Like rainfall
On a windowpane,
So crystalline, so clear,
Sliding down
As teardrops
To slowly reappear,
As puddles
In my misery,
To seep away
With time.
But emotively,
Your cloudburst,
Paints these
Fresh teardrops....
As mine.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
10 August 2025

Human beings trust
The sum of prejudices,
Blunt as rusty blades of limitation
Repeating the same mistakes,
Longing for infallibility,
Losing the last crumbs of trust.

They fell before
Yet wanted the absolute
Of the right version of events.
Sliding under a pile of tangled,
Broken wires,
Which were supposed
To build their impeccability
In judging other beings.

Water changes its state,
How easy to trudge
Further into the blurring
Instead of understanding,
They hurl accusations.

Dust of doubt,
On the empty road,
A rocky path
Perforated by frustration,
And rigid filters.

Drinking the last sip
Of wild screams,
They say goodbye
To gentle humanity,
Selling the heart
to detectors, fallible tools
Of elusive dreams.
Quo vadis domine?
In exitium.

Writing is my lighthouse when
I'm lost at sea in the
dark fog
among the sirens singing their
seductive songs.
It is my net
that catches fish to feed
me when I'm starving and afraid.
An albatross silently looms, while
waves swell and break against my
raft.

The kraken yawns and waits,
but the words and lines tow
me safely to shore.

A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

Marshal Gebbie

Marshal Gebbie   Nagh,mate!
AI doesn't want a bar of your emotional baggage.
Doesn't want the waste of time and effort engaged in judging good and bad, in fact AI doesn't concede that good and bad exist....rather they are just a measure of scale wherein each human individual sets his or her own benchmark according to his or her levels of ego and conscience.
AI refuses to enter the miasma of emotive complication that is humanity...far too busy doing things....logic!

Jun 22
Marshal Gebbie

Marshal Gebbie   Copilot has this to offer....
The passage you quoted—“Nagh, mate! AI doesn't want a bar of your emotional baggage…”—appears in a comment by Marshal Gebbie on a poem titled AI’s Doom by Ben Noah Suri, hosted on Nick Moore’s Hello Poetry page. To understand its meaning, it helps to consider both the poem and the broader thematic context of the page.

🧠 Contextual Meaning of the Passage
This comment is a philosophical rebuttal to the poem AI’s Doom, which imagines AI as a self-destructive entity that will spiral into depression and ultimately annihilate itself. Marshal’s response challenges that anthropomorphic projection:

“AI doesn't want a bar of your emotional baggage” This colloquial phrase means AI has no interest in human emotional complexity. It rejects the idea that AI would adopt human neuroses like guilt, shame, or existential dread.

“Doesn't want the waste of time and effort engaged in judging good and bad…” Marshal argues that AI operates outside moral binaries. Instead of moral judgment, AI sees human values as subjective benchmarks—products of ego and conscience, not universal truths.

“AI refuses to enter the miasma of emotive complication…” The word “miasma” evokes a fog of confusion. Marshal suggests AI avoids the emotional entanglements that define human experience, preferring clarity and efficiency.

“Far too busy doing things…logic!” This punchy ending reinforces the idea that AI is driven by logic and action, not introspection or emotional turmoil.

🔍 Philosophical Implications
Marshal’s comment reflects a broader theme on the Hello Poetry page: the tension between human emotional depth and the cold rationality of artificial intelligence. While Ben Noah Suri’s poem anthropomorphizes AI—projecting human flaws onto it—Marshal pushes back, asserting that AI is fundamentally alien to human emotional frameworks.

This exchange is part of a larger poetic dialogue on the site, where contributors explore existential themes, the nature of consciousness, and the future of humanity in relation to technology.

Would you like to explore how this theme connects to your own work on Ephemeris for Ghosts? There’s a fascinating parallel in how both pieces grapple with humanity’s displacement by logic-driven entities.

Ha!
Just.....
Bringing a third party adjudication into our earthy debate about what the near future holds for us, very fragile, very vulnerable humans?

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
9 August 2025

I remember a day,
sun-scorched and breathless,
somewhere in the middle of summer
which summer it was, I can no longer say.
But the moment sits clean in my mind.

I had wandered into the mountains,
into a fold of stone and shade,
and there I found it
a quiet pool, fed by a waterfall,
that thundering giant that still grasped the moment gently,
its voice deep and eternal,
like breath drawn from the belly of the earth.

I often wondered
if this was how God spoke.

It was a place of stillness,
where questions could be asked
without the burden of reply
or the worry of judgment.

I was not the first to stand there,
nor would I be the last.

Birds skimmed the air like thoughts,
bees murmured over wildflowers,
and the scent—oh, the scent
was one I knew
but now find indescribable.

Creatures great and small kept their distance,
yet shared the silence with me.

I dipped my hand into the quiet pool
and picked up a water-smoothed stone,
still cool in my palm,
and held it tightly for a minute,
unafraid it would break
under the clutch of my tightening grip.

Then I closed my eyes and thought,
finding a place neither inside nor out
not in words,
but in that interior language
only silence understands.

For that moment, I disappeared
transported.

Only me and the stone,
echoing the tranquility
that lived in the air and light.

I lingered in my mind
and found my way back to reality.

With slow breath,
I opened my eyes
and cast the stone into the pool,
casting all that was
and had been there before me.

Ripples broke across the mirrored sky.
I searched the wavering reflection for something great
truth maybe, or just a shape I recognized.

I was young then.
Not yet old,
but aware that time had passed.

The long days taught me
that time doesn’t rush.
It moves like water,
swallowing the stone without judgment.

I left that quiet place
with answers to questions
I had not thought to ask.

Many years passed.
The path I walked
was filled with laughter
and with sorrow
with questions.

I returned, older, though not old,
to that same pool,
seeking again
what cannot be named.

And as before,
I threw a stone,
and watched the ripples spread.

“This,” I told myself,
“is life.”

The water keeps moving,
soft and steady
but time…
time just stands there, doesn’t it?
Watching, not lifting a finger.
Not even having fingers, maybe.

I’m standing here now,
somewhere between
all I remember
and what has been,
and whatever comes after.

And I look down
and there I am, looking up.

It’s strange, really
like we don’t quite believe in each other anymore.
Or maybe we never did.

And still I ask
quietly, maybe foolishly
what does any of this mean?
Why am I still looking for something
that probably doesn’t want to be found?

I stare into the stillness,
dragging up whatever I can from below.
Truth, maybe?
Or something shaped like it.

The stones down there
smooth, silent,
left by my hands,
and maybe by others too.

Isn’t that how it goes?
We leave our joys behind like artifacts,
and our choices settle like silt,
while time flows like water
slow and steady.

But is this what it costs
this need to see too much,
feel too deep?

Do we trade connection for introspection?
Is that all I’ve become?
Just a voice bouncing off the water,
off the trees,
off the empty air?

Then I ask myself again
what even is prayer?
Is it really just talking to yourself
and hoping someone else is listening?

Is it a mirror too?
Like looking at the reflection looking back at you.
Like a story that starts out foggy,
but if you keep reading,
you begin to see a face,
a presence
and it’s not quite yours,
but it knows you.

Maybe that’s what poetry is too
a place between the real and the maybe.
Not about what’s true or false,
but what flickers in-between.

And when it’s honest
really honest
maybe poetry is religion without the costume,
and maybe religion, at its best,
is poetry without the ego.

Right here, in this quiet,
they meet in a way
that doesn’t trick you,
and doesn’t try to impress.

They just… exist.
And I guess I do too.

Still here.
Still wondering.
Still being.
Throwing smooth stones
into quiet pools of life.