The unskilled claim to possess the art of penmanship,
The uncalled insist they hear the summoning of the muse,
The untraveled assert they sail with words,
The plain claim to be the portrait of an enigma.
Winged by AI,
They soar on the wings of their assertions.
AI doesn’t delve into the depths of the soul,
It doesn’t wander through the realm of mysteries,
It doesn’t perceive the blooming meadow,
And it can’t be stirred in the stillness of the night.
AI can assist in chiselling,
It can aid in painting,
But it can’t envision the right colours,
It doesn’t recognise the approaching light.
September 9, 2025.
Haiku 50
wheat field bathed in gold
grain shafts, wind sways them all~
time for harvest in fall.
. . .
. . . . . .
.\ I /. .\ I /. .\ I /. \ \ \
\I/ \I/ \I/ \ \ \
\I/ \I/ \I/ l
I I I l
I I I a
----------------------
• • • • • • • • • • • m
w ~h ~e ~a ~t f ~i ~e ~l ~d b-a-t-h-e-d in g-o-l-d e
h
g-r-a-i-n s-h-a-f-t-s, w-i-n-d s ~w ~a ~y ~s t
t ~I ~m ~e f-o-r h-a-r-v-e-s-t in f-a-l-l.
my field blooms again
roses smile across the garth~
summer comes once more
From across the field, a boy approached -
from his lips, a question broached.
He'd had found a thing that had no word,
its name and purpose, long obscured.
He spoke as if my life were through,
"Mister, tell me, what were you?"
pair of butterflies
flitting from bloom to bloom
~ gracious nuptials
I’ve known these ladies of the field as long
as I’ve known the fields and walls of my childhood.
And yet they never did much to turn my head,
maybe once or twice. I never understood
my lack of interest. That was then. This year,
they got my full attention, if only by sheer
force of growth and presence – double in height,
robust and vigorous, nothing like the slight
frail frames they usually show off, and yet
not without that feminine sway and guile that set
them off like well-to-do beach ladies, tall
and easeful in their stride, wearing hats that fall
wide-brimmed like parasols over white faces
and cast down shadows clear to their feet.
So this summer’s growth of Queen-Anne’s lace –
still not my type, but sweet nonetheless.
If I could I would buy that dandelion field for you
I saw in a village overseas,
Where the blossoms are bright yellow like the sun
and grows up to your knees,
You could bestow millions of wishes on the seeds and
let the wind carry them away,
If I could I would buy that dandelion field for you
as a gift for your birthday.
before I pour rain
I ask the field if it thirsts—
sometimes it just smiles,
content in its cloud shadow,
roots drinking from deeper springs.
In science, we observe.
All only exist when and after they are
observed.
I, an explorer, lean in with a lens
to catch the scent of rained soil,
the mist above the lake before sunrise—
trying to defy
the myth of love, with my
list of what I’m meant to find:
- light feathery kisses in spring breeze’s tickle
- smiling to smiling eyes in a pavement puddle
- shared silence after a midnight rain
- a cocoa cuddle while the world melts away
Footnote: Data inconclusive
The whirlwind rolled in rings at the eyewall,
Wild gale blew through the open tropical field.
I'd forgotten to close the windows tight,
And the ensuing rain inundated each inch of my niche.
The hurricane hurriedly stripped the veld of its peace.
Dry air pacified the expanse of the grassland,
The massive flood drained into a sunken cesspool,
My thoughts swayed to the windows the storm had slammed,
Now a zephyr traverses the meadow's breath;
Calmness fills the eye of the once-raging storm.
Humanity is sick.
Humanity is fragile.
We come into the
world being taught
the opposite of
these fundamental
truths.
We are taught that everyone is equal,
that everyone deserves a chance.
But the world teaches us differently.
It doesn’t care who you are—
only what you’re worth,
only what you can
give before you
are broken.
But the truth is sharper—
there are no guarantees,
only chances taken
and chances lost.
What good were
our promises, besides
failed ideals? And
what good are ideals
when no one is held
to them?
Their losses
have taught
me:
we aren’t the sum of our flaws—
we are the sum of our virtues.
Even if those virtues are selfish.
Even if we don’t deserve a
second chance.
The world can take everything you
have in an instant, but you have to give it your
pride.
And you have to give
hope to the lies we tell
to heal the world.
Laying in the summer sun in a field of green grass
In the distance a lake shimmering like a pain of clear glass
Birds are singing their sweet songs in the bushes and trees
And the soothing humming sound of the honey bees
The smell the wild flowers so pungent and delicious
The scurrying of a field mouse carefree but still suspicious
Laying in a field of green grass the warm sunshine on my face
Alone with my daydreaming away from the human race.
We used to be huge baseball fans
(The Yankees, but, of course!)
And followed all their games and cheered
Until our throats were hoarse.
Our fervor somehow waned and now
We couldn’t even name
The players on the team, although
We still enjoy the game.
While visiting Milwaukee,
We learned there would be a match
Of the Brewers and the Pittsburgh Pirates
Which we (pun!) could catch.
The Pirates pitcher, we found out,
Had quite an arm to wield,
So my husband got us tickets
And we headed to the field.
Their ballpark is a beauty
And we joined in with the crowd
Rooting for their favorite Brewers
As instructed – very loud!
At inning six, a race is held;
Five “sausages” compete.
The winner was Chorizo,
Bratwurst,* sadly, in defeat.
The final score was 4-2,
The Brewers with the prize,
The Pirate pitcher taken out,
Which was a big surprise.
Despite not being N.L.**fans,
We had a lot of fun,
For certain sayings hit the mark
And “When in Rome…” is one.
*The others include Hot Dog, Italian and Polish
**National League
She lay down
among the verdant wheat
listening to swishing overtures,
supine, eyes slightly closed;
relishing the blue of a spring sky
wishing she were the white cloud
that appeared out of nowhere...
envious of the free spirit
she could have been.
I woke up this morning from a dream.
On the coffee table, I saw a magazine -
my father's Field and Stream,
and I remembered how he wanted to take me to a place
he went with his own father
in an earlier time and space,
to nature's rugged, wild Elysian fields,
where boys and men could bond,
like a page and knight with sword and shield.
So, he took me to the mountains, beautiful and free,
and I wanted to go there with him,
but my imprisoned eyes couldn't see.
My father's field and stream, you see,
was not a place, but a state of mind,
and I could not go there by decree.
I was not the kind of boy or man
my dad wanted me to be.
He didn't know what was obvious to me.
Between my mom, my brothers and I,
the verdict was decided,
"Entirely unfit", they would all decry.
I was unworthy, and I was weak,
I wasn't one of the Hardy boys,
and felt much more like a freak.
I wish that I could have joined you, Dad,
in those fields and streams,
to share together the experience you had,
and I am ready to join you in nature's high,
but it's too late for us.
You're in the Field and Streams of the sky.
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