Artificial Intelligence

My Beloved

Pond covered with blooming pink and white water lilies reflecting sunrise and a small arched bridge
A serene garden pond with blooming water lilies under a soft sunrise sky
Image AI generated
based on poem

My Beloved

In my dream garden,
the early sun floats petals
across a lily pond.
Framed among lilies,
my beloved’s face drifts
through a watery space.

So sweet, her embodiment:
she lies languid among the lilies,
beside herself in bloom after bloom,
each flower gigantic in its frame
beneath a wooden footbridge.

I envision her as she was,
this lily who will toil not, nor spin,
 and who sighs with the morning breeze
 that ripples her smiling countenance
into a thousand fragments.

She lies cushioned amid the lily pads,
a work of wonder in liquid impressions
fluid in this fragmented light.

Comment:

I guess Moo will be pretty upset when he sees this AI generated painting of a lily pond. He offered me a couple of lovely paintings today, but they had no lilies in them, so I said “Thanks, but no thanks.” Oh dear. I hope I haven’t sparked another feud. I did ask him if he had some lilies, but he shook his head – “Sadly, no.” he said. “I don’t paint them. I’m Moo, not Moo-net.”

Speaking of Monet – a student once asked me what was the definition of Baroque. He picked a bad day. I was in joyful mood. “Baroque is when you’re out of Monet,” I told him. Dead silence. So I tried to explain. Baroque / Broke — Monet / Monnaie / Money. Then he let out a long, low whistle. “Is that why they pay you the big bucks?” he asked me. Well, I didn’t really get big bucks. But at least I had tenure – the monkeys rhymes it with manure in the Monkey Temple. I guess we’ll stay well clear of that one. Ain’t no lilies in that old temple pond.

“What’s yellow and deadly?” “I don’t know,” says Moo. “Shark infested custard,” I tell him. “Why don’t you try painting that. You could add some false teeth and a few streaks of strawberry jam.” O

“Okay,” said Moo. “You asked for it. What’s black and blue and lies face down in the gutter?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “Please enlighten me.” “You, if you keep telling jokes like that,” he pulled a paint brush out of his pocket and shook it in my direction. Very threatening.

“I’ll tell you a better one,” I said, smiling, “here – what’s got four legs, sits in a kennel, wags its tail, and barks?” He looked at me for a few seconds then said hesitantly, “A dog?” “Oh dear, sorry,” I frowned at him, “it’s an old joke. You must have heard it before.”

A Question for AI

A Question for AI

It is hard
to shed the skin
and skin once shed
can never
be worn again

Yesterday
is gone
today
slips slowly by

Tomorrow
always comes
but never arrives

Who and what am I
this child
who thrives on sorrow
and on a sadness
that grinds
bones to dust
and soft silk ash

Tell me
if you know
what will arrive
for this child
tomorrow
if and when
it comes

Comment:

Moo is back painting and I am sure everybody is happy to hear that. Mind you, he’s a little bit on the Moo-dy side, if you know what I mean, as you can see from this painting. He calls it Moody Moo and he says it’s a Moo-d painting. He swears there’s a Moo Cow in it, but search as I have, I cannot see a Mrs. Moo. Let me know if you find one. Usual route – unless you have a drone of one sort or another. They have the road up leading into town and we had to wait a long time yesterday at the roadside while little men in yellow hats stood in front of the cars and wouldn’t let them move.

It was so bad, I put Pete Seeger on the disc player and turned the volume up full. “No pasarán, no pasarán, sang the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.” I thought it was rather funny. The person holding the placard that said STOP didn’t seem to be amused. I don’t if it was the volume. Maybe he spoke Spanish and knew all about the Spanish Civil War and how the Abraham Lincoln Brigade stopped Franco’s troops and wouldn’t let them pass! No pasarán, no pasarán – those yellow hatted road buccaneers certainly closed down the narrow straits that led to our house and they wouldn’t let anyone through. No pasarán, no pasarán.

Meanwhile, old Welsh logic – tomorrow never comes, because by the time it gets here, its today. “Good one,” says Moo, checking the way I have reproduced his painting. Oh yes, the original is for sale, Moo says – going cheap for a five figure sum. And that’s not counting the two zeros after the dot! I think Moo is really asking too much. OW! He just kicked me. Sorry, Moo. That’s a very fair price. Now he seems happy. But I don’t think you’ll get it. Now he seems sad – oh dear, just like I said – “Moody Moo”!

I’d better be careful, or he will be doing some Blue Moo paintings next, and he’ll be turning the air blue while he’s painting them. Meanwhile, speaking of AI – here’s the news that’s rolling round the rock at Island View. There’s a new book on the market. A limited Edition. Only 50 copies. Keep your eyes open. They will soon be a collector’s item. In fact, they already are. Go for it -Don Roger and Don Ryan. Oh yes. Moo did the cover painting for that one too. But he’s not selling it – he’s already given it away to another friend.

Obsidian’s Edge 2
An AI Analysis

Don Roger & Don Ryan

Follicle Folly

Pink rosebuds hanging with water droplets on green leaves background
Close-up of pink rosebuds adorned with glistening water droplets

Photo AI generated
Big Brother was watching
and listening

Follicle Folly

Jack Pine Sonnet

I am happy with smaller things
the buds just budding on the ash
grass just being grass and green
beneath drizzle and mizzle and
the lightest showers of spring rain

grey / gray I don’t know nor care
clouds descend dampen spring air
dampness curls my remaining hair
some gone but not as much as I see
lost hairs missing from my friends

I traveled with a friend who counted
every hair he lost but couldn’t count
the cost of the weight of his worrying
about every forlorn follicle he lost

Comment:

No comment. That’s what politicians say, and people taken into custardy. What’s yellow and deadly? Shark infested custard, of course. There’s no flies on me said the Portuguese Custard tart as I brushed the ants off it prior to devouring it. Try the Garibaldi cookie aka the dead flies grave yard. The body count of a Garibaldi should be high. You’d be raisin the roof, if the count wasn’t as high as the Count of Monte Cristo. Take off that Iron Mask when you’re talking to me. Who was that masked man? I don’t know. Ask Tonto, stupid.

Warning – these comments were artificially generated by a lost intelligence that is only just coming of age in a time of jerry attic semi-conductor memory loss with everything under lock and key in a small room upstairs under the roof where the thatch used to grow. Even worse than losing your follicles is losing your ….. add your own ending. Don’t make me pull out my remaining hair and waste my time by searching for a word to rhyme. And remember the village church’s limerick competition – the only clean one won it.