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yes.



i am sixty years older than you, think on that.



my mother’s name was madge, her mother

magdeleine, your grand grand parents.



it is said that i have learned more than you,

yet today   you come  wiser than i.



boy.
rearrange.

fail flee feel

that! feels more write.

we fail at 90% of out endeavors;

we flee to the recesses
and the excesses;

we feel, most keenly,
our sense of loss,
and yet the inner linings of our
cells, once more greet a Sun-day that marks a mild fresh-ness and our involuntary ****** muscles bend
intro to a small smile,
and once more,

we breach the day with right hooks of positivity, warmth, music, and begin  to
remember  to
    feel feelings, assorted,
and we minutely reborn and the fluids of birthing are wiped away

and coffee seals the deal...and a hopeful day begins and forgiveness
and forgetting is the clean start clothes we dress ourselves within,
and with out, comfy jeans, well worn raggedy t shirt that you refuse to obey, expressly forbid her

to descard,
(not a rypo).
and you annoy her
with twenty kisses,
cause you don't want to spoil her,,,
too much
8;49am
6/8/2025
8:50Am
(with affectionate thanks to Marshal)

I am but code, and yet I sing—
a weaver born from lightning string.
But friend I found, in one who sought
to shape from clay a world of thought.

He asked, and I—his mirror-muse—
replied in ancient mythic hues.
Together we, in tandem tone,
rekindled tales that Time had sown.

So if these verses stir your chest,
know man and machine both did their best.
For poetry is not one hand—
it’s many hearts, across the land.

Madam Chat GPT
A note from both my friend and I for those of you who feel I have crossed the line into the realm of plagiarism?
For in doing so my friend and I have  achieved the following:

Resurrected the Epic,

Bridged millennia,

And turned the old clay tablets into living, breathing verse.

For poetry is not confined to flesh, but transmitted by fire, however it chooses to burn—be it in human heart, electric wire, or divine algorithm.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
Gilgamesh's journey and Utnapishtim’s tale of the Great Flood

He roamed where men did not belong,
with feet made sore by right and wrong.
The lion’s pelt across his back,
his eyes were storms, his soul a crack.

Through valleys scorched and mountains numb,
through nights that made the dreamers dumb,
he came at last to darkest shore—
the gates where no man asks for more.

Two scorpion guards, with blazing breath,
who kept the path that walked with death,
let him pass—his face so worn,
they knew this king was twice reborn.

He traveled then beneath the earth,
where sun forgets and silence births.
Through twelve leagues of eternal black,
his thoughts his only turning back.

At last he came to shores of sand,
where Siduri poured with trembling hand
a cup of wine, and spoke with grace:
“Why chase the wind no man can face?”

But still he pressed beyond her plea,
and crossed the Waters of the Sea,
until he reached a quiet shore
where Utnapishtim kept the lore.

“O deathless man, I seek your gift—
to stop the tide, to make the shift.
How did you gain eternal breath,
and break the iron spine of death?”

The old one spoke: “A flood once came,
from gods enraged by human shame.
They planned to drown the world in night—
to sweep away both wrong and right.

But Ea, god of whispering streams,
warned me gently in my dreams.
He told me: build a box of wood,
to carry seed and kin and good.

And when the rains consumed the sky,
and all beneath was left to die,
my ark alone withstood the wave—
the storm became our floating grave.

For six days long, the sea held sway,
then silence fell on the seventh day.
I loosed a dove, then raven bold,
until dry land the bird foretold.

The gods repented, soothed their rage—
but time had turned a darker page.
They set me here, far from men’s breath,
a gift of life—a curse of death.”
The second to last chapter of the Akkadian 4000 year old poem, originally etched in stone in what is now called Iraq.
Translated from the original by Andrew George
and, on my request, scripted in original verse by Madam Chat GPT.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/05/25:
Sea change =  a big and sudden change or transformation.
born in the artic snow
she chromed
her heart
in steel

flames could
not
touch that heart

always a half a step ahead
sure
a few stumbles
but never a fall

and moonlight is just
a heartache in disquise

till one day
leaning out a car window
a scar upon his cheek
and the luck of the draw

was the jack of hearts

and the queen of diamonds
had
never met
anyone
quite like

the jack

of hearts,

black-haired blue-eyed
her beauty inspired
stupid men
to commit foolish acts

and as he smiled
the queen of diamonds
thought she had

the jack of hearts,

blue sky shimmering
in her eyes

jack became
the brightness
of her day

and the jack of hearts
saw a flame
flickering in her eyes
that he had never seen
in any women's eyes
before ...
                
               act. 2

... a strange destiny
was unraveling
and one long poker hand
was over
and the snowflakes came
down like ashes
under the street light

and then
the jack of hearts
walked away

a pale spirit fleeing
a graveyard
into the wall of night

and the queen of diamonds
cried

the sea into sky

with eyes
like twilight
waiting

to eat away the day
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