K. Morris's Blog, page 4

AI Poetry and Grok

Not having used Grok (https://grok.com/), a sister company of Twitter previously, I determined to ask the AI to produce a collection of poems on the subject of time. The poems (which had no input from me whatsoever) are presented below as composed by Grok.

 

Grok does (to state the obvious) lack human emotions. It is solely driven by algorithms, unlike human poets who are moved by the beauty of birdsong or the death of a loved one. Nevertheless, I still find it interesting to experiment with Gro...

Out of Tune

As I sat composing poetry

On a windswept afternoon

In the garden.

I heard all the windchimes

Sounding out of tune.

And then came the rain

To mock me

And my poetry.

As the Wind Blows

As the wind blows

The sunshade creaks

And windchimes discordantly speak.

Who knows

Where all this goes

When I sleep.

A Critic Named Green

I once read a critic named Green

Who was famous on the poetry scene.

He wrote my verse

It grows steadily worse.

Now he’s vanished from the poetry scene …

Superior

I can be snobby and proud.

I lose myself in crowds

But rarely feel part of them.

Sometimes I feel myself superior

To other men.

But when my final breath

Is lost in death

There will be

No inferior or superior

Just common dust

A Poet’s Life

I am good

Sometimes.

And lose myself in rhymes.

I am blood.

Love.

And in the end

I am words half heard

By readers and friends.

And gathering dust

On books

When I Dated a Young Lady in Waiting

When I dated a young lady in waiting

Who said, “sir, are you fond of mating?”.

I said, “my dear Yvette!

We have only just met!”.

She said, “never keep a young lady waiting …!”

 

 

Sceptical Claire

When a sceptical young lady named Claire

Found a ghost sitting in her chair,

She said, “I must be drunk

As I’m imagining  a ghostly monk!”.

And that ghost he glared at Claire!

Secrets

When a young lady named Miss Moon

Trusted me with all her secrets yesterday afternoon,

I told her about Lou

Who works in a zoo

And moonlights as a stripper on Saturday afternoons!

I Hear the Sound

I hear the sound

Of timeless windchimes

As workmen hammer away.

Sometimes the profound

Is hard to say

So poets rhyme

Of windchimes

In late August

For all this must

Pass away.