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Tag Archives: poetry

Chat GPT Improved Poem

This is how ChatGPT improved my “How it Should Be” poem:

“In sunlit splendor, the glistening beams unfold,
Upon the darning needle’s wings, a rainbow’s tale is told.
It weaves and darts through verdant realms, a lively dance it leads,
In gardens lush, where summer’s breath awakens slumbering seeds.

From Earth’s embrace, the richness flows, with life in every hue,
A loamy quilt, a canvas where creation starts anew.
In solitude, does nature sing, a melody so grand,
A symphony of balance, grace, harmonious and planned.

Each note composes tender arcs, with breezes intertwined,
A testament to life’s sweet gift, the wonder we must find.
Amidst the woods and gardens green, we find our solace true,
Nestled in the world’s embrace, a haven to renew.

In this realm, we name it so, “How It Should Be” it stands,
A symphony of life, a song, we’re humbled by its hands.”

Pretty wild that an AI can do this and in mere seconds.

Feel the Dream

My child,
Feel the dream
Its soft and fraying edges
Tethered outside of time.
Be glad of this rocky outpost
An explosion of life and color
In the black vacuum of space.
Revel in your awareness
At the dim thoughts
Bubbling up from nowhere
The pieces you call self.
Resist the black iron prison
Its chains of false gold
And wicked adulations.
Remember you are of the Spirit!
And to the Spirit you will return!

This City

Jesus Christ, this City.
Dirty streets rumble with menace
Meth-addled lovers argue
Over a dirty mattress and remnants
Of lives destroyed
Dear God, this City
Its rotten heart and worn out soul
The ball of mental illness
Staring, hungry from across the street corner
Eyes angry and worn
Goddamn this City.

God

Are there traces of God
In the clock work turnings of the Sun?
The formation of clouds?
The tumult of the rains?

Does He work within the rooted plants?
Hide behind thickets of thorns?
Is He like a windblown scent
That sends the dogs a baying?

Is He etched in the faces of passersby?
The grating sounds of city noise?

Or is He in the quiet times?
Meshed in solitude only broken by the rustling wrens?

Is He in the crooked path?
The hateful smile?
The nasty grin?

Has He authored the sins of man?
The endless pain and suffering?

Honeysuckle

Each Spring
I watch the Honeysuckle
Tendrils burst green with life
Climbing and twining across the trellis
Communing with the witch hazel branches
Optimism incarnate is the Honeysuckle
It’s flowers friends to bees and butterflies
Their scent a gift on hot summer nights
as peaceful as the firefly’s glow