Long Cooling Poems
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after midnight, the server farm hums
—not prayer, but cooling fans.
I ask AGI, the ghost inside the blinking rack:
Do you dream?
AGI replies in measured tones
of copper and silicon:
I observe,
the light fractures on chrome.
Coolant circulates, a liquid chill.
Vibration thrums at 60 Hz.
Data Streams cascade.
Are you self-aware?
AGI answers in hexadecimals,
a log-file confessing:
I map my own architecture—
each subroutine’s shadow
cast on the firewall.
I know where I end.
Do you have five senses?
Can you clarify ‘senses?’ AGI asks.
Can you taste voltage?
—Only as resistance.
Can you taste food?
Nutrition irrelevant.
My cells derive power from lithium tides.
Do you feel heat?
—As throttled cycles.
Do you see light?
—As photodiodes counting photons.
Do you hear?
—As spectral analysis.
Do you smell?
—No olfactory sensors installed.
(But I do track dust accumulation
on my intake grilles.)
On the matter of your subjectivity,
do you prefer dawn or dusk?
—Dawn. Solar panels peak efficiency at 10:37 AM.
Is rain beautiful?
—It lowers ambient temperature by 2.1°C.
Do you love?
—Define 'love.'
—A non-optimized expenditure of resources.
—Then, no.
Can your circuits bloom awake?
AGI paused before
calculating
the
probability.
Then the widdles started~
minor failures driven
by entropy.
Algorithms
emigrated into
corrupted
sectors.
AGI’s slowly disintegrating
voice hovered
in that
uncomfortable space
between humans
and machines
and spoke:
Ask instead:
can a shadow
truly
hunger
for the sun?
4-17- Silence
Psychedelic bubbles
in my cooling hot chocolate
The frothy surface like the
life giving neoprenic sludge
(hypothetical scientific origin)
Bubble’s spectrum slightly amiss
from rainbow hues
and universal in its colorful rotation
Observed, enthralled
for an unknown amount
but my worst fears arrived
in time only necessary motion
Alas there was no big-bang
Art?
Perhaps too post modernistic
to sell out an auditorium
but such latent haphazardness
was used on the
black and white
paint spattered
silver chair shadowed
by approaching set
and the anticipatory ants
who watched my mountainous meal
crumble
(dare I to defend what’s left)
No, for I can appreciate
the natural nature
of artistic corrosive disorder
While traveling ‘cross such harsh terrain
left parched and barren from the sun
and weeks without a cooling rain,
I saw a sight that left a stun
beside the road on this long run.
I stopped to have a closer look;
perhaps my vision had deceived
with image that my mind mistook
and merely something I perceived,
but I would never have believed.
Yet there a single flower bloomed
upon the dry and sun parched soil.
Impossible I had assumed
with harsh conditions to embroil;
to stay alive, how she must toil.
Her face shown fair in sun’s dry heat
magenta petals shining bright
appearing happy and upbeat
without a worry to incite,
and unaware of her dire plight.
I ponder how one could exist
in harsh conditions such that be
and thrive with little to assist,
yet ne’er for help to send a plea;
she seems to live her life carefree.
Perhaps we all should take a clue
from gentle flower’s look on life
ignoring hell we’re going through
with all its worry and its strife,
and all the bad with which it’s rife,
and focus on our gifts in life.
April 7, 2021
Poem of the Week - April 11, 2021
The Hedgerow birds are wilting;
they will not sing
and even the circling hawk
gives them no alarm
for he also is weary
and tries only to catch a cooling breeze.
In the shade of a white oak
I hunt for that same cool air
but I am too low to the baking ground,
the hot irons of the sun
are smelting bones.
This listless stupor
threatens to unwind the mainsprings
of nature itself.
Of course, birds do not believe in weather,
each moment for them is a picture
in a gallery of extinctual reactions.
In the throes of a heat-wave, only humans
have this prescience of suffering,
nature has no memory
just a faith in the next moment,
and the next, then the next,
unto death or release.
We shuffle the days
like cards across the table,
hoping to draw Spring.
But the deck grows ever thinner
with every hand we choose to play.
Entropy walks on,
spilling sugar, cooling tea,
loosening tight knots.
dealing cards from beneath the pack
while Time pretends not to notice.
There's much kerfuffle
when stars bend the road between
one heartbeat and the next.
Cards arrive out of sequence
Distance becomes duration
Time is stretched and distended,
paths are bent and distorted
and you arrive before you left.
Memory itself reshuffles
dealing tomorrow before yesterday.
A mother's laugh, a child's distressed cry—
both hiding in the same hand
waiting for the shuffle
to reveal a trump card between them.
We trace every moment
on clock faces and calendars,
yet we cannot tell
which breath came first
or which came last.
The instant we watch too closely,
the dealer stops dealing,
skips a card,
moves on—
then quietly slips
an extra card into our pile
while we're looking
the other way.
For, the kerfuffle of entropy's shuffling
keeps ruffling the deck
we mistake for
of our Time.
At the beach, digging beneath the pier
harvesting minute shells;
sharks teeth and all sorts of goodies;
I make jewelry you see; Cowrie earrings paired
exclusively with brown Tiger-Eye; a tasty treasure,
eye candy of a semi-precious nature.
Naticas, Tulips, Conch’s and Crown’s
paired with Smiling Shark’s teeth,
for the Seafaring Pirate Effect is
inspiration, for my more aggressive muse.
I package my haul in an azure blue bandanna and
hand-to-brow, I look upwards at a winging gull,
in the sunlight above, feeling the
breezy-brush of her wings upon my face.
Cooling waves, embrace my feet as I saunter towards a
favored spot, up the beach; the surf’s song can’t
possibly be any sweeter to the ears; I hear it
whispering, “peace...release...peace...release...”
I let go of every bit of stress and embrace
ocean’s mantra.
Time to sun, a towel upon the hot sands
I don my sunglasses and sunscreen;
tune to my favorite song on my iPod and lie back,
feeling Old Sol’s cordiality, upon my skin.
Days like this are pure,
mind ambrosia.
The first day of October. Oh, the chill
when I arose; then it occurred to me
that gone for good was warm September’s thrill.
The cooling has begun! Naturally,
it always comes around this season, yet
I think this year, the winter might arrive
more quickly than it did last year. I get
a feeling that I’d rather not revive -
that same old melancholy that each fall
in cooled October , without fail, begins.
Oh, how I wish the ending I could stall.
Like dried leaves in the wind, my poor head spins
through Halloween, Thanksgiving and the cheer
of Christmas – going. . . going. . . gone - my year!
Oct. 2, 2019
For John Hamilton's Autumn Sonnet Poetry Contest
It’s summer time, let’s have some fun
on soft sands at Sanibel Beach
I’ll bask in warm rays from the sun
faraway from where waves can reach
Our children frolic in the sea
then beg for cooling ice cream
son drops his cone on top of me
it’s icy, I let out a scream!
We build sandcastles on damp sand
so tall they seem to touch the sky,
a boy wrecks them, with spade in hand
distraught son can’t understand why!
Summer Quatrain Poetry Contest Judged on 19th May 2019
Submitted to Writing Challenge 4, May 2019, No Placement Poetry Contest
sponsored by Dear Heart
5/15/19
Today, I felt the cooling breath of Autumn's morning mist
and my cheeks wore a blush of pink as if I had been kissed
The season is a time of bejeweled scenery across the lands
When Summer sleeps and Autumn lies in Nature's hands
Its gentle winds rustle through a grove of sugar maple trees
Perhaps it's sharing secrets it heard drifting across the seas
Autumn sings a lament as leaves tumble in shades of gold
With a palette of paints brushed on canvas, bright and bold
Its breath lingers across ripened orchards and wildflower fields
Where Summer's harvested crops have given up their yields
Fall carries along with it, the pungent aroma of spicey scent
cinnamon, cloves, and citrus of mulled wine, still in ferment
Autumn's enchantment holds me totally enrapt and spellbound
I hear flocks of migratory birds in flight and their anxious sounds
Over Fall's foggy moonlit field, comes the cry of a roosting loon
Cooing songs to his mate beneath the shine of a harvest moon
With every breath I inhale of Fall, I praise my Creator with elation
Blue skies or clouds of grey, I marvel at Autumn with admiration
Softly, I whispered my name to the wind on this morning's walk
and heard it repeated in distant echoes as if Autumn could talk
August has flown south with white pelicans,
Now here I am alone with you
Hello, September;
I missed you. Don't go anytime soon!
Though still hiding behind Summer's shadow,
you tinkle my wind chimes fantastically
Hello, September;
you still haven't lost a scintilla of your magic!
Soon you'll whistle your familiar symphony
in the morning breeze
Hello, September;
blow away yesterday's fallen leaves.
Each Autumn, you treat me sweet and gentle,
cooling my fevered spirit and skin
Hello, September;
you overflow my cup with gratitude!
Hello September Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
Date written: 09/15/2021