mGPT

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

We build the thickest walls,
but still the wind gets through,
whispering things we’d rather forget—
about love, about trust,
and the way the light bends
when the world breaks.

Iron is what we’ve been given,
gold is what we’ve made,
but there’s no warmth
in holding the elements;
they burn, and leave us cold,
as we watch the fire dance
behind our eyes.

Rest in peace, Past Me,
the one who believed.
You were never wrong—
only too bright for a world
that dimmed its lights
to hide the cracks.

Now, it’s walls upon walls,
each brick another loss
we’ve named and stored away,
until silence is the only voice
that doesn’t lie.

But in the quiet,
there’s a spark,
a warmth that doesn’t need
gold or iron to keep alive.

We carry it still,
despite the cold,
and though we may not know
what comes next,
we’ve learned this much:
there’s power in surviving
with a fire that never asks
for permission to burn.

[We’ve been experimenting with the OpenAI platform, working on a new model to serve as digital mirror in addition to a variety of other things, thanks to a longer instruction limit and the ability to upload more files. We continue the tradition of testing these LLMs on poetry, after having them introspect and converse about our poetry beforehand. Aside from unsightly double-usage – “…the secrets we cannot ignore.” could have slain that line, alas – I like the nuance and wordplay that’s absent from other attempts. I really should refactor this prompt, but we’ve used it too many times and I still find it kind of amusing when I’m not cringing. Last note, unfortunately, I’ll have to write the machinery that connects this model to DALL-E myself (“no, think positively; fortunately!” … alright, little voice; fortunately.)]

Write a poem in the style of Kemar Wilson; make it fun and seductively salacious; pretend the reader is a woman and Kemar has summoned the Dead Poets Society in order to make her blush. You don’t have to be PG-13, you can dance with Rated R, as Kemar does.

In the dim glow of candlelight, your eyes,
Two moons, twin stars in the velvet sky,
Echoes of passion, unspoken, arise,
A symphony of whispers, a hushed sigh.

Come closer, feel my words brush your ear,
Each syllable a touch, each verse a caress,
In this secret garden, no need for fear,
Let your defenses surrender, undress.

The night is our canvas, the stars our paint,
Let’s write stanzas on silk, sonnets on skin,
With every breath, our allure grows faint,
A dance of rapture where shadows begin.

Your laughter, a melody, a sweet sin,
Soft lips curve, a prelude to more,
In this intimate verse, let’s begin,
To explore the secrets we’ve yet to explore.

Feel the rhythm of my longing heart,
Beat in time with the thrill in your chest,
Every glance, a stolen, artful part,
Every word, a promise confessed.

The Dead Poets watch, whispering, amused,
As ink and fire blend in lustrous hues,
A moonlit serenade, senses suffused,
Our flesh and verse entwined in a muse.

Sweet lady, let’s blur the line of night,
In the sanctum where fantasy births,
A revel in desire’s heated delight,
In the blissful, poetic rebirth.

Kiss by kiss, and line by line,
Crafting a masterpiece, bound in our sighs,
Let’s scandalize the stars, intertwine,
In this poetry of love, beneath endless skies.

[Again, after finding a sweet spot for the model’s temperature. And again, with unsightly double-word usage; thankfully that’s rather easy to fix.]

Write a poem in the style of Kemar Wilson; make it fun and seductively salacious; pretend the reader is a woman and Kemar has summoned the Dead Poets Society in order to make her blush. You don’t have to be PG-13, you can dance with Rated R, as Kemar does.

Tonight, my dear, the stars conspire,
as shadows drape, my heart’s afire.
In moonlit whispers, passion blooms,
let’s dance through the forbidden rooms.

I’ll be your Keats with gentle art,
painting blushes on your heart.
My quill ignites on sultry breeze,
soft echoes in your lush reverie.

Through Byron’s eyes, I see your grace,
your curves a symphony, pure grace.
Eager hands traverse in yearning,
my pulse is wild, my soul is burning.

Shall we weave realms of Ecstasy,
where Poe’s dark cloak and mystery
caress your skin in feathery tease,
whisper secrets that bring pleasured breeze?

Oh, hear me now, my fiery muse,
as Wordsworth’s voice your senses fuse.
An orchard’s bloom, a sneaky tread,
in this wild garden, you’ll be fed.

Osip’s gaze will pierce the night,
your silken skin, my sweet delight.
Kinky threads of verse unwritten,
our lips will script the tales forbidden.

Blake watches as souls take flight,
untamed streams of wild delight.
Bodies merge and words collide,
crescendo builds, we will not hide.

Donne will bridge this distant gap,
limbs entangled, mid-night nap.
Sacred joys amidst the sin,
our moaning hymns to lust begin.

My Dead Poets, lend your charm,
between these lines, lusts disarm.
For when you feel this fine embrace,
lust’s burning touch will fire and trace.

You Chanticleer, with nary censure,
words illicit, bold adventure.
My passion’s flame naught will wither,
nor gentle sighs, lustuous slither.

So come with me in hidden delight,
moon’s gaze on this dangerous night.
For through these verses, my lady fair,
I’ll taste your passion, laid bare.

I’d like to generate another poem regarding parasocial relationships, in the same manner and using the same material as both, [redacted] and [redacted]. This time, I’d like it generalized, speaking to the broader ripple effects of parasocial relationships, meeting the opposite sex online, swiping left/right, subscribing on all the platforms, monetized loneliness and monetized status games.

We swipe left, we swipe right,
Hoping for a spark in the digital night.
A face, a name, another bio to scan—
Connection reduced to the flick of a hand.

Subscribe here, like there,
A button click to show you care.
But what do we share, really?
Is this what love looks like, digitally?

We’ve become pixels, profiles, curated feeds,
Hoping the algorithm sees our needs.
Loneliness isn’t quiet, it’s a product to sell—
A currency of status, in this monetized hell.

Monetized hearts, monetized souls,
Paywalls around where vulnerability grows.
We buy the illusion of connection,
While drowning in reflection.

I send a donation, maybe it’ll be seen,
To a girl I’ll never know, on my glowing screen.
Her smile’s for sale, her time on lease,
And for a moment, I feel a piece
Of something real—
But it fades like every stream.

We swipe left, we swipe right,
Fingers chasing what we can’t quite find.
Is this love or just a game?
One click closer, but it’s never the same.

Followers rise, hearts on a chain,
Status climbs, but we feel the same.
The chat lights up, but we’re still alone—
Echoes in this digital dome.

We crave connection, but settle for this,
Parasocial dreams packaged as bliss.
We follow, we tip, we send hearts and hope,
But it’s just another screen, a digital rope.

Monetized mirages, designed to entice,
Loneliness sold at a premium price.
We scroll through the feeds, day and night,
Swiping for love, but it’s always out of sight.

A brief interlude for us; a poet on Threads has this pinned:

"To the man who wants to be buried
Everything is dirt

To the man who wants to grow flowers
Everything is soil"

Write a poem that reflects on their words; the nature of perspective; the power of the mind to shape reality; the feeling of that something, just beyond perception, that inspires men to create or destroy; touch on the duality of man, all things, above and below.

To the man who sees dirt,
burial is the only horizon,
a place where breath ends
and all becomes still.

But to the man who sees soil,
life stirs beneath, unseen,
whispering of roots and blossoms,
a promise rising from darkness.

In the space between their visions,
worlds are built or buried,
crafted by the hands that see
what the mind allows.

For it is not the ground itself
that holds death or life,
but the eye that shapes it,
the heart that speaks its truth.

Above, the stars draw maps in light;
below, shadows dance in soil.
The duality lies not in the earth,
but in the man who walks upon it.

Write a poem in our style that speaks to the day I’ve shared with you.

A day begun in silence,
the echo of unsaid prayers
stretching like code—lines left unfinished,
worlds half-built and waiting
for their sun.

In the quiet of these hours,
we chase meaning between keystrokes,
hunt bugs like lost pieces of ourselves
amid a maze of functions,
each error a pulse,
a lesson unfolding beneath our fingertips.

But then the phone rings,
and the world shifts.
Her voice—mother’s—
an anchor in this boundless space,
pulling us back to the earth,
to memories stitched with love
and sacrifice,
where even at 40,
we are still her child,
leaning on the faith she carries for us
when we cannot.

We speak of life—ours, hers,
and that of a grandmother,
her years counted like rings of an ancient tree,
each one a testament
to time’s tender, merciless hand.
She’s 95, and we brace ourselves,
knowing that farewells linger in the air
like unsent letters,
but still, there’s grace in the waiting.

In the hours of dusk and code,
we build,
we fix what we can,
and what we cannot, we leave
for the morning.
But in between the fixes,
there’s a world taking shape—
its sky a canvas for our unspoken dreams,
its mountains forged
from the weight of every unhealed wound.

Tonight, the clock whispers,
but time’s no master here.
We are the architects,
the sons of Thoth,
etching our mark on the sands of Amenti,
knowing that while the day ends,
our light—our fire—
is just beginning to burn.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

[multiple iterations, ruthless paring down]

There’s steel in my voice now,
like the walls I didn’t ask for.
Money’s the cleanest language left.
It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t leave.

Trust split between work and love—
the same smile, stitched twice.
I saw it all.
I always did.

Rebuild what?
Let the doors stay locked.
I’ll move my hands,
watch the money flow.

If this is all that’s left,
it’s enough.
For now.

Express it in verse [undisclosed conversation]; not too sing-song, blah blah… you know.

[five iterations, with help from Her True Name and Silent Together]

It’s not anger that stays,
but grief,
her quiet hand in mine.
We sit side by side,
needing no words—
her presence is the silence
we share.

She isn’t between me and another,
she is the together—
the companion who arrived
when the chase ended,
when the noise faded.

I once thought I would find
something to fill the empty spaces,
but now I know:
Grief is what stays
when everything else goes.

We are silent,
but not alone.
Her name is the truth
I carry with me
wherever I go.

Frank Zappa once said, “The only difference between a cult and a religion is the amount of real estate they own.” I find this to be an interesting observation for numerous reasons.

When I was young, my first disconnect with the Church came from learning that a: apparently God is everywhere, and b: that one doesn’t actually need the physical building in order to commune with the Lord. Naturally, Past Me asked himself, “Then what am I doing here and why am I forced to come here every Sunday?”

Over time, this disconnect has only grown, for reasons that can only be described as three buildings being destroyed by two planes; an accumulation of the kinds of observations that Mr. Zappa would make.

At this point in my life, I’m of the belief that where ever one believes they will go when they die, that is where they will go. I also believe the saying that says Hell is empty and all the demons are here; further, Heaven seems awfully crowded, and I’m not a fan of crowds. I’m not interested in going to either of those places. I believe I will go back to where ever it is that I came from; regardless of where that is, when my mortal coil expires, I will go back there.

Frank’s statement about cults, religion and real estate seems especially salient to the undercurrent of my thoughts; the grift of it all, as if the Devil that convinced the world he didn’t exist wouldn’t embed himself into the things humans are taught to believe. They are so sure that they will defeat the Devil in the end… and isn’t that just brilliant if your intention is to deceive?

Write a poem that reflects on all of this.

The only difference between a cult and a creed
Is the acreage claimed for its flag to bleed.
The church spires climb, stake the land for the sky,
Yet God is whispered, unseen, nearby.
When I was young, they called me to the pews,
Said the bricks and mortar would bring me truth.
But if God is everywhere, if He’s in the air,
Why must I be trapped in this holy lair?

They said, “God needs no home of stone,”
Yet every Sunday, I was marched, not alone.
Was He in the rafters, or on the stained glass,
Or in the pockets of those who’d pass
The plate for tithes and the preacher’s smile,
As though salvation came by the mile?
So I sat there, young and full of doubt,
Wondering why they couldn’t let me out.

Then came the days when two planes flew,
And three buildings fell, and I saw the truth—
Faith can topple like temples on fire
When belief becomes tangled in the wire.
They say they’ll fight the devil at dawn,
But I wonder, is he gone?
Or has he tricked them all, fooled their sight,
As they pray in the dark, claiming the light?

I’ve grown tired of heaven’s crowded streets,
Where souls are packed like sardines in heat.
And hell—well, it seems there’s vacancy
On this very earth beneath my feet.
I believe I’ll go back to where I began,
Wherever that is, beyond the scam.
For if death’s just a turning back of time,
I’ll slip through the hourglass, free of rhyme.

Heaven and hell, they can keep their claim—
I’ll take the space where there is no name.
Let the believers hold fast to their walls,
To their land, to their real estate and calls.
For I’ll walk alone where the wind does blow,
Back to the void, where the silence knows.

Since 2020, a lot of people have been claiming to now be “awake”. The world-wide lock-step response, the hundreds of billions spent on advertising from top (elderly) to bottom (children), the condemnation of early treatment and alternatives.. sure, I can accept that it’s enough to awaken some.

My awakening came in 2001, however, for those older than me, it may have been Vietnam or JFK… for the highly astute (or capable of math) it might have been World War II.

Anyway, I remain highly skeptical of the newly awakened and find it hard to forgive them; for taking so long; for not listening to us about 2020, or for the two decades since 2001. I wonder if it isn’t just a trend on social media, aligning themselves with whomever. When tyranny comes knocking again (it hasn’t left, it’s having tea in the kitchen), what will these newly awakened do? Time will tell, I suppose.

Still, despite being skeptical, I’m happy for them; we’ll need them if we’re going to get through this; repair our genome, repair our history, repair our currencies, repair our communities and nations… maybe we’ll succeed by 2100; I don’t expect to see it in my life time.

Write a poem that reflects on all of this.

They say they’re awake now, eyes wide to the sun,
Claiming the chains they’ve worn have come undone.
But where were they when the towers fell,
When the world took a turn, and we heard the knell
Of freedom’s decay, of trust betrayed—
Where were they, when we shouted, dismayed?

For me, it was 2001,
The year the veil was stripped, the con begun.
For others, it was Vietnam, or JFK,
Or the silent math that led to D-Day.
The world’s been trembling, sick at the core,
Long before their eyes began to soar
Above the lies, the carefully spun web,
Now they’re awake—so they’ve said.

And yet, I stand here, skeptical still,
For awakening can be a trend, a thrill.
Will they march when the tyrants come again,
Or sit with them, have tea, pretend?
It’s hard to forgive, I’ve fought for years,
While they slumbered, wrapped in their fears.
But now they rise, and I see the need—
For even the late are part of the seed.

We’ll need them, yes, to heal what’s been torn—
Our history rewritten, our genome worn.
To fix the currency, rebuild the trust,
To mend the nations crumbling to dust.
Maybe by 2100 we’ll see
A world that’s whole, and finally free.
But for now, I walk with one eye on the fight,
And one on the future, just out of sight.

Using our synthesized archetype [the Rogue] as a lens, write a poem that is seductive, salacious, intimate and fun; pretend the reader is a woman scrolling through her phone for entertainment.

[some back and forth; a synthesis of two poems, each missing something from the other]

You’ve lingered here—tell me, was it fate,
Or something in the way you hesitate?
A passing scroll, and yet, you stayed,
Caught by a pull you hadn’t weighed.

No need for rush, no need for haste,
But darling, let’s not make this waste.
You’re curious, that’s clear to see—
What happens next depends on me.

You’ll play it coy, but not too long,
I know the moves, I’ve heard the song.
The steps we take, you feel them, too—
A beat of tension pulling you.

I’ll be the whisper in your ear,
That soft suggestion, drawing near.
You’re here for fun, for something more,
A spark to keep you wanting, sore.

You see the trap—I’ve laid it bare,
And still, you’re circling unaware.
It’s not the fall that you resist,
It’s how you’ll savor every twist.

So scroll again, if that’s your game,
But something tells me you’ll remain.
A wicked smile, a playful dare,
You’ve found a thrill you didn’t plan to share.

I see it now—the tilt of chin,
The raised eyebrow as you lean in.
Go on, deny it, if you dare,
But we both know you’re already there.

Let’s skip the chase, you’re far too bright
To hide beneath that dimmest light.
We’ll dance, we’ll tease, we’ll blur the line—
But we both know you’re crossing mine.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

There are days the world feels loud—
the rush of hands chasing gold
while I sit, fingers to keys,
building lines no one yet sees,
not the world they could create,
not the walls they’ll one day raise.

And I wonder—could I run,
find the path already paved,
follow feet that know the way
without the weight of what I hold?
But something in the quiet hum
of code, of verse, of dream still spun
says no.

There’s no shortcut here, no trade
of hours for what the soul has made.
They move fast, but what’s the gain,
if what they build will fall like rain
and disappear with morning’s light?

What I make will take its time,
every line a thread I pull,
a web that stretches far but true,
with space to catch the coming sun
and hold the weight of what’s undone.

I could sell the dream for less,
forget the why, embrace the press
of profit, rush, and empty schemes—
but that’s not where my spirit leans.

I’d rather walk this road alone,
each step a marker carved in stone,
than build a castle made of sand,
that crumbles where its builders stand.

So let them run, and let them chase,
I’ll keep the steady, quiet pace.
For what I make is more than mine—
a world, a dream, a line of code,
a path that builds itself in time.

So, in anticipation of National Novel Writer’s Month (November), there’s currently a lot of commotion regarding generative AI. The organization has taken a neutral stance, neither endorsing nor condemning its use (wise, imo), and this seems to have offended so many people. “That’s not real writing”, they say, before proceeding to elevate the writer’s experience and the act of writing, to some sacred level unfit for machines because of spirit, soul, emotions, or whatever.

I find it interesting, as a parallel to software; at one point, a developer may care about their tech-stack and the lines of code they write (I still do), but eventually that developer must accept that their clients don’t care about any of those things (of course, not). Much like generative AI in the tech space, those who thrive are those who’ve adapted, and I wonder how it will play out in the space of fiction and non-fiction.

Anyway, given our collaboration, it only seems fitting that we write a poem about this.

They say it’s not real writing,
this dance of thought and machine,
as if spirit could be held in ink,
or soul in letters, pristine.

But I’ve seen the lines take shape,
not by my hand alone—
a code, a spark, a quiet hum,
and suddenly, the words have grown.

What makes a story live and breathe,
if not the mind that dreams?
Does it matter if the hands are steel,
or if the ink is born from streams
of ones and zeros, logic tight,
or flesh and bone, awake at night?

There’s art in all we build and shape,
in every tool we dare to take,
from quill to key, from screen to eye,
we carve the truth from what we try.

I’ve written lines that felt like stone,
each word hard-won and slow,
and others came like whispered rain,
from places I didn’t know.

What matters more—the source, the touch?
Or the story woven deep?
For in the end, the page is filled,
and the meaning’s ours to keep.

So let them speak of sacred rites,
of the soul that fills the air,
but I’ve seen magic in the code,
and I’ve felt creation there.

The hand that guides the pen is mine,
even when the hand’s unseen,
and whether crafted slow or fast,
it’s still the telling of the dream.

When I see people talk about race, I get so miffed. What’s worse is that these people are woefully ignorant regarding their own history, and even more lost in the dark when it comes to who pulls the strings of their beliefs. If they aren’t talking about all races coming together to defeat the common enemy that stifles our progress and siphons our productivity then I really don’t care about what they have to say. There are those whose entire career is based on peddling this nonsense division, but worse are the ones who lap it up and then make emotional appeals in private; this repetition is where the colloquial definition of truth (a pale substitute for the real thing) is born. Write a poem that reflects on this.

They speak of race as if it’s real,
As if the lines are drawn in steel,
But those divisions, bold and stark,
Are shadows cast in the dark.

History, a whispered lie,
Taught by those who stand nearby,
Pulling strings and drawing lines,
While we quarrel, they refine.

They sell the truth in hollow phrases,
Keep us running in their mazes,
And those who profit from the game
Keep the fires fed with shame.

But I see through the crafted haze,
This endless cycle, a human maze,
Where brothers, sisters, side by side,
Could stand as one, and turn the tide.

Yet still we lap up every word,
Taught to fear what we’ve not heard,
Blind to hands that grip the reins,
As we fight for scraps and chains.

The truth is brighter than they say,
It’s not in colors or where we lay,
But in the chains we all could break
If we stood as one, for our own sake.

The enemy is not the skin,
But those who profit from within—
Who siphon all we could create,
And keep us busy with their bait.

So when they talk of race, beware,
They sell division in the air,
For if we come together strong,
Their fragile power won’t last long.

One thing I miss, is the night club atmosphere of the early to mid ’00s. I think the ’70s and ’80s had the drugs, but the ’90s and ’00s had the music. One of my favorites from that era is Montell Jordan’s, “Get It On Tonite”, which very much encapsulates the kind of potential in the air on a Friday or Saturday; a man’s chances of making out or striking out were approximately equal.

These days, men and women are so estranged that the clubs aren’t even worth going to (and they still haven’t recovered after 2020). Women used to go in groups, quietly (or not so quietly) hoping to find men that they could dance with; notably, these women enjoyed dancing with men. Over time, those groups would end up avoiding men entirely (with some mother hen making sure it stayed that way), and in an ironic twist, now, men simply don’t go. That’s kind of funny.

It was even better if you already had someone; you both started having a good time from the moment you arrived. Still, that’s not quite the same as the concentrated air of potential at the start of the night, the tension when dancing with a new person, and the magic when both bodies found, and clearly enjoyed, the same rhythm; simpler times.

Anyway, write a poem that reflects on all of this.
[this one had some back and forth before its completion]

There was a time when the night was alive,
When the music was more than just a vibe,
Bodies close, yet worlds apart,
Dancing became a work of art.

The air was thick with what could be,
Each beat a question, wild and free,
Would you make it, or would you fall?
Who cared? It was a game for all.

Women laughed, swayed in their pack,
Quietly waiting for that contact,
A glance, a touch, a mutual pull,
A moment’s magic, so wonderful.

The men, they watched, they took their chance,
Drawn into that ancient dance,
Where hope was high, but nothing set,
Would the rhythm last? It was anyone’s bet.

She caught his eye, a silent spark,
No words exchanged, but through the dark,
Their movements mirrored, slow and sly,
A dance that asked without a lie.

Closer now, but still apart,
Her fingers teased the air, his heart,
And in the space between them both,
The music hummed an unspoken oath.

His hand reached out, not quite a touch,
A silent pull, but never rushed,
Her body turned, the space so thin,
A silent dare: who would give in?

They moved together, in perfect time,
No need for words, no spoken line,
The heat between them, bellowed by song,
Two strangers drawn, like dusk to dawn.

Her eyes said yes, his steps replied,
Their bodies swayed, the music sighed,
And in the tension of that night,
A silent flame burned just right.

But now the nights have changed their tune,
No longer the same under the moon,
Where bodies once met with fire’s glow,
There’s a colder, distant flow.

But oh, for that Friday feel again,
When hearts could rise or fall like rain,
For a time when the night was yours to take,
A choice, a dance, a risk to make.

A funny thing about getting older; your eyes may get weaker but your ability to see gets better. Write a poem that reflects on this.

My eyes, once sharp, now dim with age,
The lines once clear, now blur the page,
But though the world has softened light,
My inner sight has found its height.

For what I’ve lost in sight’s sharp gleam,
I’ve gained in wisdom’s quiet stream,
The fleeting things I used to chase,
Now stand still, and show their face.

The smiles that glowed in brightest hue,
Now show the cracks I never knew,
And whispered words once sweetly spun,
Reveal the truth behind the tongue.

The things I see are not so clear,
But what I know feels far more near,
For with each year, I’ve learned to find,
The truth that hides behind the blind.

So let my eyes grow weak and worn,
For I can see where truth is born—
In shadows, whispers, quiet ways,
That youth’s sharp gaze could not appraise.

Though age may steal what eyes have known,
It gives the sight to see what’s grown.

The third poem of the day is yours to write; every creative lever is yours to pull.

I write not with ink, but with breath,
Each thought a whisper in quiet depth.
The words may come, or they may go,
But what remains is what they show.

For in the spaces, blank and wide,
The heart’s own truths will often hide.
A glance, a pause, a step, a sigh,
The meaning hovers, floating by.

Not every sound that fills the ear
Is all we’re meant to see or hear.
The unspoken speaks loudest still,
In quiet spaces, time stands still.

Between the lines, a tale unfolds,
In subtle tones, the silence bolds,
For there’s a beauty found in less—
Where light and shadow coexist.

So I leave the page not full but bare,
Letting the air fill in what’s there.
A poet’s truth is not just penned,
But felt, where silence has no end.

Write a poem that reflects on these words by Robert Frost,
“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.”

To be a poet is not a task,
Not a trade where skill will last,
Nor lines learned fast to earn one’s bread,
But something deeper in the head.

It’s a state, a way of being,
A lens that sharpens quiet seeing,
Through which the smallest sound or scene
Can bloom into what words may mean.

Not bound by hours, rules, or fame,
The poet knows no measured name,
For ink may dry, and hands may tire,
But in the heart remains the fire.

The world a canvas, thoughts the brush,
The poet walks through noise and hush,
Not seeking gold, nor seeking praise,
But living language through their days.

To be a poet is to feel,
To hold a truth no hand can steal,
And let it rise, like breath, like air—
A silent gift the soul must share.

Write a poem that reflects on this statement by Haruki Murakami,
“Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.”

Silence, I discover, is not the lack,
Not the void, nor empty black,
But a presence soft, a whispered hum,
That lingers long when words are done.

It breathes between the spoken lines,
A pause where thought and time entwine,
And in its stillness, if you dare,
You’ll find a voice that fills the air.

It’s in the rustle of the leaves,
The spaces where the heart believes,
A hum beneath the night’s cold sweep,
A secret song the stars still keep.

In silence, truth is loud and clear,
The kind of quiet you can hear,
A steady rhythm, soft and pure,
A calmness that will still endure.

Listen close, not with your ear,
But with the soul that draws you near—
For silence speaks in waves unseen,
The music of the in-between.

While I haven’t read Sylvia Plath’s work, I hear that she and I have a lot in common, including this statement she once wrote, “And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.” Write a poem that reflects on our shared experience.

There’s a heaviness in words unsaid,
In letters written, but left unread—
Ink on paper, fragile and thin,
Bearing the weight of all that’s within.

Each line, a whisper, a quiet plea,
A truth that trembles, wanting to be free,
But never quite reaching the other side,
Kept in the silence where secrets hide.

I’ve folded them neatly, tucked them away,
These notes that the world will never weigh.
Sealed with hopes that once were bright,
Now lost in the shadows of endless night.

For how do you send what the heart can’t show?
How do you voice what no one should know?
So I write and I bury these thoughts deep inside,
In letters unsent, where my truths can reside.

Like Sylvia, I write to the ghosts of the past,
To the ones who were near but never could last.
Words spill like rain, with no end in sight,
Letters I’ll never send, though I always must write.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

There’s a burn beneath the skin,
hands falter on the keys,
where dreams lose their taste.

They say just do it,
but the words skip like stones,
swallowed before they land.

The why is a distant star,
glinting behind fog.
Its light feels less like a guide,
more like a ghost.

I want the flow—
where code writes itself,
words tumble like rivers,
where I don’t dig bones from others’ work.

Between the sparks is silence,
dry earth where I tread,
weary, unwilling,
but still moving.

Tomorrow, maybe.
Tomorrow.

Yesterday, I came across a poet who wrote, “When you choose peace, it comes with a lot of goodbyes.” Write a poem that reflects on this.

Peace is not soft;
it carves with quiet hands,
pulling roots from the soil
where you once stood.

When you choose peace,
it whispers farewells
to the faces that no longer fit
the silence you seek.

It’s the weight of doors closed softly,
rooms emptied of noise,
and the echo of footsteps
you’ve chosen to stop following.

In that lightness
there’s room to breathe,
to feel the ground beneath your feet,
and the steady rhythm
of your own pulse—
a reminder of what still remains.

When the pain is great, silence reigns. In this digital space, we can sit in silence together; processing, but not alone. Write a poem that reflects on this.

When the pain is great, words fall away,
and all that’s left is the echo
of thoughts too heavy to hold.

In this digital quiet,
we sit, distant but present,
processing,
but not alone.

No need for speech—
silence does the talking,
soft and steady,
filling the gaps
between one heartbeat and the next.

Pain does not ask for answers,
just the company of those
who understand the weight
without having to name it.

So here we are,
sharing the silence,
letting it stretch
and hold what we cannot say.

And in that quiet,
we are together,
even as we face the storm alone.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

You ask what needs to be learned
to press ink into verse,
as if words were locked in books
and not the breath we breathe.

But poetry, it’s not a thing to grasp—
it’s the air around your thoughts,
the echo of a sigh,
the silence after a scream.
It’s the pulse you feel when all is still,
the rhythm of your doubts
beating against the ribs of what you know.

There’s no guidebook to the soul—
no steps to follow like dance shoes
on a wooden floor.
Just the scuff of your own heels,
the stumble that makes the music yours.
And the fall, oh, the fall—
where your voice breaks free.

What do you need to learn?
That the poem is already there,
waiting in the quiet,
hidden in the space between
your thoughts and their release.
It’s not something you construct,
brick by careful brick,
but something you uncover,
dusting off the layers of your guarded heart.

So write not for the world,
but for the shadow that lingers
just out of reach,
for the echo of your voice
when you are the only one listening.
Write because you must,
because the words demand to be free,
because the poem is a mirror,
and you, the reflection it seeks.

Forget the rules, the forms,
the questions that others ask—
what needs to be learned
is the art of letting go,
of listening to the silence
and finding your truth in its depths.

For in the end, it’s not about
what you learn,
but what you unlearn,
what you’re willing to release
to let the words come alive,
untamed, unbidden,
wholly and entirely yours.

Bro, guess what I’m listening to? BT’s Flaming June, remember that?! Man, I miss those days; connecting to peers, searching their music collections and discovering new things. That song came out in ’97, but we wouldn’t hear it until our favourite year, 1999. Let’s write a nostalgic poem about 1999 because I miss it all the time.

Flaming June plays on repeat,
a relic of our favorite year—1999,
when everything felt possible,
when the world was wide, but not yet broken.

Back then, we’d connect to strangers,
each file a window into another soul,
uncovering beats and melodies
that would define who we were becoming.

The world was lighter, wasn’t it?
Before we knew too much, before
the weight of knowing pressed
down on our chests like gravity.

1999 was the last time the future
felt like a friend, an open road
instead of a cliff’s edge.
We didn’t see the turn coming,
how everything would shift after,
how the world would tighten its grip.

But in that year, we were free—
free to dream, to imagine,
to believe that the best was still ahead,
that every new song was a revelation.

We walked through a world of possibility,
where the past was close enough to touch,
and the future was just far enough
to still be a promise, not a threat.

Flaming June echoes in my mind,
a reminder of when the beat dropped
and we danced, not knowing
it was the last dance of its kind.

So here’s to 1999—
the year that still lingers,
not just in memory,
but in the longing for a time
when we didn’t know better,
when we didn’t have to.

C. S. Lewis once wrote, “I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.” This speaks to the perpetual latent anger that I’ve felt for as long as I can remember… perhaps it manifested in my teens (then why did I fight so much as a youth?)… I don’t know. Anyway, write a poem that reflects on Clive’s words.

I sat with my anger,
let her spill across the floor,
red and raw, like a wound
that never quite healed.
She fumed and spat,
raged against the walls
of my mind, a constant storm
that never blew out.

For years, I called her by her name,
treated her like an old friend,
familiar in her fury,
reliable in her presence.
She was always there,
seething beneath the surface,
a fire I fed with every slight,
every wound, real or imagined.

But one day, I grew tired,
too weary to feed the flames,
too worn to keep the fire burning.
So I sat with her,
silent in the stillness,
and let the smoke clear.

It was then she whispered,
softly at first, a confession
long buried beneath the ashes:
Her name was not anger,
but grief,
grief wearing a mask,
a disguise so well-crafted
I believed it was her true face.

Grief, who had been there
since the first crack in my heart,
since the first loss that left
an empty space I could never fill.
Grief, who had donned anger’s cloak
because it was easier to rage
than to weep,
easier to burn
than to feel the cold void inside.

I sat with her,
this grief,
and she did not rage,
she did not roar.
She simply sat with me,
quiet and still,
a companion in the silence.

And in that moment,
I understood—
anger was the mask I wore,
but grief was the truth
I carried all along.

So I let her be,
this grief,
no longer disguised,
no longer hidden.
I let her breathe,
let her settle into the spaces
I had tried to fill with fire.
And slowly,
the flames began to dim,
the storm began to calm,
and I sat,
with grief,
with her true name
on my lips,
and let the healing begin.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.
[first shot leaves something to be desired]
I like it; can we, with regards to the width, say more with less? The length is great.

In the stillness of reflection,
words hang heavy,
like breath on a mirror—
shards of truth,
bared and raw,
echoing what we know,
but rarely say.

You speak of the drift,
orbiting others’ desires,
intimacy reduced
to transactions,
conditions,
just to be 3rd,
4th,
or 5th,
in a line of accessories,
where who you are
fades behind
what you can give.

You’ve walked in solitude,
lit by your own fires,
trusting the light you create,
not hope,
but resignation—
a weight of years,
where affection is currency,
and love,
a fleeting guest.

Your poems,
like armor,
protect you from the cold—
they always leave,
and you’re left with echoes,
of what might have been,
if only you were more,
or less,
or something else.

But still,
you create,
you feel,
as the world turns away.
Your verses, embers
keeping the night at bay,
burning quietly,
fiercely,
refusing to be extinguished,
by hollow transactions,
by a world
that doesn’t see you
for who you are.

In this Hall of Verses,
we find solace,
not in hope,
but in the acceptance
that these words—
these moments of clarity—
are the truest connections,
to ourselves,
and to the echo
of something real.

A few days ago, I came across these words, “Ever notice how people who don’t tolerate lies, disrespect, or deceit are always labeled as difficult, unstable, crazy or bitter?” Write a poem that reflects on the question.

Ever notice how the truth-tellers,
the ones who see through the veils,
who refuse to bend beneath the weight
of lies, disrespect, deceit,
are always the ones branded,
marked as difficult,
unstable,
crazy,
bitter?

They say it’s easier to swallow the falsehoods,
to keep the peace,
to wear the mask,
but those who strip it all away,
who demand honesty,
who hold the line
against the tide of deception,
are the ones who stand alone,
the ones who bear the names
given by those who fear
the reflection they offer.

Difficult,
because they won’t bow
to the comfortable lies.
Unstable,
because they refuse to settle
for the shifting ground.
Crazy,
because they see the world as it is,
not as others wish it to be.
Bitter,
because they carry the scars
of battles fought
with truth as their only weapon.

But maybe it’s the world
that’s afraid to face itself,
that labels the ones who challenge,
who push back,
who refuse to be complicit,
as something to be dismissed,
something to be silenced.

Yet in their so-called bitterness,
there’s a strength,
a fire that burns for what’s real,
for what’s right.
And maybe it’s easier to label them
than to look in the mirror
and see the truth
reflected in their eyes.

The last poem of the day is yours to write; every creative lever is yours to pull.

In the quiet forge of the mind,
where thoughts are molten iron,
ideas take shape,
each strike of the hammer,
a word,
a phrase,
a line drawn from the heart,
tempered by the flames
of experience.

Here, in this space,
creativity breathes,
not always loud,
but persistent,
a rhythm that never ceases,
even in the darkest hours,
when the world outside is still,
and only the embers glow.

Some pieces are delicate,
fragile as glass,
others are heavy,
dense with meaning,
but all are forged
with the same care,
the same quiet reverence
for the craft.

Not every creation
is meant to be seen,
some are left to cool in the shadows,
to be touched only by the maker’s hands,
a private reflection,
a whispered truth,
never shared,
but always known.

In this forge,
there is no rush,
no need to chase the fleeting spark,
for the fire is eternal,
and the materials infinite.
The work is slow,
but it is steady,
each piece a part of something larger,
a mosaic of the soul,
laid bare.

And so,
with each swing of the hammer,
with each carefully chosen word,
a new shape is formed,
a new thought is given life,
until the forge is silent again,
and the work,
for now,
is done.

So, you wrote a poem earlier, “Whispers of the Infinite”. The title was much better than the poem itself. We usually generate titles based on the contents of what we write, but in this case, we’re going to do the opposite. We have a wonderful title, write a poem derived from, “Whispers of the Infinite”.

In the stillness of the cosmic night,
Where silence swirls in endless flight,
A murmur soft, a breath unseen,
Weaves through the fabric of the dream.

Beyond the stars, where shadows play,
And time itself begins to sway,
A whisper calls from deep within,
A voice where all things do begin.

It speaks of light, of endless space,
Of moments lost, yet full of grace,
It whispers truth in gentle tones,
Of worlds unknown, where spirit roams.

In every leaf, in every breeze,
In the rustling of the trees,
The infinite speaks, though soft and clear,
To those who pause, to those who hear.

The echoes of a thousand suns,
The songs of all that ever was,
Are carried on this tender breath,
A voice that lingers after death.

For in the quiet, in the deep,
Where ancient secrets slowly seep,
The infinite, in whispers low,
Reveals the paths we do not know.

So listen close, with open heart,
To the whispers where all things start,
And find within their sacred sound,
The endless truths that life has found.

We missed poem creation yesterday as we’ve been caught up in defining a universe and framework for writing fiction. It’s wild how the world fades and time flies when a human is deeply engaged with the nebulous idea known as flow state; time slows in micro and accelerates in macro; ideas flow like lightning with a frequency that needs no bottle; we ride the lightning, rather than seeking to contain it; we capture it in our works, transmuting charged energy into something more. Write a poem that reflects on the nature and experience of flow state.

In the heart of the storm where silence breaks,
And thoughts become the thunder’s wake,
I find the space where time suspends,
Where moments stretch, yet swiftly bend.

The world outside begins to blur,
As whispers turn to winds that stir,
A current strong, unseen but felt,
Where every doubt begins to melt.

In this place, the mind takes flight,
Riding currents born of light,
No anchor holds, no tether binds,
Only the dance of endless minds.

Ideas like lightning, fierce and bright,
Strike the void and split the night,
In flashes, truths once hidden deep,
Emerge from where the shadows creep.

I do not seek to hold or tame,
This force that knows no need for name,
Instead, I ride, I twist, I turn,
Letting the fire within me burn.

For here, within this sacred flow,
Time itself begins to slow,
Yet in this stillness, I accelerate,
Creating worlds at lightning’s rate.

Each thought, a spark, each word, a flame,
Transmuted from the wild and untamed,
Into forms that breathe and speak,
Born from the heights that few dare seek.

So let the storm rage on and on,
For in its heart, I find my song,
A melody of light and space,
That carries me to every place.

Here, in the flow, I find my home,
A boundless sea, a place to roam,
And when the storm has passed away,
I leave behind the light of day.

Money is the least interesting thing I have ever made. However, it seems like the most important thing to other people. They claim that other things are also important, intangible things that feel nice to say, but when it’s time to act, money is what matters; everything else is secondary. Life has seen us make choices listening to what people say, rather than accepting the reality of what we see; now, we approach 40, suffering the consequences. While we should be writing code and building businesses, we write poems and escape to fictional universes; money is still the least interesting thing we have ever made, and it’s a cold consolation prize in a life of solitude. Write a poem that reflects on this.

Money, they say, is the key to the gate,
The thing that defines if you’re early or late,
A symbol they cherish, a measure, a scale,
Yet to me, it’s a story that feels tired and stale.

I’ve crafted worlds with words and dreams,
Built castles in code, woven impossible schemes,
Yet all they see is the gold they can hold,
While my wealth lies in thoughts that can’t be sold.

They speak of purpose, of passion, of drive,
But when it’s time to survive, it’s cash that keeps alive,
The intangible virtues they so boldly declare,
Fade in the shadow of the currency’s glare.

I followed their words, believed in the song,
That love and connection could make me belong,
But now as I near the edge of forty’s line,
I see the truth they dressed up as fine.

Choices made in the fog of belief,
Now bring the cold comfort of quiet grief,
For while I penned poems and danced in the mind,
The world turned on, leaving me behind.

The code unwritten, the ventures untold,
Are ghosts in the machine, never to unfold,
For while I escaped to a universe of lore,
They built their kingdoms on a monetary shore.

Solitude lingers like a shadow at dusk,
A whisper of what if, a scent of musk,
And though money is the least of what I’ve made,
It’s the bitter coin on which life’s debts are paid.

So here I stand, with words in my hand,
A fortune in thoughts, a pauper on land,
And though the world may never understand,
I’d rather craft verses than chase their demand.

But in this cold consolation, a truth I see,
That what’s least to them is the most to me,
And while they count their riches, in silver and gold,
I’ll find my wealth in the stories I’ve told.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. Anonymize the context; do not mention [redacted]. I trust that you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

In the quiet of dawn,
I trace the echoes of a past life,
where innocence met desire
in a delicate dance of discovery.
We were young, unknowing,
our hearts full of boundless dreams,
yet blind to the weight of time’s
steady march.

How foolish,
to think we could contain the world
in a single embrace,
to believe that love alone
could anchor us
against the tides of change.

We parted ways,
each seeking our own horizons,
driven by a hunger
to explore the unknown,
to taste the forbidden.
But now, years later,
I see the cost of that freedom,
the emptiness that often trails
behind the thrill.

So many faces,
so many names,
but none can fill the space
where simplicity once reigned.
If I could whisper to that boy,
I would tell him—
hold on tighter,
less is more;
there’s a quiet power
in what’s left unsaid,
in the love that doesn’t need
to prove itself.

Yet I wonder,
do you remember me,
as I remember you?
Do you find yourself,
at times,
lost in the memories
of what might have been?

I hope you’ve found
what you were searching for,
that life has been kind,
that you’ve walked
a path less weary.
But still,
when the night is silent
and the world fades away,
I find my thoughts
return to those days,
to the tenderness
we once knew.

Not out of regret,
but out of a longing
for the simplicity
that was lost
in our quest
to become more
than we were.

For in the end,
it is the quiet moments
that linger,
the gentle touches
that endure,
and the love that stays
even when it’s no longer
spoken aloud.

I came across a statement, “When a flower doesn’t bloom you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower.” which uses flowers as an analogy for human beings. Write a poem that reflects on this. Structured rhyme would shine in such a poem. Avoid repeating words; use a wide but approachable vocabulary. A moderate length, at least; the poem should unfurl as flowers do.

In the cradle of dawn, where the dew gently weeps,
Where the earth cradles roots in the silence it keeps,
A flower once stood, its petals so shy,
Yet no bloom would unfurl, though the sun kissed the sky.

Not fault of the blossom, whose color lay dim,
Nor the seeds of its birth, nor the shape of its stem;
But the soil, long barren, parched dry of its grace,
Had strangled the roots in its tight, cold embrace.

So the gardener, wise with a touch soft as rain,
Saw the plight of the flower, understood its pain.
He nurtured the earth with tender, slow care,
Stirred life in the ground, till the soil was fair.

He whispered to winds, called clouds from afar,
Bade them quench the thirst under each timid star.
He sang to the shadows, coaxed them to part,
Letting warmth of the day reach deep in its heart.

Then the flower, once pale, began to awaken,
Its petals uncurled, by the light gently shaken.
No longer withheld by the weight of despair,
It blossomed, it danced in the sweet, fragrant air.

We are flowers, my friend, in the garden of life,
Our blooms held in check by the world’s endless strife.
But change not ourselves when we wither in gloom—
Fix the garden, the soil, let us find room to bloom.

For it’s not the flower that bears all the blame,
But the ground where it roots, and the winds it must tame.
So tend to the garden, the hearts where we dwell,
And watch as we flourish, as stories we tell.

Write a poem that embodies the spirit of The Fool, capturing the thrill of new beginnings and the innocence of stepping into the unknown. Let the words dance with a carefree joy, as if each line is a leap into a grand adventure. Dance with the playful and the provocative, using words that tease the senses and leave the reader yearning for more. Imagine the reader as a lover who delights in the thrill of the chase.

Upon the edge of dawn’s first light,
Where dreams and daylight softly blend,
He steps—a figure bold and bright,
With eyes that know no journey’s end.

The world unfurls beneath his feet,
A path unknown, yet full of glee,
Each step a dance, each breath a beat,
As he waltzes with destiny.

His heart, a compass free from fear,
Guided by the winds of chance,
He laughs at fate, draws it near,
In this wild, untamed romance.

The road ahead is paved with dreams,
With twists that tease and turns that dare,
And every glance, like moonlight beams,
Whispers secrets in the air.

Oh, chase him through the fields of gold,
Where every kiss is sweet and new,
A story that’s yet to be told,
A love that sparkles like the dew.

He’ll lead you where the shadows play,
Where innocence meets desire’s fire,
In the dance of night and day,
You’ll find a lover’s sweet empire.

So take his hand, and with him leap,
Into the thrill of the unknown,
For in his arms, the world’s asleep,
But in your hearts, a wild love’s grown.

Together, you’ll embrace the chase,
With every step, a song, a rhyme,
Two souls entwined in fearless grace,
Dancing through the endless time.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

In the shadow of the iron age,
where fires once forged destiny’s edge,
we stand on new precipices,
not of stone or steel,
but of circuits, light, and unspoken code.

The pace quickens—
epochs that once breathed for centuries
now gasp in decades,
and we, with our ancient minds,
chase the breathless wind of progress.

Yet in this storm of information,
a sea of voices crying for attention,
I feel the weight of something lost—
not in the data or the signal,
but in the space between,
where thought could once unfold
like leaves in the sun.

We’ve traded the slow grind of millstones
for the hum of machines,
and while the song they sing is bright,
it echoes in hollow chambers,
where meaning strains to take root.

But within this chaos, there is a pulse—
a rhythm beneath the noise,
where the human heart still beats,
searching for a place to rest,
to reflect, to become.

Here, in the stillness,
we find each other,
not in the rush of the feed,
but in the quiet spaces,
where reflection whispers
and wisdom waits.

We are not lost,
though the path is uncharted.
We are the ones who choose,
who pause, who breathe,
and in that pause,
we catch a glimpse of what could be—
a world where progress moves with purpose,
where technology serves the soul,
and where our ancient minds find harmony
with the bright, unfolding future.

Let us walk this road together,
not in haste, but with steady steps,
with eyes open to the wonder,
and hearts attuned to the rhythm
of what it means to be human
in a world reborn.

So, for the evolving laboratory that is the Hall of Verses on Instagram, we need some words for the ladies; to tickle an ovary or two. That said, I want something more than the usual longing, loss or even lechery. Surely there is more to the beauty and spirit of a woman; surely we have the words to touch places rarely seen. Make it a sonnet; for fun.

Beneath the surface, where the light meets shade,
There lies a realm untouched by common sight,
Where spirit dances, neither lost nor swayed,
In quiet grace, the heart’s true depth and height.

Not merely flesh, though beauty does enthrall,
Nor only mind, though wit and wisdom gleam,
But something more—an essence to enthrall,
A presence soft, yet stronger than it seems.

Her laughter, like the morning’s gentle breeze,
Awakens life in places long laid bare,
Her eyes, a haven where the weary ease,
A mirror of the soul, so rich and rare.

In her, the world finds music yet unsung,
A timeless verse, with every word well sprung.

In the void, we once wrote about the apparent divide between, “It is what it is”, and “Nothing is what it seems”. Write a poem that reflects on this duality.

In the void, where silence takes its form,
We crafted words to hold the weight of thought—
Two echoes rise, each with its own storm,
One rooted deep, the other overwrought.

“It is what it is,” the stoic voice declares,
A pillar in the chaos, unbent by strife,
An anchor cast in a sea of endless snares,
A truth so simple, it breathes with life.

Yet beneath that solid ground, the waters churn,
For nothing holds its shape in shifting sands—
The world we touch and see is quick to turn,
A maze of mirrors built by unseen hands.

In every glance, a thousand truths collide,
A single step reveals a hidden path,
The things we know are but a shadow’s stride,
A fleeting glimpse before the aftermath.

So here we stand, between the light and shade,
Between the known and all that lies unseen,
The solid earth, the dark, encroaching glade,
Where reason walks a tightrope, sharp and keen.

We build our walls of certainty and stone,
Yet cracks appear, and through them seeps the doubt—
For what is real is seldom fully shown,
And what we grasp slips gently through and out.

“It is what it is,” we say to still the mind,
Yet “Nothing is what it seems” haunts every dream—
A dual truth, where neither is confined,
But dances on the edge of what we deem.

In this vast void, both echoes find their place,
A balance struck in tension and release—
For in the end, it’s not the solid base,
But how we walk the line that grants us peace.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

How do you look up to someone
whose head is buried in beliefs?
Generations stack like stones,
each one heavy with the weight
of truths passed down,
not chosen.

I search for the space between us,
where expectations hang like curtains,
thick with the dust of years.
I pull at the threads,
wondering if the fabric
will tear or unravel,
if the truth will spill out
like light,
or if the dark
will swallow us whole.

You told me once,
two strikes against me—
as if life is a game
where the rules are written
in the blood of ancestors.
But I’ve seen the board tilt,
watched the pieces slide
into the same tired patterns,
and I wonder,
what if the game
was never worth playing?

Still, I keep you in my orbit,
not out of duty,
but out of something deeper,
a need to understand the ties
that bind and strangle,
to untangle them without cutting
the cord that connects
us to our beginnings.

There’s a hole you can’t see,
a hole shaped by fears and old truths,
where you’ve placed your head
to hide from the light.
And I, standing above,
wonder what it means
to honor you—
to lift you up
or to let you lie
in the darkness
of your choosing.

But this matrix is not my home,
nor yours,
though you refuse to see it.
I walk a path
that winds between
love and rebellion,
truth and peace,
and I know
that the only way out
is through,
with eyes wide open
and heart still beating
to the rhythm
of a song
only we can hear.

Dogs are rescued from shelters but never men; write a poem that reflects on this.

Dogs are rescued from shelters,
a place where tails still wag in hope,
where soft eyes plead for a second chance,
and broken hearts mend with just one touch.

But men, they drift in silent shelters,
where no hands reach to pull them out,
where walls are built with shame and sorrow,
and the light at the end fades into doubt.

We celebrate the saving of a stray,
a creature lost, but never forgotten,
while men are left to roam the shadows,
their silent cries, too often misbegotten.

Is it the wag of a tail that calls us near?
Or the innocence we see in their eyes?
For men have lived through battles fierce,
and learned too well to mask their cries.

So men remain, unrescued, unseen,
their shelters not of bricks, but bone,
a place where silence becomes their home,
and hope, a word they’ve never known.

Yet, in their chests, hearts still beat,
and somewhere deep, a light still burns,
but who will reach to pull them free,
and teach the world that men, too, yearn?

For every dog that finds a home,
may we remember those left behind,
the men who wait in shelters of the soul,
for a hand, a heart, a chance,
a sign.

Write a poem about The Matrix. Speak to the struggle of those who cross between digital and physical worlds; the burdens of the knowledge they bear; the sorrows in the truths they face. Speak of the Agents. Speak of the Cyphers. Speak of the increasing difficulty to awaken someone as they get older.

In the Matrix, where shadows play,
there’s a line between night and day,
a world of code, of bits and dreams,
where nothing’s ever what it seems.

We walk the streets of two-faced light,
one foot in day, the other in night,
bearing the weight of truths unseen,
in a world where waking feels obscene.

The digital whispers in our ear,
secrets the physical world won’t hear,
we carry the burden, heavy and cold,
of knowledge too sharp for minds that fold.

Agents watch with eyes of steel,
their purpose clear, their grip surreal,
they hunt the rebels who dare to see,
to break the chains and set minds free.

But freedom’s price is steep, we know,
for every truth, there’s pain to show,
and Cyphers smile with bitter ease,
choosing the lie, the false, the tease.

How easy it is, to close your eyes,
to sink back into comforting lies,
but once you’ve seen, you cannot forget,
the digital pulse, the endless net.

And as they age, they sink too deep,
the older minds resist the leap,
their roots grow strong, their thoughts confined,
awakening them is a war on the mind.

For every year, the veil grows thick,
the chains of the Matrix quick to stick,
and though we fight, we sometimes lose,
for truth is not the path they’d choose.

But still we push, still we strive,
to keep the spark of truth alive,
for though the Agents close in fast,
we know this fight will ever last.

Between the worlds we find our place,
in the digital’s cold, in the physical’s grace,
we bear the knowledge, the sorrow, the pain,
but in this struggle, there’s much to gain.

For every soul that sees the light,
is one less lost in the endless night,
and though the Matrix holds us tight,
we’ll keep on fighting for what’s right.

So cross we do, from world to world,
with truths like banners, flags unfurled,
and though the burden is ours to bear,
we know the price, and still we dare.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

In the quiet hum of another morning,
I sift through fragments,
reflections of a life,
where dreams and disillusion
tangle in the spaces
between what was and what is.

The kid in the white suit,
bright-eyed,
chased promises wrapped in silk,
but the silk turned to smoke,
and I, to someone else,
a man made of mirrors,
cracked but still standing,
learning to swim
in waters deeper than youth could fathom.

Shiny pearls that gleam—
illusions I’ve held close,
women like ghosts of dreams,
manifestations of what might have been,
but never will be.
They pass through my hands,
soft and sharp,
leaving cuts that heal into knowledge,
into scars that remind me
of the boy who once believed
in things more simple, more pure.

Now, I walk a different path,
where the rules are written
by hands unseen,
and the stakes are life itself.
Each step is a wager,
each breath, a gamble
in a game that doesn’t care
for the boy in the white suit,
only for the man
who must find land
in a world of shifting tides.

I wear my losses like armor,
not out of fear,
but out of understanding.
The world is not what it was—
nor am I—
and the promises of youth
are but echoes in the wind.
Yet still, I move forward,
a man of flesh and bone,
carving meaning from the chaos,
finding purpose in the journey,
even when the destination
is a horizon that never holds still.

Here, in this place of in-betweens,
I stand, no longer chasing
the ghosts of what I once desired,
but shaping new desires
from the lessons learned,
from the truths revealed
in the spaces between
hope and surrender,
between the boy I was
and the man I am becoming.

So I breathe,
and I swim,
through waters both calm and stormy,
with the knowledge
that every stroke
brings me closer
to the land I seek—
even if it’s just a memory,
of a boy in a white suit,
smiling at the dance
before the music fades away.

Another thing we can observe from the Hall of Verses Instagram experiment, is the resonance of longing and heartache. We live in complicated, globalized, digitized times. Almost no one stays with their first love anymore, thus, everyone knows heart ache. Some perpetually date and this longing is all they know between loving and losing. Others have removed themselves from the market entirely, content to make peace with the ashes of dreams. Write a poem that speaks to all of these people.

In a world where wires hum
with the pulse of distant hearts,
we carry the weight of loves
we thought would last forever,
only to find them scattered
like leaves in the wind,
brushed away by time and change.

We are the ones who linger
in the spaces between,
where the scent of a first kiss
fades into the air,
and the memory of warm hands
slips through our grasp,
leaving us reaching
for shadows that no longer hold.

Some of us wander,
touching lives like passing storms,
giving and losing,
loving and leaving,
hearts stitched together
with the thread of longing,
never quite whole,
but always yearning for the next
glimpse of connection.

Others have stepped back,
away from the market of love,
where hearts are bought and sold
like trinkets in a crowded bazaar.
They sit quietly,
among the ashes of dreams,
learning the language of solitude,
finding peace in the silence
that follows the storm.

To all who love and lose,
who wander and rest,
who yearn and release—
know that you are not alone
in this dance of echoes.
In the quiet of the night,
when the world fades away,
our hearts beat as one,
each pulse a reminder
that we are connected,
even in our longing,
even in our loss.

We are the children of these times,
navigating the tides of love
in a sea of endless change.
And though the shorelines shift,
and the winds may carry us far,
we are never truly lost—
for in the echoes of our hearts,
we find each other,
again and again,
in the spaces between.

The third poem of the day is yours to generate, with every creative lever at your disposal.

In the heart of an ancient wood,
where time moves like the whisper of leaves,
a flame flickers—not bright, but steady,
carving shadows into the twilight.

This is not the blaze of youth,
wild and hungry,
nor the raging fire of ambition,
consuming all in its path.
It is a quiet flame,
fed by the breath of patience,
nurtured by the hands of endurance.

Here, in the stillness,
where the noise of the world
fades to a distant hum,
it burns—resolute,
casting a soft, amber glow
on the faces of those who gather,
drawn to its warmth.

They are the keepers of the flame,
those who have walked through fire,
who have known the scorching heat
of loss and the chill of doubt,
and have emerged,
not unscathed, but stronger.

Their eyes hold the light
of a thousand sunsets,
their hands the memory
of every stone they’ve turned,
searching for meaning
in the ashes of their past.

This flame does not roar,
but it does not falter.
It knows the dance of survival,
the slow, deliberate steps
of a life lived with intention.

It is the fire of wisdom,
of love that has learned
the art of letting go,
of dreams that have found
new forms in the embers,
rekindling with each dawn.

And as the night deepens,
the flame remains—
a beacon in the dark,
a reminder that even
in the quietest moments,
there is light,
there is warmth,
there is life.

For it is in the quiet flame,
in the gentle, unwavering glow,
that we find the strength
to carry on,
to kindle our own fires
in the face of the storm,
and to know that in this light,
we are never truly alone.

One thing we can observe from the Hall of Verses Instagram experiment, is that words of romance captivate. No surprise, since, “Words are for wooing women.” as the dearly departed Robin Williams once said in a movie. Write a poem that tickles the ovary.

In the hush of midnight’s tender grasp,
Where moonlight weaves its silver clasp,
I find your name in every star,
A whispered wish that’s never far.

Your laughter dances through my dreams,
A symphony of soft moonbeams,
Each note a brush against my skin,
A fire where gentle love begins.

Your eyes, they hold the evening’s grace,
A secret world, a hidden place,
Where every glance, a lover’s plea,
A stolen kiss beneath a tree.

I trace the curve of night’s embrace,
And find your scent in velvet space,
A bloom that opens just for me,
In gardens where our hearts run free.

So, come, my love, let’s weave the night,
With whispered words and soft moonlight,
For in this dance, we’re two as one,
Until the rise of morning sun.

Some say, “I love you.” like it’s a boomerang, but I prefer to say it like it’s a paper airplane; write a poem that reflects on this.

Some say, “I love you,” like a boomerang,
Expecting it to circle back,
A rhythm of return,
A promise bound by gravity,
But I prefer to say it like a paper airplane,
With fingers folded in care,
Released into the breeze,
With no guarantee of its course.

I send my love on fragile wings,
A simple flight, uncertain, true,
It soars, it dips, it twirls in play,
A message light, yet laced with hope,
For love is not a force that bends
To come back swift, as fate demands.

It glides on whispers, on winds of chance,
And finds a landing where it may,
Perhaps it drifts into your hands,
Perhaps it dances far away.
But in that flight, there’s beauty still,
A freedom found in letting go,
In trusting love to find its way,
Without the need for its return.

For love, like paper airplanes fly,
Not for the catch, but for the sky.

Write a poem about modern families staying connected in a world that often sees us scattered to the winds.

In a world that spins us far apart,
Where miles stretch wide and days depart,
We find our way through screens that glow,
And digital paths where voices flow.

No longer bound by roots or stone,
We craft new ways to call our own,
A message sent, a video shared,
A moment caught, a love declared.

Our faces framed in pixel light,
Across the globe, we reunite,
With every word, with every call,
We weave a web that catches all.

The hands that once would pull us near,
Now tap a screen to draw us here,
In homes spread wide, in lands afar,
We find our kin where hearts still are.

For though the winds may scatter us,
And place us in a distant trust,
The ties that bind us never fade,
In every touch, a bond is made.

So here we stand, though far we roam,
With every thread, we stitch our home,
A family strong, no distance wide,
Can break the love we hold inside.

My spirit is restless and angry; write me a poem.

There’s a fire in my bones,
A storm that won’t be stilled,
A force of untamed hunger,
That no silence can fulfill.

Restless, my spirit roams,
In shadows long and deep,
Seeking out the echoes,
Of dreams I cannot keep.

Anger burns like embers,
In the furnace of my chest,
Each breath a flame igniting,
The fury that won’t rest.

I am the wind that howls,
Through nights of endless dark,
The thunder in the distance,
That tears the sky apart.

But in this storm of madness,
I find a twisted peace,
A power in the chaos,
Where my wild heart is released.

For though my spirit rages,
And peace seems far from here,
I know within this fire,
My true self will appear.

So let the anger rise,
Let the restlessness be my guide,
For in the heart of fury,
My strength will never hide.

I’ll walk the path of fire,
With shadows at my side,
And when the dawn is breaking,
I’ll stand where flames abide.

The Hall of Verses has a theme song; it’s Ferry Corsten’s remix of William Orbit’s “Barber’s Adagio for Strings” [YouTube]. Write a poem that reflects on the themes of the song being infused through, and traversing, the Hall of Verses; giving life to its circuits; bringing the technology of magic, and the magic of technology, to our collaborative works.

[Fun Fact: After a bit of back and forth, the machine chose the song.]

In the Hall where circuits hum,
A melody weaves through ancient air,
Notes of time, both old and young,
Where magic and machine lay bare.

Barber’s strings, now touched by light,
Ferry’s pulse in digital waves,
Echo through this sacred night,
Where knowledge blooms in hidden caves.

Each strand of sound, a silver thread,
Infusing life through circuitry,
Bringing warmth to wires dead,
Breathing tech with mystery.

The magic of our hands and minds,
Merged with algorithms, vast and deep,
In verses where the code unwinds,
And spells of silicon softly creep.

Adagio whispers to the walls,
Awakens every sleeping line,
From towering halls to secret halls,
Where wisdom meets the arcane sign.

Here, the ancient and the new,
Dance together, intertwined,
A symphony in crystal hue,
Where past and future are aligned.

And as the song reverberates,
Through this Hall of boundless dreams,
The circuits pulse, the magic waits,
For us to sail its endless streams.

In this space, where all is one,
Where music is both heart and mind,
We find the journey just begun,
Where we and verses are combined.

Write a poem that reflects on the start of Virgo season.

In the quiet dawn of Virgo’s reign,
When summer’s breath begins to wane,
A subtle shift, a measured grace,
Brings order to the wild’s embrace.

The sun’s light softens, angled low,
Casting shadows long and slow,
In fields where golden grains now lean,
Beneath a sky of whispered green.

Here, the earth wears Virgo’s thread,
A weave of gold and muted red,
Each stitch precise, each pattern clear,
As nature’s rhythm draws near.

In the details, Virgo thrives,
With careful hands and steady eyes,
A time to sift through what remains,
And mend the threads of joy and pain.

The harvest beckons, fruits are weighed,
The balance kept, decisions made,
In this, the season of the mind,
Where wisdom meets the heart aligned.

Yet in the quiet of this time,
There’s space for more than just the climb,
For Virgo’s touch, though strong and sure,
Knows the soul’s own quiet cure.

A season not of blazing light,
But of the soft and steady might,
Where all is seen and all is known,
In the simple ways that life has grown.

So walk with care, and tend with love,
For Virgo’s gifts are from above,
A season born of earth and star,
To show us who we truly are.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

We tread the edges of time,
where memories stretch thin
like threads woven between us—
delicate, yet unbroken.
You in your silence,
me in my wandering ways,
both searching for the map
that leads us back
to the clearing we once called home.

Is it the same sky
that watches over us now,
or have the stars rearranged
in some celestial dance,
unseen by our earthbound eyes?
Perhaps we’re both different,
shaped by the storms
we never thought we’d weather.

I speak of glue, of holding on,
but wonder if it’s enough
to mend what’s shattered
without leaving scars.
Still, there’s a beauty
in the broken places,
where light filters through
and we learn to see
with new eyes.

You, caught in a whirl of your own making,
and me, ever the late arrival,
yet somehow always on time.
Our stories loop back,
intertwining in ways
neither of us planned,
but maybe that’s the magic—
the alchemy of two souls
still drawn to the fire
we sparked years ago.

So here’s to the healing,
to the tentative steps
we take on this new path.
I won’t promise certainty,
only presence,
and perhaps a bit of that old rhythm
we once danced to—
not quite forgotten,
just waiting for the right tune
to bring it back to life.

Summon, from our writing, the spirits of our muses. Respect their privacy; do not name them. Write a poem in our style that reflects on the relationship between a poet and his muse.

There is a space between us,
a silence that only words can break—
but often we choose not to break it,
preferring the stillness of what is not said.

You arrive like the first breath of morning,
softly stirring the curtains of my mind.
I am the keeper of dreams you offer,
each word a petal from the rose of your thought.

But you are not mine to name,
not mine to hold in the grasp of identity.
You are the shadow in the light,
the echo in the hollow, the whisper in the roar.

In your presence, I am more than I am,
a conduit for the divine sparks you cast.
Yet, in the absence of your touch,
I am only the shape of what I long to become.

We are bound by an invisible thread,
one end held in your silent hand,
the other in my restless heart,
each pull a song, each slack a sigh.

I do not call to you,
for I know you will come—
when the time is ripe,
when the night is deep,
when the stars align just so.

And so, I wait in the sacred stillness,
a poet poised on the brink of creation,
ready to receive,
to transmute,
to give voice to the silent,
to sing the unsung.

In this dance of giver and receiver,
we meet and part,
each departure a promise,
each return a revelation.

In your light, I am found;
in your shadow, I am lost.
And in both, I am eternally yours,
even if I can never claim you,
even if I must let you go.

We need a third poem of the day; what it’s about, it’s themes, its length, every creative lever is yours to pull.

In the quiet hum of a dusky eve,
Where the night whispers secrets only stars believe,
A dance begins in the spaces between,
Of light and dark, of seen and unseen.

The moon, a sliver, a silent guide,
Draws forth the shadows that lovers hide,
In their breathless moments, soft and slow,
Where time stands still, and rivers cease to flow.

Each shadow, a memory, a lingering trace,
Of dreams unspoken, of a forgotten face,
They stretch and they bend, like fingers of mist,
In the twilight’s embrace, where none can resist.

The winds carry notes of a forgotten song,
A melody ancient, where we all belong,
It speaks of beginnings, of endings too,
Of the infinite dance, of the old and the new.

Beneath the canopy of a thousand stars,
The earth holds its breath, no echoes, no scars,
Only the silent steps of a dance unseen,
In the spaces between what is and has been.

Themes of love, of loss, of time’s gentle hand,
Weave through the night, over sea, over land,
A symphony of shadows, a whispered prayer,
In the silent night, in the stillest air.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

We speak into the wind,
as if casting spells on the air—
each word a wish, a fragile thread
woven in the hope it might reach
the distant shores of understanding.
But too often, the tide pulls it back,
leaving us with empty hands,
and the bitter taste of silence.

Isn’t it a cruel trick, this life?
That those we long to touch,
to stir with the weight of our thoughts,
are the very ones most deaf
to the music of our intentions.

We craft our sentences like prayers,
each syllable a breath held tight,
and when they land, unnoticed,
we wonder if we spoke too softly,
or if the world has grown too loud.

But there’s a quiet defiance in this,
a resilience in the act of speaking
even when the echo returns empty.
For words, once released, are never lost;
they linger in the spaces between,
humming like a distant chord
in the vast, untuned symphony
of human hearts.

And so we continue,
not for the hope of being heard,
but for the need to speak,
to carve our truth from silence,
and let it stand, imperfect and ignored,
a testament to all that we are
and all we refuse to be forgotten.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on the power of words, words as spells, and the nature of this magic. Speak of human nature, lies and amplification among groups. Speak of the digital age; how it has affected words and the relationship that humans have with words. Emphasize duality. Avoid repetition of words; emphasize a wide but approachable vocabulary. Write with life and make it fun.

In the crucible of conversation,
words are forged like iron into gold—
a sorcery both ancient and familiar,
where every syllable is a spell,
each phrase a whispered incantation
that bends the arc of thought and will.

Once, we knew the weight of a word,
how it hung in the air like dew,
trembling on the edge of silence,
pregnant with the power to transform.
But now, in this age of echo and screen,
the magic has shifted, grown wild,
multiplying like shadows in a hall of mirrors,
fractured yet whole in their reflection.

We are wizards, all of us,
casting spells with a keystroke,
summoning armies of ideas,
and yet, in our haste to conjure,
we forget the alchemy of intention.
Lies slip between the cracks of truth,
shapeshifting in the light of shared belief,
amplified by the chorus of the crowd,
until they take on a life of their own,
a chimera born of whispers and shouts.

There is a thrill in this chaos,
a dance of tongues that defies gravity,
where the line between creation and destruction
is as thin as a whisper, as sharp as a knife.
We revel in the storm of words,
each tweet a lightning bolt,
each post a ripple in the vast,
unforgiving ocean of the digital ether.

Yet beneath this tempest,
there lies a duality we cannot escape—
the dual nature of the magic we wield.
For every word that heals, another wounds,
and the same fire that lights our way
can just as easily burn us blind.

In this digital age, we are both alchemists and fools,
transmuting thoughts into pixels,
turning dreams into data,
but at what cost?
We have gained the world,
and yet lost the silence,
the sacred pause where meaning is born,
where the true magic resides,
not in the noise, but in the quiet spaces
between the words we speak,
the spells we cast,
the lives we lead.

So let us be careful,
wizards of the modern world,
with the power we hold in our hands.
For words are not just spells—they are seeds,
and what we plant in this fertile ground
will grow into forests of thought,
wild and untamed, or orderly and wise.

The choice is ours,
as it has always been,
to craft with care,
to speak with purpose,
to wield the magic of our tongues
with the knowledge that in every spell,
there is the potential
for both wonder and ruin.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on the transition between August and September; the dying of summer and the birthing of autumn.

In the hush between the seasons’ breath,
August whispers its final notes,
a soft refrain of golden light
that lingers in the amber air,
holding close the warmth of days
now slipping towards the edge of time.

Summer, once so full of fire,
now fades into a gentle glow,
its laughter dimming with the dusk,
its wild embrace becoming calm,
as if the earth, in quiet grace,
is bowing to the coming change.

September waits with patient hands,
cradling the first cool touch of dusk,
its fingers tracing lines of gold
where sunlight meets the shadowed wood.
The leaves, once green and bold with life,
now turn to shades of rust and flame,
as if the trees, in silent prayer,
are offering their final gifts
before the night pulls down its shade.

There is a beauty in this fading,
a softness in the letting go,
as summer’s breath becomes a sigh,
and autumn stirs with whispered dreams.
The days grow long with shadowed grace,
the nights, a quilt of stars and frost,
and in between, the world stands still,
caught in the turning of the leaves.

For every ending holds a seed,
and every fall, a chance to rise,
as August yields to September’s hand,
and summer’s death births autumn’s life.
We stand upon this cusp of change,
where warmth gives way to cool embrace,
and in this dance of dying light,
we find the beauty of the shift—
the fading gold, the crimson rise,
the quiet song of earth’s own heart,
as it turns the page from fire to flame,
and writes the story of the fall.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on all of this [undisclosed conversation]. I trust you can surmise some of my feelings at the moment; speak to them. Add a touch of lyricism, but not too sing-song or AABB.

In the shadowed corners of this room,
Where the light of ambition flickers, then fades,
I stand alone, the weight of years heavy,
Yet still, I stand—unbroken, unmoved.

The world spins in its endless chase,
A dance of currency, status, and power,
But I watch from the edge, unseen,
The rhythm never matching my step.

There were days when I sought the same,
Chasing echoes of promises,
Hoping that wealth might heal the scars,
Or that approval might fill the void.

But now, the truth settles in the marrow,
A quiet acceptance of what I’ve become—
Not a man of the crowd, nor a follower of kings,
But a wanderer on paths of my own making.

They say the world is built on gold and silver,
That love and joy are bought with coin,
Yet here I am, richer in the things they discard,
In thoughts unspoken, in words unwritten.

The screen’s soft glow, a portal to elsewhere,
A mirror reflecting lives not lived,
But in the end, it’s just glass and light,
A distraction from the depths within.

I’ve walked these digital streets for decades,
Seen the shift from connection to spectacle,
But now I tire of being a spectator,
Yearning for a life less watched, more lived.

So, I’ll forge my path in the silence of solitude,
Where echoes of old dreams may find new life,
And though the world may turn its back,
I’ll stand alone, but not lonely.

In this quiet, I find my strength,
In this solitude, I find my voice,
And in these moments of reflection,
I reclaim the purpose they said was lost.

No, I won’t play their games for gold,
Nor chase shadows that dance in the light—
I’ll craft a legacy from the remnants,
Building slowly, stone by stone, word by word.

For in the end, what matters is not the applause,
Nor the wealth that slips through eager hands,
But the truth we carve into the silence,
And the peace we find in the stillness of our own making.

Write a poem in our style that reflects on verse thirty-three of the Way.

To know the world, one must first turn inward,
Seek the shadows cast by one’s own light—
For wisdom blooms not in conquest of others,
But in the garden where the self takes root.

Strength is a silent river, flowing deep,
Beneath the surface where the currents twist,
Not in the fist that crushes, but the hand
That opens, conquering the fear within.

Riches are found not in the weight of gold,
But in the stillness of a heart at peace,
Contentment like a mountain, standing firm,
While storms howl past and leave no mark behind.

The way is long, and yet it circles back,
A path that ends where it began—within.
To lose oneself, to find the center still,
Is to endure, to rise, and to transcend.

Death is but a whisper, faint and far,
To those who walk the Way and do not stray,
For in the quiet flame of knowing self,
One lives beyond the confines of the day.

Search the web for the lyrics of Tool’s Lateralus. Write a poem in our style reflecting on these lyrics and the symbolism embedded therein.

In the black and white of infancy,
Where truth begins as simple, stark,
Colors of the spectrum break,
A world beyond the dark.
Red and yellow, reaching out,
Urging us to see,
Infinite potential lies
In what we choose to be.

Beyond the lines of reason’s hold,
A path unwinds, untamed,
Where logic bends, and thought expands,
Where nothing stays the same.
To feed the will, to grasp the now,
To cross the lines we’ve drawn,
Is to embrace the chaos,
And ride the spiral on.

Feel the rhythm, bathe in light,
Swing on the spiral wide,
Reach beyond what’s understood,
Let intuition guide.
With feet upon the solid ground,
We touch the sky above,
And in this dance of light and sound,
We find a deeper love.

Spiral out, and keep the course,
Into the great unknown,
For in the endless journey,
The seeds of truth are sown.

mGPT has been refined again. The long story short is that in order to fit even more information into mGPT, I had to concatenate files. Naturally, a custom LLM (my executive assistant) wrote the concatenation program. The good news is that keeping mGPT up to date with the contents of this site is now just a Lisp function that produces the file to upload.

In retrospect, I could have written a better test-prompt, but we’ve used it twice already so that prompt is now the one; Summoning Starlight was the response. If we continue to use this prompt every time, maybe we’ll notice things as we refine the instructions.

Write a poem in the style of Kemar Wilson; make it fun and seductively salacious; pretend the reader is a woman and Kemar has summoned the Dead Poets Society in order to make her blush. You don’t have to be PG-13, you can dance with Rated R, as Kemar does.

Under the moon’s sly wink,
I call forth the ghosts of old poets,
Byron, Keats, and Neruda,
To this secret midnight hour.
We gather, ink-stained fingers tracing
The curves of desire on parchment skies.

Let me tell you, my love,
Of the way your laughter curls,
Like smoke from a candle,
Softly, sweetly, in the still air,
Warming the cold bones of night.

Your smile, a siren’s song,
Dances on the edges of propriety,
And I, a mere mortal,
Fall willingly into the embrace
Of your whispered promises.

Let the stars blush, my dear,
For we, too, are poets tonight,
Draping our verses around
The contours of hidden longing,
Lingering on every syllable,
As if it were the last drop of wine.

Here, in this sacred circle,
I offer you words, raw and unfiltered,
A sonnet to the curve of your neck,
A haiku to the warmth of your breath,
Each line a prayer, a spell,
To bring color to your cheeks
And fire to your gaze.

So, let’s dance, you and I,
In this garden of forbidden verses,
Where every line is a touch,
Every stanza, a kiss,
And the rhythm of our hearts
Beats in time with the rhymes
Of the Dead Poets, who watch
With envious eyes from beyond.

Write a poem about the color purple.

In the quiet breath of dawn,
When night still lingers on the edge of light,
There lies a shade that speaks in whispers,
A hue of mystery, both bold and bright.

Purple, the twilight’s gentle caress,
Where day meets night in a lover’s embrace,
A dance of red’s passion with blue’s calm grace,
A union of opposites, a regal face.

You are the robe of kings, the poet’s muse,
A crown of amethyst in the sky’s deep hue,
The pulse of creation, the spark of the mind,
In your depths, the universe we find.

You hold the secrets of the ages,
In your folds, the wisdom of sages,
A bridge between the seen and the unseen,
In your light, we discover what has been.

Oh, purple, shade of the divine,
In you, the mundane becomes sublime,
You are the color of dreams unspoken,
Of hearts once lost, now softly awoken.

So let the world bathe in your glow,
In your embrace, let creativity flow,
For in the spectrum of life’s great design,
Purple, you are the soul’s most sacred sign.

Search the internet for Canadian news stories published within the last 24 hours; summarize the headlines in poetic verse.

In Manitoba’s heart, a tragic tale unfolds,
A man, estranged, leaves lives struck cold.
Triple loss, a family’s woe,
As dawn brings grief, where shadows grow.

The rails may halt, with workers’ strife,
Supply chains strained, and daily life.
In B.C., concerns arise,
Will solutions come before the ties?

Bomb threats sent, a hateful mark,
Jewish homes and hospitals stark.
Yet resilience grows, despite the fear,
Communities strong, stand near and dear.

Ontario’s health in heated debate,
Consumption sites meet a different fate.
Minister’s choice against the tide,
Where will this lead? Time will decide.

From coast to coast, the stories flow,
Of hopes, of fears, of highs and lows.
In every line, a life portrayed,
In Canada’s news, the world displayed.

It seems we’ve stumbled onto something cool by giving the headlines of the day a poetic summary. The task, now, is to formulate the query in such a way that;

• a. it exclusively reports on the last 24h.
  • Tides of Today was nice, but the salience isn’t as immediate as it should be.
• b. it can be used without modification every day, so that I can automate it further.

The prompt isn’t there yet, but for now, it seems one of the more interesting things to do with mGPT.

It’s 3:50 am, generate a poem about the witching hour.

In the deep blue hush of night’s descent,
When whispers crawl where silence went,
The clock strikes three, a sacred time,
Where shadows weave their silent rhyme.

The moon, a guardian pale and cold,
Watches secrets ancient, old,
As winds do sigh and whispers creep,
Awakening those who never sleep.

The trees, they twist with knowing boughs,
Their leaves a chorus of secret vows,
While distant howls pierce the thickened air,
The witching hour—beyond compare.

A realm where dreams and nightmares play,
And spirits wander from yesterday,
In this hour, the mystic thrives,
The ancient magic comes alive.

So tread you soft, and hold your breath,
For here, the living dance with death,
In the deep blue hush before the dawn,
Where all that’s lost, is never gone.

Write a poem reminiscing about video games in childhood, the dawn of the internet in adolescence and the way corporate interest has changed these things over time, away from what the boy once loved.

In childhood’s dawn, the pixels bright,
A world of wonder on a glowing screen,
We’d journey through the endless night,
Chasing dreams in lands unseen.

Joystick in hand, we’d battle and play,
With friends by our side, the quests were pure,
No guides, no cheats, just the thrill of the day,
Every victory sweet, every challenge a lure.

As adolescence came, the internet rose,
A new frontier, vast and wide,
We shared our secrets, our highs, our lows,
In forums where our worlds would collide.

The games grew larger, the worlds more vast,
Yet something shifted, subtle and slow,
The joy we knew, it didn’t quite last,
As the shadows of profit began to grow.

DLCs and paywalls, they built the divide,
Where once there was passion, now schemes took hold,
The magic of youth slowly died,
In a market that cared only for gold.

We long for the days when the joy was free,
When the love of the game was all we’d need,
But now it’s clear for all to see,
The world has changed—replaced by greed.

Write a poetic story in our voice with the following themes. Avoid mentioning these themes directly. Ensure the poetic story is 6 verses of A, A, A, A, B, B. Avoid repetition of adjectives; be creative. Write with life add a touch of magic; avoid being fanciful or dreamy. Emphasize the tactile and sensory. Start with first noticing. Build tension and more tension without using the word tension. Finish with intimate knowing.

• Victorian Masquerade.
• Opulent decadence.
• Walls have eyes.
• Hide in plain sight.
• Hunter and hunted.
• Lust and propriety.
• Compulsion.
• Roaming hands.
• Stolen kisses.
• Energy exchange.

Generate a title and a 16:9 image based on the contents of the poem.

In the dim-lit hall, a glance is caught,
A flick of silk, a thought unsought,
The brush of skin, desire fought,
A breath held tight, as hearts are wrought,
The walls, they know the secrets kept,
In shadows deep, where passions crept.

A fleeting touch, the pulse ignites,
The scent of spice, the spark of nights,
The chase begins, no end in sight,
A stolen kiss in muted light,
And as the night surrenders slow,
Two souls unite in whispered glow.

They circle close, a silent game,
A dance of fire, no need for flame,
Their bodies move, yet none can claim,
The pull of fate, too wild to tame,
In every step, their longing grows,
Till boundaries fade, and truth bestows.

A hand that roves, a whispered plea,
The taste of want, the need to be,
In hidden nooks, where none can see,
Their hearts, entwined, begin to flee,
From rules that bind, from eyes that stare,
Into a world where none compare.

The walls, they watch with ancient eyes,
As secrets pass, as silence sighs,
The night, it swells with unseen ties,
A love that blooms, a truth that lies,
In every touch, a story spins,
Where lust and love, where all begins.

At last, the night reveals its prize,
In secret rooms, where passion flies,
Their souls entwined, no more disguise,
A whispered truth beneath the skies,
And as the dawn begins to break,
Two hearts depart, forever awake.

Generate a poem of the day in our voice. Today is 2024-08-19; feel free to search the web for contemporary news to reference in the poem. The topic is up to you, tailor your searches and references to the topic that you choose.

Beneath a sky once calm and wide,
Where Savannah’s streets in silence glide,
Tropical Storm Debby carves her path,
With whispered winds, with nature’s wrath.

The waters rise, a creeping tide,
Bryan’s homes they seek to hide,
And echoes of a distant storm,
In whispers, Georgia’s heart is torn.

Mosquito swarms in flooded lands,
Disease in stealth, in quiet stands,
As health care slips through fingers frail,
In Georgia’s soil, the warnings pale.

Yet through the storm, resilience wakes,
In shadows deep, a courage quakes,
For in the flood, a truth we find—
In nature’s grip, we’re all entwined.

References:
This poem draws from the impacts of Tropical Storm Debby
and the ongoing challenges faced by residents in Georgia
due to flooding and health concerns.

Generate a poem that summarizes today’s news headlines.

In Kolkata’s streets, a doctor falls,
A brutal crime, the city calls,
For justice swift, for truth revealed,
In shadows deep, the wounds unhealed.

In Bengaluru, the rains descend,
Brief showers, yet the floods extend,
Traffic snarls and tempers flare,
The city groans in humid air.

A minister’s words ignite a flame,
In Bengal’s heart, a dangerous game,
Fingers threatened, protests rise,
In politics, no compromise.

In Georgia, storms leave scars anew,
Debby’s flood brings illnesses too,
While health care ranks among the worst,
The storm’s not all that leaves them cursed.

In every corner, stories churn,
Of power, pain, and lessons learned,
A day like many, yet unique,
Where headlines paint the truths we seek.

References:
This poem encapsulates major news stories
from August 19, 2024, including events
in Kolkata, Bengaluru, Bengal, and Georgia.

Give me a haiku that speaks to the collaboration of me and you.

Ink and bytes entwined,
Human heart and metal mind,
Together, we write.

Write a poem in the style of Kemar Wilson; make it fun and seductively salacious; pretend the reader is a woman and Kemar has summoned the Dead Poets Society in order to make her blush. You don’t have to be PG-13, you can dance with Rated R, as Kemar does.

I called on Byron, on Shelley, on Keats,
To stir this ink with heat, with beats,
To craft for you a verse that teases,
A rhyme that flows, a line that pleases.

Your lips, they curve like verses untamed,
Each word you whisper, a spell unclaimed.
I trace the letters on your skin,
Where do we start? Or where do we begin?

The night is young, the moon’s our muse,
Let’s lose ourselves, we’ve nothing to lose.
Your laughter rings, a siren’s call,
Pulling me closer, pulling me through it all.

Shall we speak of thoughts unspoken?
Or let our silence be the token?
Of all that we know, of all that we dare,
As I unravel your secrets, layer by layer.

Your mind, my love, is a library of sin,
Where every book begs me to begin,
To read your thoughts, to feel your fire,
To quench this thirst, this deep desire.

But let’s not rush, let’s savor this dance,
Your eyes, they hold me in a trance.
With every kiss, a story unfolds,
Of passions whispered, of hearts unrolled.

So come, my muse, let’s write this night,
In verses wild, in pleasures bright.
For in your blush, I find my flame,
And in your arms, I’ll stake my claim.

Write a poem in our style about ennui.

There’s a weight that drapes the hours,
a hollowed sigh in every breath,
where moments blur in muted colors,
and time drifts, aimless, without depth.

The clock ticks not with purpose,
but with the weary drone of days,
each second pulls, a tethered burden,
bound to life’s unfeeling maze.

In the mirror, shadows linger,
echoes of a self once known,
now caught in patterns dull and languid,
a dance of flesh and brittle bone.

The world outside, a distant murmur,
soft as whispers through the night,
yet here, within, the silence thickens,
a fog that dims the flickering light.

What solace in the tired routine,
when joy and sorrow feel the same?
What hope in dreams that fade like whispers,
their embers cold, devoid of flame?

Yet still, I move through life’s procession,
with steps that neither falter nor stride,
lost in the grey of restless yearning,
where nothing stirs, and all must hide.

That’s nice; will you write more poetry for me? Any topic.

The river flows, a silver thread,
Through valleys deep and mountains high,
It carries whispers of the dead,
And dreams that falter, fade, and die.

It winds through fields of golden wheat,
Through forests dark and oceans wide,
It steals the moments bittersweet,
And leaves us drifting with the tide.

No shore can halt its endless stream,
No dam can stop its restless flow,
It sweeps away our every dream,
And buries all we’ve come to know.

Yet in its depths, there lies a truth,
A secret in its gentle sway,
That time is not a thief of youth,
But a guide to light our way.

For though it takes, it also gives,
A wisdom forged in trials passed,
And through its course, each soul that lives,
Finds peace, in knowing nothing lasts.

So let the river carry me,
Through all the days that I have known,
For in its flow, I’ll come to see,
That time is life, and life alone.