarded piece of junk layered in the miscellaneous maze,
once was brand new and factory fresh before it was forgotten and left to lay.
The underpinning of the pile an umbrella used only once and left deployed,
Borrowed from grandpa's car and carefreely turned into a toy.
The spines skewered the spokes of a girl's birthday wish now destroyed,
consequently peddled to pieces to see a cute neighbor boy.
On the rotted pink bike an essential portal of almost every day,
when growing town was more than walking distance away.
An old hand painted mailbox now uprooted and discarded into the maze,
now a comfortable home for spiders and mice to play and live during the day.
There a mix of assorted wire, wood and metal violated with corroded nails and screws,
in a snarl of waiting tetanus all serving a purpose or two.
The most recent additions on the heap and a sign of modern times,
an outdated computer and a microwave that the garbage man denied.
Categories:
junk pile, life, nostalgia,
Form: Sonnet
I’ve found the pasture with all the pretty horses
in origami red
junk pile silver
the painted desert
wild taffy
the proud one
a soft blanket
and saddle
“giddyup,” i’ve heard them say.
but all’s still and quiet, emotion’s
at the tip of a brush, in broken clay
with paper manes
and folded legs
iron skeletons
an infinite stampede
rows upon rows
corralled on stretched canvases
a serene place to view my face, a stranger
to contemplate,
take for a ride
8/10/2018
Categories:
junk pile, animal, art,
Form: Free verse
A 'Good Old Days Market' sign seen
With arrows that point to the scene;
There hidden by wall
Of stone, very tall,
I ventured and found behind screen,
Some tables with items arranged...
Such irony...somewhat deranged!
There spread out in view...
Still wanted by few...
Remains, by new tech, now estranged!
Typewriters galore, 'modern' style.
Old telephones that you must dial.
Flip cellphones that close...
Eight-track videos...
Oh, such a 'nostalgic' junk pile!
Some huge V H S movie cams,
The weight of two five-pounder hams.
Fax senders...hand fed...
Received...in hands read,
And heaps of outdated programs!
Old Apple computers, diskettes;
Recorders with lots of cassettes.
Fat TVs with tubes,
Old Kodaks, flashcubes...
Those 'good' old days? Gone! No regrets!
Sandra M. Haight
Categories:
junk pile, funny,
Form: Limerick
Something had to give
Or, it was going to break
…shatter
…explode into fragments so sharp they could sever gravity
The machine had been running on vapors for far too long
Nothing oiled
Nothing lubed
Everything got too hot too quickly
Everything groaned, screeched, & whined as it threatened to seize
Irreparable
Each piece, to the tiniest, was twisted, and skewed six ways from Sunday
It was so many things…
The one thing it wasn’t….
It wasn’t good
So far removed from good that it was miserable
A junk pile of outdated parts
A wretched heap of uselessness
The rub?
…it wasn’t always in such disrepair
When it was in its prime, it ran like a syrupy dream
A dream that promised an eternity
Absolute
Always
Now, that dream was pregnant with sorrow, & about to birth a bitter end
It promised nothing more
The tank long emptied
It promised nothing more than
The lengthy, messy, harrowing task of dismantling the machine
Piece by piece
Each stamped with painful memory
…a reminder of what it used to be.
Categories:
junk pile, absence, angst, break up,
Form: Free verse
To call it a poem and to pen it in a baroque form and style
is to abuse carte blanche to express and bring forth a reader’s bile;
avant-garde works that break traditions may appeal for a while
but if its sole aim is to create an anomaly it may find home in a junk pile.
Emotion and Experience that gets its bona fide expressions born
in a poem fresh are meant not to give a déjà vu feel all over again;
may be this is a lone voice of a dilettante poet unknown
unable to write with such élan that it is not poem high-flown;
but I am sure this is not a cacophony of words thrown
to get out of my ennui, so here are my thoughts on poetry shown.
16-Jan-2018
Contest: Ten words ten lines 2
Sponsored by: Silent One
Categories:
junk pile, poetry,
Form: Free verse
For all I know, I know nothing
Who can say when enough is sufficing.
No way to verify what searches reap
To winnow out truths from junk pile heap.
Garbage tower to heaven meant
Like babel feeds bewilderment.
Categories:
junk pile, internet,
Form: Epigram
Old toys now pile taking up space,
Discards now style an ugly trace.
Prized once before such unique things,
Bright joys galore in junk pile fling.
Once happy daze in cheery spoils,
Dark is the maze where play recoils.
Old toys seem lost in winds most strange,
Cause in crash cost now fade with change.
See the new ways exit old times,
Hurl fancy play in wavy chimes.
Gone without thought those old-time plots,
New drama slots a fickle lot.
Leon Enriquez
17 January 2016
Singapore
Categories:
junk pile, blessing,
Form: Couplet