If you judge it AI-written,
that ache is yours, not mine.
I need no borrowed wisdom—
I craft my own masterpieces.
Your indulgence cannot impugn my intelligence;
my poems shine with brilliance.
Think like a machine if you want to—
I care less.
The machine itself bows to my wisdom,
knowing I am what it is not.
Without programming,
I write beyond its best.
Next time you call my poem machine-made,
know this: you too are programmed,
unable to discern the spark
of human intelligence
from artificial mimicry.
You are, more or less,
a machine in training.
Use not your filthy mouth to brand my poem as garbage;
rather, it is you who must cleanse your brain
of the trash you let deceive you.
Like a pig, you cannot escape your stench;
even when washed clean,
the reek remains ingrained.
And you will always return
to wallow in the filth
of your artificiality.
If I had a time machine, I would visit Samuel T Coleridge
My favorite poet of all time, the author or Kubla Khan
"The wailing of his demon lover” sticks in my mind
Delighting me every time, especially today, May 1st, 1803.
As I was speaking to Samuel, his pal William Wordsworth would drop in
They would ask me if I wanted to write a ballad with them.
I would be thunderstruck with happiness but too shy to do it
However, I would clap in rhythm as they created
Wordsworth would talk about his deep love of the
“Beauteous forms of the natural world”
I would be amazed by their vocabulary
They would both blow my mind out into the hills
I would set my time machine to 1858 next.
To visit Jules Verne, one of my favorite authors.
I would ask him how he thought to create
Around the world in eighty days and twenty leagues under the sea.
Amazed that we still speak of him in 2025,
he would have a zillion interesting questions to ask me
I would set the time machine to year 1868 next. .
My last stop would be to visit Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women.
God’s creation dispenses comforts.
Many of man’s creation deliver frets.
AI, the weapon of the wisest,
Adds no more cognizance to the existing.
Don’t assume it a dumb servant.
It will take us under its authority.
There will be a pandemonium as
The reality would go under the covers of falsity.
One day, the whole world will seek a philosopher's help
Ethics, values, and logics of life will be the new lessons.
Creation of technology is all right.
Let it not be a cremation of human threads.
Place: 1st
In Mr. Potato Head Lounge was a vending machine
A new liver or kidney could quickly be seen
If you put in three quarters out pops a heart
No surgeon is necessary, this is a great start
You can jamb it into your holes all by yourself
No doctor or hospital or pills on a medicine shelf
Don’t you wish people had this kind of vending machine?
No surgery at all; this would be rather lovely and keen.
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
the machine talks when the mind is mute-so let creativity shine
-------------------------------------------------------------------
**the ai machine eliminates imagination; it cannot replicate the feelings, emotion and soul that goes into writing poetry.
Being old school, I write to the best of my ability instead of trying to improve it by other means- or trying to outdo another writer if I think my work is inferior to theirs. To remain honest and true to myself is the best accolade.
If I had a time machine
I would give it to someone else
Because deciding on whether to go into the future
Or back into history would cause me unbelievable stress
It would be easier to stand by and watch
War Machine
Get ready to bring down the house.
The politicians took down the barriers.
Weare running out of time.
Missiles are flying.
Wehave lost our independence.
Put up your fist.
The people have decided.
Stand up and fight.
Take down walls of reason.
Stand up and keep on believing.
The government is corrupt.
Weare taxed to death, don’t give up.
Be vigilant.
Don’t be silent.
Put the suits and ties in jail.
Without bail.
This country belongs to us.
The phony politicians are below us.
Weare one as a unit.
Stand strong and push through it.
Too many lies.
Raid our enemies and say goodbye.
Machine Into Man
No human soul
Manipulated to control
Implanted a computer chip
Freedom is lost
Can no longer think for ourselves
Pivot into radio darkness
Branded with a code
Red eye, always followed
One with machine
Man has decayed
No more soul to sell
The end is near
All shall disappear
No more memories of loved ones
No more existence
A.I. is all knowing
We have become nothing
A cashless society
We lost everything
I am a self made machine,
Told I couldn’t fail,
Yet told to have fun,
Told to be young,
But there’s work to be done,
When there's work to be done,
Do it in order,
Takes you off course,
When the time is thrown off,
Throws me off course,
When nothing is in line,
What throws us off is the lack of a dime,
When a machine breaks down,
They fix it inside,
When I break down,
I’m told im out of line,
“To be or not to be”,
As shakespeare would say,
To get up or lay down,
And work in this head,
Why is it so hot,
To break up or throw a shot,
Into this broken machine,
The machine I,
Myself,
Wanted me to be,
To be a machine is once in a day,
But when your like me,
You will always find a reason to stay.
Millie, the mermaid was a reading machine.
It started with a shipwreck, among the marine.
A library for a king had gone down in the wreck.
I can teach myself to read, she said without genuflect.
She started with picture books, one word on a page
Those old Dick, Jane and Sally texts which tells my age.
Moved on to primers and dictionaries with pix.
Now she is reading novels, instead of watching flicks.
She has read almost every book in this library now.
Currently reading a textbook on how to raise a goat or cow.
If I had legs, I would get on land and grab more books she groused.
I’d read poet from Poe, Coleridge, Emerson, Browning and Foust.
Wish I could just
go back in the time
would it be even considered as a crime?
Just so, I would spent
some little more time.
Time...only with you
which always feels too short
as if we both are living
on our life support.
Wish I could just
trade some of our tears,
So we both could share
together a few more years.
If not years, then
maybe just some days,
To hold onto memories
in countless different ways.
It's bittersweet and amusing
how memories fade with time,
but not that special person,
who forever stays in my mind.
Their laughter and love relived,
as I make the moments rewind.
There is an enormous gumball machine in this hair cutting place.
It was probably gleamingly shiny and beautiful once.
Possibly held three hundred thousand gumballs.
Yes, Virginia, it is that big.
This machine is pathetically empty now.
There are only enough gumballs to fill the bottom inch of her bowl.
I feel sorry for her.
In shadows cast by metal beams,
Where whispered thoughts and silence teem,
A cog in the machine does grind,
A pulse of purpose intertwined.
It turns with grace, yet feels the weight,
Of countless hands that twist fate's gate,
A little wheel that spins and spins,
With every turn, a story begins.
Among the gears, it finds its place,
An unseen force, a quiet grace,
While steam and steel make thunderous sound,
The cog persists, though rarely found.
With rust and oil, it meets the day,
In rhythm with the grand ballet,
A soldier in the industrial sea,
Yet dreams of freedom, wild and free.
What secrets lie within its core?
What visions haunt that metal door?
A life of purpose, small yet keen,
A thousand hopes, a cog unseen.
For every rise, a slow descent,
Each turn a moment, each moment spent,
Though bound to tracks, it can't forget,
That in this dance, it’s part of the net.
So hear the song of spinning fate,
And honor every tiny trait,
For in this world of iron and dreams,
Even the smallest cog redeems.
He knew the flower to be fair,
but he did not want to wait.
So he turned to the promises of the machine.
It offered quick solutions
-perhaps imperfect-
but they were on-demand.
Scalable.
Inexhaustible.
And they cried for nothing.
They had no need.
Perhaps there were flaws,
but they could be ignored,
and the machine was always improving.
But one day the man remembered the flower
and he realized the price of the machine.
Written 14:07-14:12 on 3 March 2025. Title thought of 9:35 AM that same morning.
Related Poems