Tag Archives: AI

Taking Pictures of Flowers

(Poem 279 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/NCPaCE

She fell in love near dusk
walking a gravel path that crunched
beneath their feet as they wandered
in search of flowers to photograph.

She had been gifted a new old camera
that made her feel nostalgic for a past
life, and he was looking for any excuse
to be alone with her to confess his feelings.

She bent to frame a delicate Magnolia
and his breath caught at her beauty.
He told her his heart would only continue
to beat if she accepted his love as her own.

She turned to him with a serious expression
and snapped a photo of his pained look.
“I accept,” she said, then took another
photo of his transformed elated visage.

She has both faces framed on her desk
and looks at them when she grows weary
of darkness and difficulties, to remember
that she was once someone’s next heartbeat.

@Home Studio – 279th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Camera photos to accompany my poem:

If This Was My Room

(Poem 278 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/nd5OI4

If this
was my room,
I would never
do
anything
but nap
and watch
the weather
change her mind
and write silly
poems about
dappled light
and dancing clouds,
and daydream
after reading
old love letters
while listening
to “Bésame Mucho”
on Spanish guitar.

@Home Studio – 278th poem of the year

Hole in the Ceiling

(Poem 276 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/ue2v8M

There’s a hole
in the ceiling
that needs
to be fixed.

The leak
that caused the need
for the hole
has been repaired,
but the hole
remains.

I ponder that space
when the house
is quiet
and nothing else needs
my attention.

The naming of things
fascinates me,
and the fact that we have a word for the absence of something where another thing should be
gives me comfort.

It means
others have discovered
something missing
that needs to be there
and filled it with a name.

@Home Studio – 276th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Hole in the Ceiling photos to accompany my poem:

Ways I’ve Thrown Out My Back In My 50s

(Poem 270 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/K6aM9w

Washing dishes (scrubbing a cookie sheet too hard.)
Rolling over in bed.
Holding up my cell phone to show my daughter a video.
Sitting up straight in my chair.
Bending over to pet Cotton Eyed Joe (my granddaughter’s cat.)
Typing.
Opening a Splenda packet; shaking it too vigorously.
Brushing my teeth.
Scooping a cup of dog food into the dog’s bowl.
Waving my Harry Potter wand.

@Home Studio – 270th poem of the year

Plasma Blobs

(Poem 269 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/OvDj2h

Plasma is rare
on earth,
though found
in abundance
everywhere else
in space.
And now scientists
are telling us
that these blobs
that are not solid,
liquid, or gas,
but another state:
communicate,
behave predatorially,
congregate,
interact with satellites,
get the zoomies,
race excitedly
toward thunderstorms,
form crystals—
corkscrew shaped
like DNA,
and may be inorganic
non-biological life
or pre-life,
and we’re supposed
to go on sipping our tea
and paying our bills.

@Home Studio – 269th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Plasma photos to accompany my poem:

How Will We Know

(Poem 268 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/MpZoHg

Can agony
awaken possibility?
Is it painful
for the seed
to sprout,
or is the bursting out
more like relief?
Will something fresh
find its way through
the detritus
and despair,
and if so,
how will we know
when we can
hope again?

@Home Studio – 268th poem of the year

It makes me sad

(Poem 267 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/cjguXR

It makes me so sad
that people hurt
others and break
their own hearts,
that alleviating pain
destroys so many
from the inside out,
and we must endure
misfortune and loss,
especially if we allow
ourselves to love
with the full volume
of our souls.

@Home Studio – 267th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Sad photos to accompany my poem:

Artifact M123ST

(Poem 266 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Artifact M123ST was found in the ruins
of one of the few habitations to have
survived the cataclysm mostly intact.
It is a six-sided rectangular box. We are
unable to ascertain the container’s true
purpose but feel certain it must have
been used to store items of religious or
spiritual significance, or it has also been
suggested that they were used as protective
casings for one of their most valuable
assets–sand. It is known that sand became
a valuable commodity prior to the cataclysm,
as it was one of the fundamental, critical
components of building materials in their
world. Undecipherable characters appear
to be inscribed in patterns, though the
sample size is too small to determine if
it is representative of language, or merely
decorative scrawling. Of special interest
is the latching mechanism that holds the
lid of the box closed. A small rectangular
indentation can be pressed, releasing the
latch, which permits the lid to spring open.
A satisfying click indicates the lid has been
closed securely when the latch reengages.
We know little of these primitive people who
lived before the cataclysm, but artifacts such
as these offer a glimpse into their lost culture.

@Home Studio – 266th poem of the year

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Ne1Ypc

Washing the Knife

(Poem 264 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/xNDyau

Maybe the way
I wash this knife
with precision,
erasing the past
with friction,
soap, and molecules
is in some little way
the meaning of life.

Maybe scraping
the crusty
remnants of drippage
on countertops
until the rag slides smooth
is its own reward
somehow.

Maybe the fact
that hot
water melts
butter residue
from a dish,
inviting it to slip
effortlessly from its former
state
and find freedom
in movement
is the most real
thing I know,
or think
I know,
or want
to know
because knowing
is somehow solid,
purposeful, sure,
and I suspect
that I know
nothing,
or there is nothing
to know,
or knowing
means nothing,
thus,
washing a knife
is the meaning
of life.

@Home Studio – 264th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Washing Dishes photos to accompany my poem (AI had a hard time with this one):