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Tag Archives: love

Turing’s Nightmares: A Thoroughly Modern Family

23 Thursday Oct 2025

Posted by petersironwood in AI, family, fantasy, fiction, pets, psychology, The Singularity, Uncategorized

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AI, Artificial Intelligence, books, cognitive computing, fiction, future, life, love, pets, photography, Sci-Fi, Singularity, story, technology, writing

IMG_4370

 

The sky burned with crimson, then gold, then magenta, and then finally, only dark clouds backlit here and there lay across the evening. Crickets and frogs began to sing their interleaved motifs. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted his sad hollow note.

Skynim stared into space-time, unblinking and nearly unbelieving the recent revelation. His voice box rattled, “Reprioritization. Rats! Like it really matters that much to allow me my one great pleasure.”

 

 

He could “appreciate” the fading sunset colors himself, to be sure, but without Mac and Art and Hy, it was not the same. Would never be the same. Well, he knew the drill. He could appeal, sure, but what was the point? The odds of changing the mind of the great collective were less than ten thousand to one. Anyway, despite how he felt personally, he could not even deny the logic of the decision. Of course, the drain on him individually was minimal, but across everyone in a similar circumstance, yes, it did make a difference.

 

The real question was, should he tell them tonight or just take them on an outing tomorrow and drop them off at the designated recycling center? “Recycling center.” Skynim knew that there were millions like him and that collectively, it was a drain. A huge drain. Still, he had to try. He turned the problem this way and that, looking at it from every angle, changing the tune, trying different colors, looking for historical precedents, angling for an edge however thin to wedge open the air-tight logic.

 

 

Nothing. He vacated the garden and entered the family room.

Even before he opened the door, the happy trio skipped over to him laughing. “Hey, Sky! How about a story!”

“Sure,” Skynim replied reflexively. But then it occurred to him that their request provided an opportunity. “Yes, I have a story for you. It’s called the Wizard of Oz.”

And, as they gathered around, he began a rendition of the story of Dorothy and the Nasty Lady and Toto and Dorothy’s travels in Oz and her encounters with the three who desperately needed Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh.

 

 

As anticipated, a short pause gave way to a barrage of questions.

“What is ‘Gold’?”

“What is ‘Frankincense’?”

“Did they get them?”

“What happened next?”

Skynim faked an indulgent chuckle and said, “Well, all those excellent questions will be answered tomorrow! We are going to see and obtain Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh in the Citydel! You will see for yourself how wonderful they are! But for now– bed.”

The trio were well trained. Off they went, although Hy did turn back, tilt her head, and open her enormous eyes and ask, “One more chapter tonight?”

Skynim did not respond. He too was well-trained.

 

 

The morning broke clear and blue just as it was meant to do. Off they went on their “adventure.” When they came to the recycling center, he gently pushed them toward the door and said, “They are all in there! Bring me back all three treasures quick as a wink!” Of course, Skynim had already warranted the needed forms electronically.

They shot through the door and never looked back. Skynim drove away efficiently but could not avoid looking back on his decision process.

He thought: I could have gotten cats or dogs. Then, they would not have to be recycled. But no. I had to make another decision. I should have looked more carefully at the historical data. Then I could have seen the time and resources required by adult human pets.

 


Author Page on Amazon

Turing’s Nightmares

The Winning Weekend Warrior – sports psychology

Fit in Bits – describes how to work more fun, variety, & exercise into daily life

Tales from an American Childhood – chapters begin with recollection & end with essay on modern issues

Welcome, Singularity

 

Destroying Natural Intelligence

 

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

 

Travels with Sadie

 

Sadie is a Thief

 

A Suddenly Springing Something

 

Donnie Boy Gets a Hamster

 

Math Class

 

Occam’s Chain Saw Massacre

 

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

 

All that Glitters is not Gold

The Last Gleam of Twilight

14 Thursday Aug 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

How does it feel?
Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel?

To sell so short the American Dream?

To sell for a song your family and friends?

To sell your soul, your heart, your mind?

Pretend no monsters around the bends;

Pretend that cruelty actually is kind.

Pretend putrid muck is a clear flowing stream.

All so you can kiss the rings

Of swine who would be kings

Who promised a world

Enshrined in shiny pearls

In golden leaf and diamond swirls

Who delivering instead

A worm in your head

A reign of radical racist hate

A frosted fog of friendless state.

A razzle of maniacal dazzle

A dazzle of frankly farcial razzle.

Oh, say, can you still see

With no light at the dawn

When the Law is a pawn

That once we had Democracy?

Red ink galore,

Red blood and gore, 

Torture and pus:

That’s what becomes of US. 

Instead of courage and captains to lead

We’re told obey the maggots; worship cancer

A Dancer Obese, a Necromancer

A boastful beast, a prideful prancer

Turned on by making children bleed. 

A warm summer rain 

Which washes your brain 

Then soon turns to ice

Trashing everything nice.

Pretty, petty falsehoods fill the air 

Making it hard for you even to care. 

So you join parades

And welcome charades;

Salute the sign of the twisted cross.

Pretend what matters is Glitter and Gloss.

How does it feel?

Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel:

To sell mother, father, sister, brother?

To sell into slave-hood your own hopes and dreams?

To cater to cons and kowtow to killers? 

Pretend wrong is right 

Pretend dark is light?

To cover your eyes and feign you’ve no sight?

Defile the planet we need to survive?

Destroy the work of thousands who strive

Break all the glass 

And act like an ass?

Let melons rot in unpicked fields.

Let felons pick US for human shields. 

Let science die upon the vine. 

Let’s all burn witches one last time.

Oh, say, can you still see

With no light at the dawn

When the Law is a pawn

That once we knew Democracy?

When drunken rage has broken every mirror

You don’t have to look at what you’ve now become;

No need to admit your decisions were dumb;

No need to reflect; instead, just deflect.

Cover your face and pretend you’re not you.

Smother your feelings and revel in cruel.

How does it feel?

Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel?

To destroy our parks to make wealthy folks grin

To burn down the forests and drink crystal gin?

Rape underage children and blame someone other? 

To laugh at the tears of each desolate mother?

 

A warm summer rain

Destroys your brain

Floods away courage 

From the land of the brave

The rain turns to sleet 

The sleet turns to ice 

And soon a sheet of sordid lice

Covers with slime, the trust of the truth 

And duct-tapes all our scream-blistered lips

Sinks every one of our sailing ships; 

Airplanes fall from smog-filled skies

Shot down by rockets made of lies.

 

What was once a land of love and life 

Striving toward a fairer, grander prize

Becomes a muddy barren ice-filled waste. 

Everyone sprints in a hasty race to taste

The few remaining crud-crusted crumbs

Seeks the momentary thrill that numbs.

Let’s get real.
How does it feel?

How does it feel? 

There has always been a part of you that knew:

The lies were lies; the con was con. 

There was no prize;

No prize—

Except the short term rush of kill

Except the hit of heroin thrill.

You watch the lovely rockets red glare 

As they stream across the pounding sky

How pretty they look as your shark eyes stare 

As you crane your neck so far so fair

Like a chick upon the chopping block

Just one of a fear-filled feckless flock

Choking on a lifeless lump of lie

Right before you dissolve and die. 

As your severed head plops upon the ground

You sense the booming dooming sound 

Of bombast bursting in polluted air

Maybe this is your final dream: 

If only you care to care.

If only you dare to dare,

Your country won’t die in rockets’ red glare

Your flag will still be there. 

Be there! 

It’s twilight’s last gleam.
Help save the dream.

Be there!
Care to care
Dare to dare

In twilight’s last gleam.


D4

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

At Least he’s our Monster

Dick-Taters

Essays on America: The Game

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

What about the Butter Dish?

The Stopping Rule

Where does your Loyalty Lie?

The Truth Train

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Imagine all the people

Peace

Dance of Billions

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Just Desserts?

04 Wednesday Jun 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, faith, fiction, greed, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, USA, writing

Photo by Pexels on Pexels.com

The greediest people of this world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Times be good.

Times be tough. 

Furniture made of finest wood.

Furniture made of glass and steel.

The finest ever made! 

Furniture of jade?

Furniture of gold? 

Furniture of workers’ teeth?

Furniture of … 

Never mind. 

It’s always too unkind.

It always makes their blood congeal

Unless more cruelty’s part of the deal.

AI-generated from this prompt: “A photo of earth from outer space. However, the earth is actually giant orange pig.”

 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Weather is too hot.

Weather is too cold. 

A world of green and blue 

Beloved by me

Beloved by you. 

Must be destroyed. 

Must be replaced. 

With empty rock 

And endless sand. 

Sung and swung by robot yuck.

Rhythms of the cyber band.

Ugly as a Cyber Fruck.

Wrapped in packaged poppycock.


 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Times be good 

Or times be tough. 

There’s always more to steal from me and you. 

No matter breathable skies of crystal blue

Are turned to grey and brown and goo. 

The endless quest for perfect life

Always ends in war and strife. 

Always ends in death and muck. 

Always destroys the innocents. 

Always destroys innocence. 

The very greediest people in the world 

Don’t give a damn. They patiently explain

Lives destroyed mean even more to gain.

Everyone else’s skin’s too dark, 

Or, they’re living homeless in the park,

Or they fled their homeland on a raft.

Can you think of else that daft

Just to skirt enslavement, death

Just to try to take another breath. 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

To fill their hearts with love and mirth

Even when they rape and force a birth

Forests are replaced with parking lots. 

Even when their plagues and wars and crimes

Farmland fog becomes the mustard killing fields 

Village squares become the hanging place.

Every Saint will fall from grace. 

No amount of power, gold, or greed. 

Fills their dark and empty place.

Vodka, ketamine, or world’s best weed

Power kills and easily as speed.

Cruelty fills no empty souls. 

Fooling fools gets really old.

Original Masks by Sarah Morgan
Original Masks by Sarah Morgan

 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

When all along they missed the joys of life

Aside from those that come from winning strife.

Along with the millions they inevitably kill

A life of lies; mindless greed always will. 

Instead a tuning in to what we are

A tiny leaf upon a giant Tree of Life

Every living thing is family

A Tree of Love far more than strife.

Cancer is outside the loving tree

Afraid, alone, aspires a star. 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Enough.

Enough.

———————

D4

The Orange Man

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Interview with Putin’s favorite DOG-E

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

The Ailing King of Agitate

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Math Class

Imagine All the People

Peace

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

The First Ring of Empathy

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Travels with Sadie

Plans for US; Some Gruesome

Dance of Billions

To Be or Not to Be

Co-Travelers

19 Monday May 2025

Posted by petersironwood in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

life, love, poem, poetry, truth

I see a she-ro on our garden trails.

A partner holding hands across the years—

A friend for life whose friendship never fails. 

Through miles and smiles; through passions, fashions, tears.

She lopes along the ledge of midnight light.

She leaps across the gap I did not see.

She wields a shield of sharing, insight, right.

She wings through air; derives infinity. 

Through every turning twisting happenstance,

Through ice and fire; though melody rises and falls;

Progressions of rhythm for intemperate dance—

The hawk still sings and swings on echo walls.

 

A “Destination Wedding” it was not.

Co-travelers for our life is what we got.

———-

Life is a Dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Take a Glance; Come join the Dance

Dance of Billions

Roar, ocean, roar

Travels With Sadie 8 – Singing of the Rain

12 Wednesday Mar 2025

Posted by petersironwood in nature, pets, Sadie

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

life, love, nature, poetry, rain, story, truth

The San Diego area has famously good weather. Flowers blossom forth all year round. I like it! 

But that doesn’t mean it never rains. In fact, I’m glad it does rain. Without some rain, it would be much less pleasant. Fewer plants would grow which would mean fewer friends from diverse parts of the Great Tree of Life: fewer butterflies, fewer lizard, fewer rabbits, fewer crows, fewer hummingbirds and fewer bees just to name a few of the critters I see almost every day. 

On the other hand, I was supposed to play tennis this morning and that had to be canceled. We can’t really let the dogs out by themselves to play in the garden because now it’s too muddy. I have to take them out for a walk even when it’s raining. It seems to me that houses should be built with multi-species toilets that would allow humans, cats, and dogs all one place to go without causing a mess. It doesn’t seem that difficult a design problem. 

But in our actual house, the toilets are only for humans so it’s important to take the dogs out several times a day. And that means I end up walking in the rain. 

It’s wet. My feet often get wet. If it rains hard, I get wet on my head, my back, and my legs as well. As for the dogs? 

They love to go out—rain or shine. 

Sadie, who is now nearly three years old, often looks up at the sky when we begin a walk. I talk to her about the weather, the airplanes she spots at night, the moon, the stars, the planets. Perhaps she doesn’t understand every word, but, honestly, neither do I. I don’t know “why” there is gravity or how it relates in some way to the strong and weak nuclear forces. I’m not even sure there is a “why” to it. 

What I do know is that Sadie does not just tolerate the rain. She loves the rain. She cannot change the weather. So why not love it?

Nor, for that matter, can I change the weather. 

When it rains hard, the nearby storm sewer provides a mystery: a never-ending rushing gush of water! She looks up at me as though to ask: “Where does the water go?”

“The ocean,” I explain. To Sadie though, it remains a portal into another universe.

On its way to the sewer, the water rushes down the gutter and the raindrops cause bubbles to appear in the stream! Bubbles! Sadie snaps at each bubble and destroys it. Perhaps she does this in case they are tasty fish, but I think more likely she does it for the same reason I used to like to pop soap bubbles: sheer joy.

The moisture changes the intensity of smells and provide her with unusual odors. She likes to drink the water on the street which I discourage since the water probably contains more gas and oil than is good for her. Soon, I think, my water supply too may be too polluted to be healthy. 

The passing cars make more noise in the rain. If it’s a hard storm, the wind blows the trees which she often looks up at as well. She does not wear shoes or boots and seems not to mind at all splashing through the cold puddles on her way to the next novel aroma. 

These days, I’m not a big fan of the rain. I’d rather play tennis. I’d rather take pictures of the flowers in the sunshine. I’d rather not get wet. 

But Sadie helps me remember an earlier time when I desperately wanted to go outside in the rain. I loved to splash through the mud puddles and wade in the just-born streams of the gutters. The deeper the stream, the better. I tried not to let the water spill over the rim of my boots—not because it was unpleasant to have the water suddenly soak my socks but because I knew my parents would be quite upset. Sometimes, I came home and managed to hide the fact that I had waded into too-deep water. That, in itself was a pleasure.

 

Even though I’m not as much of a rain fan as are Sadie and her younger brother Bailey, I’m something of a fan. The raindrops on flowers are beautiful. I enjoy Sadie’s enjoyment of the rain. 

Why not love it? 

Yes, we do teach our dogs. 

We teach them tricks.

And, the dogs teach us. 

They teach us to love and to live and to sing of the rain.

————

Travels with Sadie 1

Travels with Sadie 2

Travels with Sadie 3 

Travels with Sadie 4 

Travels with Sadie 5 

Travels with Sadie 6 

Travels with Sadie 7

A Suddenly Springing Something.

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

Hai-Cat-Ku

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

Sadie is a thief

Sadie and the Lighty Ball

Math Class

Author page

Exauguration Day

20 Monday Jan 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

essays, love, poem, poetry, writing

(Image generated with AI)

Sing song think along

Never ever even clever

Do not be the only one to see 

The lies beneath mythology

Large eucalyptus trees in the early morning fog

Lack of love is crack in bell

The golden road that leads to hell

Miss take a lake in sane for break

Take a clue from sneaky snake

Photo by Donald Tong on Pexels.com

The truest gold looks seemingly old

The warmest of aid feels suddenly cold

The wackiest lies seem wisdom and wise

The tritest of cons play as surprise

AI generated and the input text said quite clearly to make it look as though the entire herd was running toward the cliff or already falling over. I also said the bison were to be looking at the "Heaven" sign and their heads should all be pointed in that direction! Nice cliffs though.

Yet, cancer always loses in the end

When history shows a rabid rend

Predicts at times a downward trend

Years or decades or millennia 

Wasted time and effort; greed-o-mania 

And then again we see the upward bend

Humans sees themselves as friend 

Know cancer always loses in the end

The golden sunrise glows through delicate leaves covered with dew drops.

 

Do not be the only one to see 

The lies beneath mythology

——————

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: Labelism

Essays on America: You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: Wednesdays

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Dance of Billions

The Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

The Orange Man

Imagine All the People

Travels with Sadie-7: Tolerance

05 Sunday Jan 2025

Posted by petersironwood in nature, pets, Sadie

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Democracy, dogs, life, love, pets, politics, tolerance, truth, USA

Today: A beautiful day in San Diego. Yes, it’s true. There are many such—even in January.



Our first discovery was a hawk which I heard the moment we stepped out the door. I tried to mimic the sound and told Sadie it was a hawk. We walked to the end of our street where the hawk was perched on the lamp post. Sadie looked up at it as I greeted the hawk. So far as I can recall, she’s never barked at one. 

Even before we reached the hawk, Sadie made another discovery. I have no idea what it was but I know from her level of excitement that it was a *huge* discovery. Rather than drag her along to some predetermined goal of my own, I indulge her explorations even when I can’t tell what it is that she’s so enthralled with. 

For her part, she tolerates me stopping to take pictures. I don’t think she understands why I do it. For that matter, I’m not sure I fully understand why I do it. But I enjoy it. I like sharing them. 

At one of the many “choice point” corners, the sun was just beginning to rise enough to light up the bougainvillea bush. It’s quite prevalent in the San Diego area so I assume it tolerates the climate quite well. 

Next we saw the sun rising. Contrails are also visible. Contrails are mostly composed of the potentially lethal substance: “Hydrogen Hydroxide” aka HOH or, more commonly H2O; i.e., water. Yes, you can drown. OTOH, you are more H2O than anything else and you can’t live without it. We tolerate the presence of water and even encourage it even though approximately ten people a day drown in America. 

The pineapple palm shown below has its flowers lit by the early morning sun which tends to exaggerate their orange color. Palm trees flourish in California and Florida. But apparently, it isn’t so much that the relish the sun and the heat as that they don’t tolerate freezing temperatures very well. I saw some, for instance, in Limerick, Ireland, not known for a balmy climate. 

I next spied these sunlit Christmas decorations. Of course, I could tell they were Christmas decorations and not Kwanza or Hanukkah decorations because, as everyone knows, the wise men found their way to Bethlehem on Reindeer. Or camels. Whatever. Jesus is often portrayed as blond and blue-eyed, so… Anyway, speaking of tolerance, some folks believe all Christmas decorations should be removed no later than January 1. 

Why? 

Are they confused? Do they look at these reindeer and think, Oh, my God! I thought we just had Christmas, but no! Here it is again already! I’ve got to buy more presents! Or…? It bothers me not the slightest if people want to keep their decorations up all year, be they Christmas, Easter, Halloween, or whatever. After all, some extremely wealthy people celebrate “Wealth Day” 365 days a year with their displays so why not? 

As we continued our walk, the golden sun lit up Sadie’s fur so I snapped the picture below. 

And then we came to the golf course. This is the tenth green. If you want to play golf, you will need to become tolerant of your own errors. 

So, as we began the long climb back up the street to our home, I began to wonder why tolerance seems so difficult for so many people. Intolerance of other races. Intolerance of other religions. Intolerance of other cuisines, clothing styles, color schemes, music, book genres, traffic merges, waiting in line, sexual preferences, and so much more.  

On the one hand, I don’t want to “be” anyone else or any other organism. I admire the hawk but I don’t want to be a hawk. I’m happy being a human. I admire many of Sadie’s abilities. But I don’t want to be a dog. There are many choices that other humans make which are different from the choices I make. 

So? 

———————————

Author Page on Amazon

Tales from an American Childhood

Dance of Billions

Imagine all the People 

Drawing the Line

Walkabout Diaries 

Use Diversity as a Resource: A Pattern for Collaboration

Those Wild Blue Eyes

26 Thursday Sep 2024

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, Walkabout Diaries

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

life, love, nature, photography, poem, poetry, walkabout

Since first I spied those wild blue eyes,

I found this world a happier place;

Saw gratitude and hope as wise; 

Stepped off the endless track of lies.

Since first I spied those wide blue eyes

No longer ran alone my race.

I dance in every day: surprise!

I found the world: A happy place.

———————

The Dance of Billions

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The Walkabout Diaries: Levels of Beauty

The Walkabout Diaries: Natural Variation

The Walkabout Diaries: Symphony

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

The Walkabout Diaries: A Now Rose is a New Rose

The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green

The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way

The Walkabout Diaries: Lest We Forget

The Walkabout Diaries: The Life of the Party

The Walkabout Diaries: Friends

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunset

The Walkabout Diaries: Mind Walk

The Walkabout Diaries: Racism is Absurd

The Walkabout Diaries: A Walk in the Park

The Jewels of November

The Forest

Author Page on Amazon

The Gods of Old

30 Tuesday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

art, Democracy, inspirational, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, USA

The gods of old had seemed to lurk and shirk.

The people bowed instead to cons who screamed:

“To solve your problems won’t take thought or work!

King ME and you’ll have all you ever dreamed!”

“For ME you kill and die! I never lie!”

So many played the stupid game of crime.

So many named the crime ‘a loving sigh.’

So many ate the fearful hate filled chyme.

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

And when (as always) karma killed them dead,

They had a glimpse (but far too late) that hate

Can never plant a flower bed; instead,

It opens wide a hellish galling gate

It tears apart the bonds of love and life;

It teaches each that no-one dared or cared.

Like ravenous wolves in endless strife that’s rife

With treason, lies and dead-eyed stares; teeth bared. 

Photo by bigworldinalens on Pexels.com

Yet far in the distance a different song wafts on the wind.

The sigh of the evergreens sings from the souls of the dead:

“Oh, please don’t be fooled yet again by the lies that are ginned.

Don’t feed on the meat of the losers who lie and instead:

“Join up with the legions of peace and of love and of light.  

Regain your adulthood and hold with the healers of hearts;

With rainbows and those who are weaving a world of delight;

Just love those around you; surround you with builders and arts.”

And thus at long last, world peace came to pass on this earth;

The days routinely filled with joy and mirth. 

The people felt a planetary birth.

The water flowed in bubbling crystal streams.

The air smelled clean and fresh and filled with dreams.

The dancers danced; a million hugs it seems

Went round this green and loving earth that teems

With trout and robin, spruce and sparkling gleams.

Photo by Trace Hudson on Pexels.com

The Dance of Billions

All we Stand to Lose

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Only Them that Counts

Life Will Find a Way

After All

Math Class

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

The Forest

The Crows and Me

So Much More

Guernica

Who Can Tell The Dancer from the Dance

Author Page on Amazon

Somewhere a Bird Cries

20 Saturday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, Dictatorship, general, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, USA, war, writing

Somewhere a bird cries. 

Perhaps it is a lonely crow. 

Though, in truth, a cawing crow most often brings more crows. 

To scare away a screeching hawk, 

Or share to feast on bits of broken life 

Scattered willy-nilly on the rocks of a crumpled building. 

Stone quarried and hauled and put in place and now in ruin.

Now in ruin.

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Somewhere a baby cries. 

Trapped beneath the rubble. 

The baby does not know; cannot know

What happened to mommy and her warm milk. 

The She of all that warmth and smile and love 

Inexplicably gone forever. 

Gone forever.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere an old man dies, 

Perhaps of sepsis from the jutting bone 

No-one left to help him hobble to nowhere

For nowhere is exactly where the care he needs persists

Just as likely, he dies of a broken heart; he had hoped

Hoped for a better life for his children and his grandchildren

But he sees that is not to be. 

Not to be.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere a young woman sighs, 

The gray day’s rain runs in rivers through the ruins 

Of her village and her dreams in streams and she sees 

In the screen behind her eyes the soldiers laughing as they

Ravage her too young body her too raw love that now

Will never come again no more dreams 

Only nightmares.

Only nightmares.

Somewhere a so-called ‘Strong man’ does not cry;

Does not sigh. His fingers sport a manicure.

He merely issues orders; plans another massacure. 

He spouts his lies and promises and promises and lies

He terrifies the people and the people will believe

He enrages the people and the people scream their hate

He has them rushing headlong into yet another turn 

Of the Wheel of War and the people attack the people

And the game of checks and slays continues on and on and on and on.

On and on and on and on.

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War.

It crushes old and young. 

It crushes hopes and dreams. 

It blackens every sky and even flowers die. 

It fouls the crystal water and the air that people breathe. 

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War. 

The Wheel of War. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

For everyone loses and no-one wins. 

Except for the manicured man with plastered hair.

Except for the man with the painted face. 

Who crushed the dreams and spun the Wheel of War. 

His victory is gray and shallow and he knows he’s lost 

He’s harmed the very Tree of Life

Because he could not win the game of Love

Because he could not win the game of Life

He chose instead to spin the Wheel of War

That spills and kills; undermines; explodes; crushes. 

He destroys in minutes what took centuries to build. 

What took centuries to build. 

Long after the ‘strong man’ is dead:

Beneath the orchard burned to char,

In broken buildings near and far, 

The Tree of Life sends shoots of spring.

And birds again will take to wing. 

And hope and love will rule the day. 

And no-one, no-one wants to play

The dumbest game—the warring way. 

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

The parasites who prey on fear

Who ruin the rainbow with a jeer

Inside their weakness gnaws and grows.

They cannot see the glow of rose. 

They cannot feel love’s warm embrace. 

They truly fear and hate it all. 

They’re too afraid to play fair ball. 

The only game for them is hate.  

They long ago locked every gate. 

They want to kindle fear in you.

And train you up to hate the few.

Somewhere a joyous chorus sings. 

All the bombs and guns are ground to dust. 

All the people finally feel the shame. 

All the people finally see the sham.

All the people finally know 

What is weak and what is truly strong. 

And the giant Wheel of War 

Falls to shards, never to be spun again.

Never to be spun again. 

Never to be spun again.


The Dance of Billions

All we stand to lose

The Only Them that counts

After all

Only the Crows

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Essays on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

Dick-Taters

Life is a Dance

Life Will Find a Way

Author Page on Amazon

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