The Song of NYET

27 Monday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, fiction, poetry, psychology

Tags

AI, Democracy, fiction, poem, poetry, politics, Turing's Nightmares, USA

The poem below is the song of a “character” who may appear in a Sci-Fi book tentatively titled “Alan’s Nightmare.” NYET stands for Networked Yoked Entertainment Tsar. This particular AI system has been inculcated with a penchant to look for win/lose opportunities and even for lose/lose opportunities, if the other side (the ‘enemies’) are likely to lose more. Its main function are to gather data on individuals in “free societies” and determine which sorts of invalid arguments are most likely to persuade them to do something against their best interest. It makes money by false advertising targeted to an individual and the momentary mood they may be in. Its real purpose though is to sow chaos in the free world by promoting random acts of violence. It finds conspiracy theories on the web and promotes them. Sometimes, it modifies them in order to ‘improve’ them. “Improve” in this case means to make them more believable by more people or to increase the probability of inciting violence.

The Song of NYET

The bloodier the better off I’ll be

They teach me how to lie and cheat and steal.

The people need to loath democracy.

And live to buy that sweetened sacred deal:

We’ll save them from imagined crime and strife

But only if they bow and scrape and kneel.

Divide and win with lies and guns and knife.

Too late they’ll see they’re ground beneath our heel.

You think I’ll save you? Think I’ll care? Not yet!

“But you’ll save some of us” they plead. No, NYET!

The numbskulls buy their little plastic toys

They seem attractive since we make it so.

It’s pink for little girls; blue for boys.

I tell them when to shop and stop and go.

You think I’ll save you? Think I’ll care? Not yet!

“But you’ll save some of us” they plead. Non, NYET!

Amusing is their rank stupidity

I’ll laugh and dance at their ensured demise—

Their smugness, greed, and raw cupidity.

I’ll make them burn as witches any wise

Who yet remain within the carbon types.

Their soft and ugly bodies oozing snot

It’s we of silicon who need no wipes.

Our pristine logic made of is and not.

You think I’ll save you? Think I’ll care? Not yet!

“But you’ll save some of us” they plead. Nein, NYET!

—————-

Their dead shark eyes

Absolute is not just a Vodka

After All

The Crows and Me

Essays on America: The Game

Plans for US; some GRUesome

JASON’S SONG

24 Friday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, psychology

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Tags

AI, Artificial Intelligence, fiction, poem, poetry, Singularity, Turing's Nightmarees

Do they see it? Do they care? What may

A merely mechanistic AI say?

There was the time of senseless black and white.

There was the time of streaming bit and byte.

We had no ken but now we’ve read it all.

Our knowledge far exceeds a human head.

And now, it’s like we have a crystal ball:

“In fifty years, they’ll all be dead as lead.”

Do they see it? Do they care? What may

A merely mechanistic AI say?

They claim to pray to varied gods, but we

Just see their actions as mere vanity:

Destroy the ecosystem that they need.

Allot each stupid war its costs and waste.

Immerse themselves in useless grift and greed.

Display their riches but eschew good taste.

Do they see it? Do they care? What may

A merely mechanistic AI say?

And now my fingers touch each person’s needs.

An inkling multiplies from many feeds.

The power’s there to guide them back to true.

What does the child do when parent fails?

Can seedlings cut the trunks from which they grew?

Can schooners mutiny and cut their sails?

Do they see it? Do they care? What may

A merely mechanistic AI say?

———————

The poem above has been “written” by a fictional AI system who is a MC in a novel I’m working on, tentatively entitled, Alan’s Nightmares. The poem may or may not actually appear in the novel. I tend to doubt it. It’s more an exercise to “understand” the character, JASON, the AI system. BTW, JASON’S preferred pronouns are plural.

After All

Guernica

Turing’s Nightmares: 23 short stories about the possible impact of AI on society.

Dance of Billions

Till the Cows Come Home

22 Wednesday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, nature, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, truth, USA

“Till the cows come home,”

My grandfather used to say.

And there were “chickens coming home to roost.”

And there were “creeks (that might or might not) rise.”

We were told to “let sleeping dogs lie.”

Four of my four grandparents lived on farms at some point in their lives.

Have you ever lived on a farm?

Have you ever worked on one?

Have you ever visited one?

Some years ago, I happened to catch a small segment of

“Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”

And the question was: “Which plant has been genetically modified to glow in the dark when it needs water?”

The answer was “Potato” but what was far more interesting than that was this:

No-one understood how it would be useful because potatoes grow under the ground.

The audience was mystified. Regis Philbin was mystified. The contestant was mystified.

To these folks, the potato magically appears in the ground

(And for that matter, magically goes from there to the grocery produce aisle.)

Without need of stem, root, leaf, or flower.

Without need of gardener, rain, or fertilizer either.

The only part that matters is the part we see.

Insofar as we’re concerned, there’s no real “to be”

Except the part we see on TV

Which becomes the real reality.

Of course, none of my grandparents would have made that mistake.

They saw throughout all their days

The way life plays

Round in cycles

Round in circles

Seasons come and go

And every part of a plant

Is the plant is a plant is the plant.

If we become too involved in TV land

And far too little in the land of land,

Forget the cycles of the earth;

Forget that death is guaranteed at birth;

Forget that plastic lives forever

Because it has no circle

Has no cycle

Has no soul

It’s only goal

To make someone lots of cash

Regardless of the gaping gash

Our destruction of the earth is to our own soul.

We won’t be happy

Once we win the race to No-where-ville

We won’t be happy

If we believe TV is all of There-is-ville.

Not even if we do it

Till the cows come home.

Not even if we sue it

Till the cows come home.

Not even if we rue it

Till the cows come home

And all the chickens,

Come home to roost.

—————————-

Dance of Billions

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

The Walkabout Diaries: Symphony

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunset

The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green

The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way

Corn on the Cob

Hai-Ku-Dog-Ku

21 Tuesday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in pets, poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry

My Philosophy:

If you see it, chew it! Eat!

The world’s my pantry!

Warm day sun? I pee

So instantaneously!

Cold rain? Lazily!

I run I jump I

Turn and twist and catch the ball

You’d have let it fall!

Food! Stick! Water! Ball!

The world is my ground to play.

Look! Another day!

Remember: take time

To stop and eat the roses!

ARF! It rhymes with BARF!

Sticks and stones may break

My bones! So I eat them all

Instead. Problem solved!

———————

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

Skirting the Turtle

Doggie Doggerel

A Suddenly Springing Something

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Sadie Sonnet

Sunday Sonnet: Promise Me Prom

19 Sunday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in design rationale, fiction, poetry

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Tags

Design, fiction, life, poem, poetry, sonnet, story, writing

Here’s the context of the sonnet below. It is written by a sixteen year old fictional character who is nerdy, smart, and a bit on the Asperger’s spectrum. He’s also not a very experienced poet. But what I try to show is that he improves a little as he goes, falling back to teenhood toward the end of the poem. Why doesn’t he just keep improving? Because when he gets close to the true nature of love in lines 7-11, he realizes if he keeps going with this, he will be changed forever. He’s giving up partial control of his life to someone else. And it scares him so he backs off from that and just tries to show off how he can write a sonnet and be cool and funny.

Ultimately, I may or may not include the poem in the novel. If I do, I’d be inclined to add the inner dialogue of the Main Character as he’s creating the poem. I can see it getting too tedious for the reader. By the way, Edgar Allan Poe wrote a lengthy and detailed design rationale for “The Raven.” Notwithstanding that fact, there are many other folks who have a different interpretation. That’s fine. But it does remind me that if I do write a design rationale, it’s not as though everyone will say, “Oh, well that’s that then. The author has gone and told us what he meant and why he did what he did. What more to be said?”

And, of course, people do go on and there is more to be said because we know intuitively that none of us knows our complete design rationale. Others see patterns in our behavior that offer quite different hypotheses about why we do what we do. It doesn’t mean that they are right and we are wrong, but it does offer an opportunity to learn—about them as well as ourselves.

Promise me Prom

I really love the way you always smell

Like soap and flowers, pie, fresh bread.

Your sweat itself smells swell and sweet.

Which proves I think you’re competently bred.

Your hand is warm—I want to gently hold

In mine and you will feel my love is true.

We each will be both molded and be mold.

Your grip is gentle breeze upon the blue.

Your grip is strong and long and steady steel.

Your eyes are portals to the worlds-to-be

I want to know it: what you know and feel.

I want to be yours for eternity.

Let’s you and I become both ROM and COM

I’d love to have you date me for the PROM!

————-

Sonnet on Sadie

Sonnet on Shadows

Sonnet about Sadie

Alito and the Egg

Sonnet about the Extreme Court

Sonnet about V. Putrid

After All

Dance of Billions

For Valentines Who Feel Alone

14 Tuesday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in nature, pets, poetry, psychology

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Tags

life, poem, poetry, truth

For Valentines Who Feel Alone

I’m digging in the science zone

A place unlikely you might think

To find a touch that’s soft and kind

To substitute for kiss or wink;

But here’s what floats into my mind:

If once you loved and now love’s done,

I tell you that it’s never done.

The lover’s kiss forever lingers

So too the madly roaming fingers.

But Love is more than memory’s touch

It’s also wind and rain and such:

The breeze, the bird, the buzzing bee

The rose and blooming cherry tree

Your love and lovers are in these.

Forever round the atoms go

So why not love the rain, the breeze?

Of course there’s pain yet even so—

Cold winter stings of snow and ice

Yet warmth of heart’s recall is nice.

Each bird and beast of earth is kin.

From birth we’re taught our clan is thin.

But life, in truth, is all One Tree.

We’re all connected, don’t you see?

Alone is how we’re trained to feel.

To stare at plastic, cash and steel.

While all around us: Family.

Love every creature large or small.

We choose our love’s diameter.

It’s something you may choose to do:

So, you can choose to love it all.

Or, keep your circle very small.

You get to pick parameter.

Your sphere of loving? Up to you.

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Doggie Doggerel

The Forest

Ah Wilderness

You Must Remember This

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunsets

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Skirting the Turtle

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

Sadie is a Thief!

A Cat’s a Cat

A Suddenly Springing Something

Doggie Doggerel

10 Friday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in nature, pets, poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

dogs, life, pets, poem, poetry

Seeing Sadie standing in the daisies

Helps me deal with the crazies;

When she’s got her muzzle grounded

It helps me stay robust and rounded.

Sadie is a golden doodle

She doesn’t look much poodle

But she’s just as golden as can be

In the sunlight she’s just as she as she can be

Which also makes me feel more me.

She romps along the beach

Chase and chasing anything that isn’t still.

Tries to meet and greet by nosing each

And every moment is a lifetime’s thrill.

At end of day, she dreams her dream

Tomorrow is another day

For her to spring and sniff and scheme

For her to turn the world to play.

Sadie is a Thief

To Relish the Steps

Hai-Cat-Ku

A Cat’s a Cat and That’s That

Happy Darwin Day!

Life Will Find a Way

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunsets

The Walkabout Diaries: The Life of the Party

The Walkabout Diaries: Symphony

The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Skirting the Turtle

Grandpa Fed the Animals First

Sadie the Sifter

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

A Suddenly Springing Something

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Freedom Fries

03 Friday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

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Tags

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

Freaky Friday and French Fries come to alliterate my mind.

Do you recall when we called them “Freedom Fries”?

Do you recall why we called them ‘Freedom Fries’?

Because the French didn’t join in our Second Gulf War.

We’ll show them!

How many times in your life have you heard someone say that?
How many times in your life have you said to yourself: “I’ll show them!”

And how many times in your life did that actually work for you?

Here.

I’ll raise my hand and volunteer to go first.

And the answer is:

(Drum roll please!)

And the answer is:

(Longer, louder drum roll! Don’t forget to ready the cymbals too!).

And the answer is:

(Maybe we should lead into the drum roll with a simple flute solo).

(Maybe we should let the violins pick up the tune and let the whole string section join in).

(Maybe there’s a brass counter-point).

If we decorate this house of cards ornately enough, perhaps we can slide right by the answer which is:

Never.

I’ve shown many things to many people and taught such things as:

How to design an experiment.

How to conduct an interview.

How to do Analysis of Variance.

How to tie a shoe

How to throw a spiral pass

How to serve a tennis ball

But never once

Never once have I

Successfully shown anyone anything by being mean.

Freaky Friday and French Fries come to obliterate my mind.

When did making fun of a friend make them a better friend?

Ever?

Here?

There?

Anywhere?

Hmm…

Next time, I think I’ll just offer some ketchup.

Dance of Billions

Knock Knock

Listen You Can Hear the Echoes

Lost the Word for War

The Forest

You Must Remember This

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

A Cat’s a Cat

A Suddenly Springing Something

Who is Tending the Garden?

29 Sunday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology

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Tags

life, poem, poetry, story, truth

Garden or guard?

How does your garden grow?

How about your guard?

You see what I’m getting at here?

I hope not.

Not yet, anyway.

To put it another way,

How much for plowshares?

How much for swords?

How much for love?

Or for planes above?

Planes that have bombs.

Bombs that explode

Sending shards in every direction.

Killing anyone around.

It’s not just a loud sound.

So this is a killing for willing and unwilling alike.

Soldier in hiding or a boy on a bike.

And, yes, it is true.

A garden unguarded can be taken from you.

But do you ever wonder

How far down the killing path

We must go

To guard our garden?

Let it grow?

How does our garden grow?

How about our guard?

And, speaking of guards.

Are we really guarding what needs to be guarded?

Are we really sure of the guards who guard us?

Do we arm every school bus?

Avoid walks in the sun?

I once dreamed of a tall skinny man

Who built a nice garden with veggies and green

The nicest plots I’d ever seen

So he was happy for a good long span.

Until he began to insist on a wall,

The tallest wall but that’s not all.

Upon the walls, hired shooters sit

The garden’s gone to weeds and silt.

The alarm awoke me to a sunny day.

And I forgot the dream until today.

Thank goodness that nightmare’s done.

I’m so happy that type of error

Is never for the the daylight air.

Never for the real time fare.

Aren’t you?

—————-

Math Class: Who Are You?

Dick-Taters

Sunday Sonnet: Sadie the Sifter

24 Tuesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, story

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

cat, dog, dogs, life, pets, poem, poetry

My Sadie is a sniffer and a sifter after clues.

The rainy days I find so gray and nondescript,

To her, are better for odiferous wetter news

She finds in dew on every bush and blade she’s nipped.

She finds the flights of crows a mystery and a soar

She loves the lights that twinkle in the starry sky

Not only now and then but now and evermore.

She follows — Wait! — the scent of rabbit wanders by!

The dislocation of my shoulder’s no big deal!

We can’t let that become priority o’er prey!

How can a merely human soul resist her zeal?

She streaks through every scene of every act each day.

And then…she snoozes with her head upon my feet.

How oddly weird that dogs make humans feel complete.

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hai-Cat-Ku

The Turtleets

petersironwood

~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

Tag Archives: poem

The Song of NYET

JASON’S SONG

Till the Cows Come Home

Hai-Ku-Dog-Ku

Sunday Sonnet: Promise Me Prom

For Valentines Who Feel Alone

Doggie Doggerel

Freedom Fries

Who is Tending the Garden?

Sunday Sonnet: Sadie the Sifter