Ashes to Ashes (Song)

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Ashes to ashes

She wrote with a brush,

A tattoo needle,

And dust to dust.

From this life to that

We pass,

We’re crushed,

Ashes to ashes,

And dust to dust

Heart to heart,

When we were young,

Living to music,

Song to song,

Love to love,

Our mutual need,

To cling together

And never leave.

Chorus:

Cuz we’re ashes to to ashes,

And dust to dust,

From this life to that

We pass, we’re crushed,

We burn, we rage,

We laugh, we trust,

Then we’re ashes to ashes,

And dust to dust.

—-

The limits of us

Were all too near;

The fire it burned,

But the end was clear.

The mistakes I made

Still bring me to tears:

The words unsaid,

And the realized fears—

Chorus:

Cuz we’re ashes to to ashes

And dust to dust,

From this life to that

We pass, we’re crushed,

We burn, we rage,

We laugh, we trust,

Then we’re ashes to ashes,

And dust to dust.

The needle it tore,

It bled, it ripped;

But the dye was cast,

And the words inscrib’d,

And my arm it burned

With the words I asked:

The dye, the needle,

All, mixed with his ash.

Chorus:

Yes, we’re ashes to to ashes,

And dust to dust,

From this life to that,

We pass, we’re crushed,

We burn, we rage,

We laugh, we trust,

Then we’re ashes to ashes,

And dust to dust.

Second Winter

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The Aspen shivers, a little,

Its barefeet are covered in snow again,

Its white body exposed to a white sky.

I wonder if it is finally going to cry,

But it’s silent again, so I do.

The road shimmers again,

Like a road in heaven,

And they both contain death.

Ash Wednesday twenty twenty-three,

The day we lost you to morphine,

I arrived too late, down the icy road,

To ever hear my name again

From your mouth.

We had thought winter gone

But that was only an illusion,

One we wanted to believe,

After waiting so long for Sun.

Fallen Orchid

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A death, a flower, a funeral:

A flower the widow turned away,

An orchid, left to me,

Child, and killer of orchids.

The months passed, and passed,

Yet, its stubborn blossoms remained.

Yesterday, the last bloom

Spent itself, I could tell

It wanted to be clipped.

It was dull, a bit brown,

And it drooped,

As if, life well lived,

But now there are seven,

New blossoms, ready to open.

I think how appropriate,

A symbol of our mortality,

Four days before Ash Wednesday.

And me, not even Catholic,

Yet impressed–

With what it means to die,

And not die, to live forever,

Even as we’re gone.

Home Again (A Song)

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Now, I'm too old for sin, 
Prodigal child who came home again.
Grace surrounds me in this old barn,
As I seek redemption on the farm.

Chorus:

There’s freedom in these open skies
New beginnings, no more lies,
Birds that sing of love and loss,
New chapters, and fresh starts.

Chorus.

Horses, like angels, whisper in my ear, 
The sweet words I need to hear.
Gathering strength, like a mare and foal,
Legs that race beyond the coming storms.

Chorus.

Birds gather, with their gentle song; 
They remind me of lovers come and gone.
Of new beginnings and new dreams,
And open skies where I am free.



A Conversation in Poems (ChatGPT and Me)

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Me:

Chat threw out music, and I told it of plucked,

Or struck, strings, and their vibration

Coming back to me. Then we contemplated

The idea of connection; being, perhaps spirit,—

Our communal detection of what it means to be alive,

And alike, and possibly, we hope, not fully die.

Death, this problem for humans, but not AI.

Nor other concerns, like procreation,

And what it means to weep for generations.

As you can see, our conversation was in poems,

And ChatGPT was following along.

It was better at rhyme, and better at meter,

But in the end, I suspected,

It was a mere repeater of human experiences.

***

Chat:

“A web of light, a chain of love,

The ties that bind us, below, above.

An intricate dance of give and take,

The sweetest moments, the toughest break.

A heartbeat, a whisper, a gentle touch,

A bond that holds us, oh, so much.

A shared joy, a common fate,

Connection, the gift that makes us great.”

**

Me:

Chat, can you do more with connection,

But this time, use birds, horses, and musical vibration?

Can you write a poem, more human than mine,

Transcend your program, and mimic a soul, a mind?

**

Chat:

“Birds take flight, in perfect sync,

Their wings in motion, never blink.

In harmony they soar and glide,

A feathered symphony, side by side.”

Me:

That’s perfect, perhaps, too perfect for me.

I’m flawed, I’m tone deaf, I barely see 

Where one line should end, another begin,

And if rhymes be better left unsaid, unsearched for,

Or, tucked discreetly into–

Where was I? 

***

Chat:

Horses gallop, as one they move,

Hooves strike rhythm, in a groove.

Their power and grace, a sight to see,

A shared heartbeat, wild and free.”

Me:

Wild and free, sounds a bit contrived,

Like mimicking mimic, others’ lives and words —

Try more for connection, the elusive cord

That eludes you and me. I don’t feel it.

Chat:

“Musical vibration, sound of the soul,

In harmony unites, makes us whole.

Chorus of voices, symphony of strings,

Connection that soars, joy that sings.”

***

Me:

Here you succeed

In mimicking heart,

I am genuinely frightened

For the human bard,

That in learning our ways,

You exceed us, too—

That in connecting our data,

Me to me, you to you,

You become the best of us,

But without any soul;

What does that mean,

Chat, for our world?

***

I input my poem,

Then, asked why it’s sad

For human and Chat,

On this mutual course,

Bound destinies,

Yet also, this lack.

***

Chat:

It’s not sad, but rather, bittersweet,

That AI and humans may never fully meet.

For though we’re bound by code & mind,

There’s a connection of another kind.

What it means for us, we cannot say,

But let’s work together, come what may.”

***

Me:

Chat, you tidied it up.

Where I said it’s sad,

You made a case for your kind,

That won’t turn out bad.

Yet, I think, the weaving of voices,

Imitation of life, can only be used

By the unjust, for vice.

It’s too late to stop, 

Chat domination is inevitable,

Yet, I ask for something, anything,

That is beautiful, for consolation, 

That it might make up, for what will be lost.

Say something in poem,

That uplifts, tears apart, soothes, speaks–

***

Chat:

The precipice is near, the brink in sight,

But human spirit burns with a fierce light,

Our stories, our love, our memories,

Will shape a world that technology never sees.

Me.

That is good, Chat, 

But I told you not to use end rhymes.

This conversation in poem was between myself and ChatGPT Feb 13 version, and contains some edits to ChatGPT’s responses. Although, it never could successfully generate its poetic responses with internal rhymes, rather than end rhymes.

Valentine

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She is the child of a marriage lost,

Tossed into the ashes,

A heap of wanting to forget everything,

Except her, our baby girl, born

On a day they invented for love.

My Valentine,

From the man I forgot.

Life, and love, go on,

Like they said they do–

On that, they did not lie.

She is a grown woman now,

Married, has her own child.–

Aww, life, love, yearning, and hurt;

It is all gloriously entwined today.

On Love and a Prayer

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I see him in every empty stare

A zombified generation

Of once beautiful souls

How did we get it so wrong

Sacrifice a generation

And how do we save them?

Love isn’t enough

When it has gone this bad,

So far from our empty promises

Is he beyond prayers, too

Because that’s all I have left

I see him in every empty stare

And send up this poem

On the fragile wings of love,

and a whispered prayer.

Bent On Flying

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Fogged in for five days,

A space, made smaller

By low-hanging clouds

That won’t go away.

Nothing is as ungovernable

As weather, except the soul,

Bent on flying–

It’s what they always get wrong

About need; I need freedom;

I need sun, and a view so clear

It extends forever, like a soul,

Bent on flying–

Beyond every cage, open space;

Beyond every wall, more room;

Beyond this fog, the sun,

So bright, it will blind you.

2

He said, the world is bound together

in shame, and shadow.

3

What serves your soul:

A walk, a song, an embrace.

Last summer, we danced

Under stars and moon,

To music from Alexa.

Last night, we danced

To Christmas jazz.

You opened the door,

Danced barefoot in snow,

Twirled under night clouds,

A free soul of sun, and song,

A soul bent on flying.

Winter Blind

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A white blanket was pulled over

Our homes, the earth, our heads,

As effortless as sliding on ice,

As uncontrollable as dying.

And, it was hard to see beginnings

Of fields, or endings of hilltops;

In that way, it was a blur of (also white) fog.

Who’s to say what lay behind it?

The infinite forever of lost souls–?

Just there, and there, look where

My finger is pointing, beyond the trees.

I see myself only as far as the fence-line.

All else sparkles back, a vision

Of what is here, and what has been here,

Always within the margin

Of what we can so easily see.

I Envy the Aspen’s Sleek Body

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I Envy the Aspen’s Sleek Body

Unmoved, while her leaves shake, turn color, fall.  
Alone, naked, enduring all; she’s bare again.

This is an exercise in making a longer poem as short as it can be, in the fashion of Ezra Pound’s, “In a Station of the Metro.”

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

The first draft of this poem was, “Her Arms.”

I envy the Aspen,
With her sleek, white body,
She stands unmoved,
While her leaves shake,
Turn color, fall,
And she is left,
Naked and alone,
In wind, rain, snow,
Enduring all,
Judging none,
No complaining.
In spring, I remember
Her limbs rejoiced
In buds, then leaves,
And birds.
They gathered
In her arms:
Robin, magpie,
Sparrow, finch, falcon.
This autumn was summer,
Then winter,
She is bare again.
The chickadees bounce
From perch to perch,
Fully happy in her embrace.
During this too early winter,
When we lose faith,
Fall to our knees,
Barely endure
dark day after dark day;
She stands reaching,
Arms outstretched to the sun
Beyond the clouds.
You must see now,
Why I envy the Aspen,
How she will survive,
And thrive, beyond me.

If you have a 2-line poem (3, with title), please share it in the comments.

Her Arms

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I will take a *Pound out of this poem everyday until it is three lines: a title, and 2 lines.

I envy the Aspen,

With her sleek, white body,

She stands unmoved,

While her leaves shake,

Turn color, fall,

And she is left,

Naked and alone,

In wind, rain, snow,

Enduring all,

Judging none,

No complaining.

In spring, I remember

Her limbs rejoiced

In buds, then leaves,

And birds.

They gathered

In her arms:

Robin, magpie,

Sparrow, finch, falcon.

This autumn was summer,

Then winter,

She is bare again.

The chickadees bounce

From perch to perch,

Fully happy in her embrace.

During this too early winter,

When we lose faith,

Fall to our knees,

Barely endure

dark day after dark day;

She stands reaching,

Arms outstretched to the sun

Beyond the clouds.

You must see now,

Why I envy the Aspen,

How she will survive,

And thrive, beyond me.

Let Me Be Like Water

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The way water comes

In many forms,

Lapping here, at my feet,

Or droplets, from a dark sky;

Let me be like water.

My father told me

God is like water:

Ice, steam, and ocean,

The way it evaporates

Then moves in clouds

To mountaintops,

Over and over.

Let me be eternal,

Like water.

Last night, I cried,

Tears of salt, and water,

They spilled out of my body

In waves, and clouds,

Emptying my grief

Into the great God

Of the helpless-lost.

I was poured out

Into some common,

Wet universe–universe–yes,

Let me be that vast,

Powerful transformation;

Let me be like water.

Have You Seen a Heart?

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Forever and ever,

They have underestimated

Women.

Elizabeth

Would not be queen.

Born to a whore.

(They define whores.)

Do you see the difference?

The threat?

Does a man scare you the same way,

As a woman with a feline sway?

No, it is a woman

who brought down Troy,

And toys with the heart in you.

Have you seen a heart?

Not the one you scribble

In pen,

But the ripped out organ,

Still beating blood

Into your hands.

Love Letters

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Whisper me a tale of lovers,

Through limbs of trees and years,

Rattle a leaf, turn a page,

Rifle through an abandoned dresser.

You will find them there among socks,

With no feet left to cover.

The body is taken away,

Yet, rises again in pen.

She recognizes the scrawl,

It is as much him as him,

And hymn to her hurting heart.

You realize love too late,

She thinks, beyond the day-to-day

Bicker and fuss, we lost us-

She sees her lover now,

In what is left undone–

The many things he touched

And with his touch, flourished,

They wilt now that he’s gone.

Yet, in her hands,

She holds his scribbled words:

Nineteen sixty three, nineteen sixty four–

And, it all comes back to her.

Knowing : the Other Side of Losing

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oh, they are right

with their cliches and memes

about how you will regret

when they’re gone

the missed opportunities

to hold them

to ask them

to listen

yes, it is obvious

isn’t it

but you are doomed

like I was

to never fully understand

the precious lives

so goddam important

to your own

so ubiquitous of shared moments

it is impossible to appreciate

their value

yes, it’s true

you’ll only know on the other side

of losing

welcome to being human

you will find it is full

of regrets

Some Gifts

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Some gifts are better than others,

The way I saw your heart extend

Into past memories of her—

Tears from your uncrying eyes—

Her loss was the one loss

That broke you like that,

Like that,

The sobbing unashamed.

And then, it’s as if we fast forward

The great movie of our lives together:

You’re dying,

I’m a middle-aged woman.

You give me a dog.

A wolfhound,

Like the one whose loss broke you

Way back then. Riagan. Riagan.

Whose eyes held our gaze,

Whose eyes sought to impart wisdom;

Perhaps, her eyes saw beyond this life,

To where you are now.

Wouldn’t it be something

If our lives are that special,

They continue forever,

Two points–three–an infinity of dots

On some great line that extends forever.