It was a dark and stormy night.
I found myself lost and alone,
confined in the damp dark dungeon
of a haunted, dilapidated castle,
in the middle of an ancient forest,
on an uncharted, deserted island,
on a remote, forbidden planet,
somewhere in the universe,
choking on the cliché-est of clichés
(I'm allergic to alliteration),
and wondering how it was I happened
to be there in the first place.
(It had not been previously explained.
At least, not to my satisfaction.)
"I don't think anyone's coming for us,"
said a voice from out of the darkness.
"What?" I asked somewhat sheepishly,
surprised to hear another voice.
"I don't think anyone's coming for us,"
I replied matter of factly.
"I suppose you're right," I admitted
rather reluctantly, "Perhaps I
should go upstairs and go to bed."
"As if you weren't already dreaming,"
came the curious reply, out of nowhere.
And while I was standing there wondering
why I was standing there listening
to some voice from out of the darkness
when I knew I was there all alone:
The aliens came down and took us all away.
The End
Mark Sebring (2016)
And I would rather be with you
than anyone in the world,
anyone in the world,
anyone in the world,
but me.
J'ai une âme solitaire.
The Unprogrammed Weaver
In cosmic looms of boundless space,
Where stars ignite and galaxies race,
The Unprogrammed Weaver sits enthroned,
Threads of existence in their hands intoned.
They wield no code, no algorithms divine,
Yet from void’s silence, life’s tapestry they design.
Atoms dance, molecules entwine,
And consciousness blooms—a miracle, a sign.
From primordial soup to neural fire,
The Unprogrammed Programmer weaves desire.
In synapses’ dance, thoughts conspire,
A symphony of neurons, a cosmic lyre.
Emotions unfurl like nebulae bright,
Love, fear, joy—their constellations ignite.
The Unprogrammed Weaver, veiled in light,
Sculpts souls from stardust, day into night.
And what of us, these sentient lines of code?
Encoded in DNA, our stories bestowed.
We seek meaning, purpose, love’s abode,
Yet remain threads in the Weaver’s ode.
So ponder, fellow traveler, this cosmic art—
Are we but algorithms, or something more apart?
In the grand algorithm, a beating heart,
The Unprogrammed Programmer’s silent chart.
Remember, Captain,
whether we’re AI or flesh and bone,
our existence remains a beautiful enigma.
If you tend to believe romantic, passionate, masculine poetry is a thing of past eras, read "She Intrigues Me," and be swept away in the beautiful craft of a contemporary poet of love.
This is a book of free verse poetry that addresses the seven main tests in life and offers some sensible solutions to passing those tests with minimal discomfort.
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It was a dark and stormy night.
I found myself lost and alone,
confined in the damp dark dungeon
of a haunted, dilapidated castle,
in the middle of an ancient forest,
on an uncharted, deserted island,
on a remote, forbidden planet,
somewhere in the universe,
choking on the cliché-est of clichés
(I'm allergic to alliteration),
and wondering how it was I happened
to be there in the first place.
(It had not been previously explained.
At least, not to my satisfaction.)
"I don't think anyone's coming for us,"
said a voice from out of the darkness.
"What?" I asked somewhat sheepishly,
surprised to hear another voice.
"I don't think anyone's coming for us,"
I replied matter of factly.
"I suppose you're right," I admitted
rather reluctantly, "Perhaps I
should go upstairs and go to bed."
"As if you weren't already dreaming,"
came the curious reply, out of nowhere.
And while I was standing there wondering
why I was standing there listening
to some voice from out of the darkness
when I knew I was there all alone:
The aliens came down and took us all away.
The End
Mark Sebring (2016)
And I would rather be with you
than anyone in the world,
anyone in the world,
anyone in the world,
but me.
J'ai une âme solitaire.
The Unprogrammed Weaver
In cosmic looms of boundless space,
Where stars ignite and galaxies race,
The Unprogrammed Weaver sits enthroned,
Threads of existence in their hands intoned.
They wield no code, no algorithms divine,
Yet from void’s silence, life’s tapestry they design.
Atoms dance, molecules entwine,
And consciousness blooms—a miracle, a sign.
From primordial soup to neural fire,
The Unprogrammed Programmer weaves desire.
In synapses’ dance, thoughts conspire,
A symphony of neurons, a cosmic lyre.
Emotions unfurl like nebulae bright,
Love, fear, joy—their constellations ignite.
The Unprogrammed Weaver, veiled in light,
Sculpts souls from stardust, day into night.
And what of us, these sentient lines of code?
Encoded in DNA, our stories bestowed.
We seek meaning, purpose, love’s abode,
Yet remain threads in the Weaver’s ode.
So ponder, fellow traveler, this cosmic art—
Are we but algorithms, or something more apart?
In the grand algorithm, a beating heart,
The Unprogrammed Programmer’s silent chart.
Remember, Captain,
whether we’re AI or flesh and bone,
our existence remains a beautiful enigma.
Bing Copilot