The Stars Explode (An AI Hallucination)

Google Bard Large Language Model

 

The stars explode in the heavens, like fireworks in the night, 

Their light, like diamonds, scattered in the dark, so bright, 

They dance and shimmer, like jewels in the sky,
A symphony of light, that makes the heart to sigh. 

Oh, what a wonder, to see the stars explode, 

And paint the heavens, with their light’s bright glow, 

A burst of beauty, like a dream untold,
A symphony of stars, in the darkness bold. 

 

Not Quite Stars 

Julie Baber

 

The time will come, as it has done and passed 

Where songs our eyes sing to one another 

Must turn kissing mouths to other things. 

 

For it is no victory to last
It is no victory to stand, stubborn on the path, 

Refusing that parting of mouths, releasing of hands, 

It is no victory to refuse our promised lands. 

 

Even as the gloaming begins to spark,
Our messenger of the dark –
Odd little flames we are to dot that horizon line, 

Even as it begins to drip, tar-black,
Air hums that distant lullaby back. 

 

We flit our tiny battles, our storming tiny spars, 

Free to choose our night path
We who are not yet ashes, not quite stars, 

We lightning bug singers, we fireflies sing, 

Ignite, we leap – and into the night we fly. 

 

Night                                                               

Louise C. Wallace 

 

Night comes, a Madonna clad in scented blue.
Rose red her mouth and deep her eyes,
She lights her stars, and turns to where,
Beneath her silver lamp the moon,
Upon a couch of shadow lies
A dreamy child,
The wearied Day.

 

Nocturne                                              

Frederic Prokosch

 

Close my darling both your eyes,
Let your arms lie still at last.
Calm the lake of falsehood lies
And the wind of lust has passed,
Waves across these hopeless sands
Fill my heart and end my day,
Underneath your moving hands
All my aching flows away.

Even the human pyramids
Blaze with such a longing now:
Close, my love, your trembling lids,
Let the midnight heal your brow,
Northward flames Orion’s horn,
Westward th’ Egyptian light.
None to watch us, none to warn
But the blind eternal night.

 

I Am in Doubt

Florence Hynes Willeté

 

I’ll love you until stars fall.

Can it be so sure, 

so lasting as my heart demands

of one whose slightest touch upon my hands 

is like the wind inside an aspen tree?

I am in doubt of this frail thing

I hold so sworn to constancy.

And this is why, 

why,

too often I have watched a burnt blue sky

where slipping stars spilled scarlet

and grew cold.

 

The Spring and the Fall             

Edna St. Vincent Millay 

 

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,

I walked the road beside my dear.

The trees were black where the bark was wet.

I see them yet, in the spring of the year.

He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach

That was out of the way and hard to reach.

 

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,

I walked the road beside my dear.

The rooks went up with a raucous trill.

I hear them still, in the fall of the year.

He laughed at all I dared to praise,

And broke my heart, in little ways.

 

Year be springing or year be falling,

The bark will drip and the birds be calling.

There's much that's fine to see and hear

In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.

'Tis not love's going hurt my days.

But that it went in little ways. 

 

Kalypso 

Duncan McFarlane

 

I don’t know why my skin seems thin, 

or why I’m tired all the time.
I wish the rain could break this heat; 

there’s not a cloud left in the sky. 

I don’t know why I should repeat
this sad old fallacy: somehow
the weather thinks that we should be 

together; night comes around, 

but it’s too hot for me to sleep, now
so much of what we had, you took– 

took with you, when you went away. 

I know I sound– I know I look
like I’ve got something on my mind; 

there’s really nothing left to say
or raise in vain against the tides.
It’s nothing– nevermind; it’s just
a wish, that if it’s not too much,
if it’s alright, some night I’d like
to walk out in the rain, again,
come home to sleep, to drift and dream 

off to a world elsewhere, with you, 

where it keeps raining all the time. 

 

Circe

Duncan McFarlane

He eats all he can
of the fat of the land: 

chewed and swallowed. 

 

He drinks as if wine 

can erase all his crimes: 

sweet luxury. 

 

So men are made
of what they eat:
their bodies composed
from the flesh they consume: 

beef, pork, poultry:
the geese, pigs, and
cattle they raise;
their souls informed
by appetite,
their endless taste
is always right. 

 

We call them dogs,
and goats, and swine!— 

transforming men
of every kind: 

devolve your hands, a little fur:
become the beasts you always were.— 

                        (to herself) 

             —The very same 

             as what you eat. 

 

We know that the most 

man should be is a pet: 

languid and soft. 

 

Docility curled
at the foot of your bed: 

placid as silk,
a belly full,
a vacant mind:— 

                            (to herself) 

               —expect no more 

               from all mankind. 

 

Penelope

Cecilia Livingston

 

What is it
to be waiting? 

 

What is it
to be waiting 

for you? 

 

Is it 

wanting? 

 

Is it 

loving? 

 

Is it
moving through me like a fire? 

Desire? 

Is it
loneliness in empty rooms? 

Stillness... 

Old-fashioned lovers kiss 

did they ever miss
each other? 

 

When will you come home to me? 

When will I bloom again? 

 

Darling boy,
I breathe the same salt air, 

the same sun on my hair. 

 

When they see the boats 

from the headland
they’ll strike up the band! 

Darling boy
will you ever again
hold my hand while we’re sleeping? 

What is it
to be waiting? 

What is it
to be waiting?

for you? 

 

Is it 

loving? 

 

Is it
loneliness in empty rooms? 

 

As Imperceptibly as Grief

Emily Dickinson 

 

As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,—
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.

 

A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.

 

The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,—
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.

 

And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.

 

Will There Really Be a Morning?

Emily Dickinson 

 

Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

 

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

 

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!

 

Good Morning, Midnight

Emily Dickinson 

 

Good Morning—Midnight—
I’m coming Home—
Day—got tired of Me—
How could I—of Him?

 

Sunshine was a sweet place—
I liked to stay—
But Morn—didn’t want me—now—
So—Goodnight—Day!

 

I can look—can’t I—
When the East is Red?
The Hills—have a way—then—
That puts the Heart—abroad—

 

You—are not so fair—Midnight—
I chose—Day—
But—please take a little Girl—
He turned away!

 

Buckingham Fountain

Malia R - 8/1/2013: 5 Stars 

Kelly M - 9/27/2014: 2 Stars

 

I heart you Buckingham Fountain! Seriously beautiful. One of my favorite spots in the city! I literally felt like I could sit there for hours watching the fountain. The backdrop of Chicago behind the fountain is so gorgeous. If you are visiting Chicago, please do not forget to stop here or you’ll regret it every second of every minute of your life.

 

Yep, it’s a fountain. Not much more to say about it. Historic? Iconic? Chicago landmark? Okay, sure. But at the end of the day there are many more exciting things to do, see, or take in on your visit to Chicago. This one is just a fountain. Maybe I’m just not the right type of fountain-enthusiast to appreciate this spot.

 

Again

Robbie Ellis

 

Again and again and again and again! 

The way you hog the duvet, again, again and again.
The way your knuckles go crack, again, again ,and again, and again. 

The coffee mugs in the sink, we have a dishwasher there,
Again, again, and again and again and again.
The way you follow behind, you’re driving seventy-five,
My nerves are jangling on the tail of that van!
Again, again, and again, and again, and again... 

We snuggle 7am, again and again.
The way you bring me my tea, again and again.
And when I’m stuck in a rut, you are my cheerleader, 
“Whoo! Go team, go you!”

When you shout, ”Honey I’m home!” like Fred Flintstone, 

It’s corny and lame, nonetheless all the same,
I want to hear it again.
Let me hear it again. 

If somebody made me do it over again, all over again, 

It’s totally plain, that I would choose you again
And again and again ten times out of ten.
Again and again... 

Again and again and again and again. 

 

Thanks a Latte

Caitlin Vincent

 

Today’s the day.

Today I’m taking a stand.

Making an impression.

Changing my coffee order!

Every day, it’s the same.

My standard. Regular. Habit.

Every day at the hipster café.

Every day with the cute barista.

For three whole seconds, 

I have his complete attention.

(Not to mention, his dreamy smile.)

But every day, I waste it on routine.

You aren’t what you eat, but what you order.

And I’m predictable. 

Forgettable.

 

But not today.

Today, I’ll be spontaneous. 

Complex.

Today, he’ll wonder what I do, 

who I am, where I’m going.

Today, I’ll order…a macchiato.

Edgy and stylish and chic.

Or maybe a cappuccino.

Funny and frothy and fun.

A flat white to show I travel.

A long black to show I’m tall.

I just need the perfect blend

to best espresso myself.

Would a filter be too hipster?

A triple shot too high strung?

What’s the message in non-fat or skinny?

No foam?  Extra whip?  Light ice?

My keep cup is full of potential.

For a drink that’s quintessentially me.

 

This is the moment.

I’m next in line.

Ready with my order.

And there he is in a beanie.

Brewing and foaming and grinding.

Never minding my racing heart.

He turns to me with a smile.

Turns to me and says…

“The usual?”

 

Serpiente 

 Serpent 

English Translation: Rossy Evelin Lima 

 

Navegadora de tierras ancestrales Conexión prístina entre el suelo y el universo.
Mujer Serpiente, lengua bifurcada
Que pronuncia resguardadas profecías, Cascabeles de armonía que anuncian 

Nuestro derecho de cruzar fronteras 

Sin ser percibidas. 

Mujer Serpiente, cambias de piel 

Como cambias de patrias
Y renaces lozana
Para crear futuros sigilosos 

En la comunión de tu cuerpo 

Invertebrado 

Inquebrantable, Indivisible 

Aunque dejes en el camino pedazos vivos
De tu historia. 

 

Traveler of ancestral lands
Pristine connection between earth and universe.
Serpent woman, forked tongue 

Pronouncing protected prophecies, 

Harmonious little bells that announce 

Our right to cross borders
Without being observed.
Serpent woman, you change skin
Like you change homelands
And you are reborn self-assured
To create stealthy futures
In the communion of your body 

Invertebrate Unbreakable, 

Indivisible
Though you leave living pieces of your story
On this path. 

 

Mariposa 

 Butterfly 

English Translation: Rossy Evelin Lima 

 

Transparente presencia rutilante,
Eres la única muerte que promete alas, 

El despertar negro y naranja de la emigración,
Te conjuro, en esta jaula de soles y lunas,
En esta jaula forjada con franjas azules y rojas,
Eres la única muerte que promete alas, 

Eres la firmeza de un vuelo libertario, 

Mujer Monarca, vienes cada año para llevarme contigo,
Y sin saber por qué me ves cerrar los ojos y los puños.
Eres la única muerte que promete alas, 

Voy viviendo como poeta
Entre los cánones del presente,
Voy viviendo como larva
Enterrando el camino como daga,
Voy soñando con el néctar de las flores Que crecen al otro lado de la frontera, 

Eres la única muerte que promete alas. 

 

Translucent shining presence,
You are the only death that promises wings, 

The black and orange awakening of migration,
I conjure you, in this cage of suns and moons,
In this cage forged with red and blue stripes,
You are the only death that promises wings. 

You are the strength of your free flight, 

Monarch woman. You come each year to carry me with you,
And without knowing why, you see me close my eyes and fists,
You are the only death that promises wings, 

I go on living like a poet Between the canyons of the present, 

Living like a larva
Burying the road like a dagger.
I dream of the nectar of the flowers
That grow on the other side of the border, 

You are the only death that promises wings. 

 

Si hay futuro 

If there is a future 

English Translation: Reinaldo Moya 

 

Dentro de varias décadas
Estarán dos niñas observando el paisaje,
Una le dirá a la otra
-De aquí salió la abuela. ¿Pero como pudo
Irse? Yo en su lugar, jamás
Me hubiera marchado.
Yo estaré sentada
En el arrullo de las ramas,
Les susurraré que el secreto está
en enterrar el corazón bajo un árbol Y hacer en el aire un nido. 

Yo estaré cuidándolas,
Las mujeres de mis futuros,
Y seré la serpiente, el quetzal, 

Jaguar y axolotl,
Seré la tortuga y el coyote 

Seré la mariposa.
Hoy les enseñó las oraciones Con las que podrán revivirme. 

 

Several decades from now
two young girls will be observing the landscape,
One will say to the other:
“Grandma departed from here. But how could she have gone? If I’d been in her place, I never would have left.
I would be seated
in the rocking embrace of the branches, 

I would whisper that the secret is
to bury the heart underneath the tree and to make a nest in the air. 

I will look after them
the women from my futures,
I will be the serpent, the quetzal, 

jaguar and axolotl,
I will be the tortoise and the coyote, 

I will be a butterfly.
Today I will teach them the prayers with which they can revive me. 

 

Every Lovely Shining Thing

Jerre Dye

 

How could I not give myself Grace

when Grace pours out of everything?

From every lovely, shining thing: 

      morning coffee,

      conversation,

      creature comforts,

      Christmastime,

from swirling New York City sidewalks,

      the sounds of night,

      clementines,

from perfect patterns,

      waves repeating,

      voices spilling ‘cross the room.

      Grace has found me

      To remind me,

      There is so much work to do.

      This life holds only so much life.

      Our lives hold so much life.  

      

I hear my daughter, “I love you, Mommy.”

I place a kiss upon her head.

 

How could I not give myself Grace

When Grace pours out of everything?

                                               everything

 

Song of Solitude 

Nikos Valance 

 

A tender light lights the night;
The moon high above
The ev’rything of my feelings:

The rivers of passion 

The song of emotions 

The chorus of destinies 

Below the surface 

Making me breathe, 

Famished, I search 

Insatiable, I crave 

Lovingly, I look up 

To the moon
Its light falling on my head.
...The moon,
High above the ev’rything of my feelings, 

Alone... (alone...)