I can be snobby and proud.
I lose myself in crowds
But rarely feel part of them.
Sometimes I feel myself superior
To other men.
But when my final breath
Is lost in death
There will be
No inferior or superior
Just common dust
She spoke of the blind man
Who came to tune the family piano.
He thinks her name was Emily.
But men’s memories play tricks
And time slips
Unnoticed away.
He can not say
Whether she played the piano.
Perhaps she said
But his man’s mind
Was on bed.
It was an old tune
They played
Constrained by time.
He finds a blind piano tuner
He never met.
And Emily on his mind.
And lost in introspection
He searches for a connection
And recalls their night’s conversation
Followed by bed.
A summer rain falls.
And birds sing.
The earth smells fresh.
But I recall
I have bills to pay.
Yet returning home
To my working day
I carry birdsong
And the rich earth
In my heart.
Nature’s art
Feeds my poetry.
Yet she
Outshines all poetry.
She walks through the city’s gaudy glow,
Her unquiet grace in torpid midnight air,
Heels write stories only the lonely know
Of longing, forced laughter, and mutual despair.
Her sadness hides behind a smile.
She offers warmth for those who pay the fee,
Yet look behind her carefully constructed style
And you will see another she.
She’s practiced in the art of polite chat,
Of weaving silken moments, bright and brief,
Her eyes—two lanterns—never showing that
They sometimes flicker shadows dark with grief.
And in her step the wise will see
Others who have long left the player’s empty stage.
Sometimes, in her honest times she may truly see
That she has made her own mind-constructed cage.
(The above poem was composed using Microsoft’s Copilot, then modified by me. I meant to retain the poem as originally produced by Copilot. However, due to an oversight by me, only the present poem remains. This is unfortunate as it was my intention to publish both poems on my blog in order that my readers could take a critical look at the poem as originally composed by AI, and that modified by me).
Your perfume lingered in my living room
After you where gone.
The memory of skin against skin
Lives on.
Some would call it sin.
Perhaps, when all is said and done
One man’s fun
Is another’s sin.
The sky did not fall in
On me or you.
I am generally comfortable alone.
But I have the phone
Should I need you.
Your perfume will linger again
And I will recall
What some call the fall.
Perhaps pleasure and pain
Are somewhat the same.
But, if I am only dust
Why does Paradise Lost matter
Caught up in our nightmares
Of what may, or may not occur,
We forget the beautiful sunset
And that the earth in the wood
Smells good when wet.
Living in fear
We fail to hear
When birds sing.
Our spring
Is so brief.
Nightmare’s teeth
Pierce our hearts.
Yet we have art
And nature’s beauty
Ere we depart
Into that sleep
Where we are unaware
Of beauty or nightmare.
Walking home in the pouring rain
I pondered on AI
And those who continue to maintain
The inevitability of progress.
The rain continued to fall.
Although I heard
No human word
Nature seemed to laugh
As I passed
Along the familiar churchyard path.
After their perfunctory hug
She leaves his flat.
She knows the street is cold.
Though she has never experienced that –
Just his snug flat
Where time passes
In wine glasses.
And 2 bodies meet
Under the unjudging sheet.
I have striven
For a benign life rhythm.
But I find
In social media’s algorithmic mind
The growing danger
Of an echo chamber
Where one’s view
Of what is true
Is echoed back
To me and you.
And the best
Is swamped by an algorithmic mess
Where truth dies
And wild conspiracies and lies thrive
Ending in hate.
He paid
For new shoes
As hers where broken.
She stayed
For a while
Causing him to smile
And then went to choose
Unbroken shoes.
But girls are not shoes.
K Morris - Poet 