Schisms is notable for being one of Trek’s most successful attempts at invoking fear.  Known by some as “The X-Files Episode,” Schisms deals in nighttime abductions, involuntary amputations, all manner of body horror - one poor dude dies after his blood turns into a liquid polymer. But for some viewers the scariest scene of the whole episode comes at the very start, when the crew of the Enterprise is held captive at a poetry open mic. 

Yes, the only good AI ever devised by humanity, Lieutenant Commander Data is at it again, this time overestimating the captain’s interest in anapestic tetrameter before delivering the boundlessly enthusiastic “Ode to Spot.”

Like Data, I take a stab at poetry every now and again. In fact, June is Lexington Poetry Month and in observance I (and 316 other local poets) endeavored to write and share a poem every day for 30 days, resulting in more than 3,500 original pieces of poetry in just one month. My personal results are mixed, to be sure, with more than once piece about my cat, but I went 30 for 30 so legally you must refer to me as Poet Sam or Sam the Poet, whichever you prefer.

The best of my poems are, I hope, what Geordi would only describe as “clever.” Like Data, I’m drawn to rhymes and strict meters which allow me to focus on the message without fretting over the form. At least, that’s what I think I’m doing?

So, without further ado…here’s some poems!

OK A Little More Ado

In addition to Data, the poets with the largest influence on my work so far are Shel Silverstein and (yawn) William Shakespeare. Some of my earliest book memories are of reading Shel Silverstein while I was home sick from school. Where The Sidewalk Ends and A Light In The Attic were as essential to the sick day experience as Sprite and The Price Is Right. You can definitely (hopefully?) feel his influence in a few of my works. As far as Shakespeare, I’ve been reading, watching, and performing him for 30 years, and the heartbeat rhythm of iambic pentameter is a very comfortable pen in which to play. Ok, now poetry!

Not A Breakfast Guy

Never was a breakfast guy
but lately I have found
that breakfast, oh yes breakfast
is the greatest meal around!

In high school I needed extra time
to dissociate in the shower;
with all I had to process
I’d be in there half an hour!

When college came I slept in,
so I’d be nice and plucky.
Or, if I had some company,
I might be getting lucky.

But after that, I’m sad to say
I only skipped the table
because I was hungover, yes,
and simply was unable.

To tell the truth for eleven years
I hardly ate at all;
my most favorite source of calories was
sour mash alcohol.

Around Thanksgiving 2020
I decided not to die,
and with one last, long boozy binge
I bid bourbon goodbye.

One year later I aced a test
and scored Type II Bipolar!
The doc told me I’ve got more triggers
than a Nintendo Controller.

But now that I am sober
diagnosed and medicated,
please let me describe for you
the meal that I just ate-ed:

Three-quarter cups of egg whites,
scrambled with a spray of Pam;
a single piece of whole wheat toast
with “no sugar added” jam;

On the side a heaping spoonful
of store bought guacamole,
two peeled navel oranges,
“More plants!” the doctor told me.

But now that I’m a breakfast guy
I have this nagging hunch;
no matter how big breakfast is
I’ll still be wanting lunch.

Back It Up

First let me say how we all are dumbstruck
by your enormous, voluminous, big, loud truck!

It rumbles, it grumbles, it belches out smoke!
So tall that the wheels require 60 inch spokes!

Black tinted windows with bumper stickers applied,
you’d need X-ray vision to see what’s inside!

It’s way-too-bright headlights and noxious gray gasses
demand the attention of anyone it passes!

But…

Why choose a whip which needs so much gas?
Is it simply to get your ice cream home fast?

Why do you take up four parking spaces?
Is it so no one your “off-roader” defaces?

When you gun it and run it, before walkers pass through,
is it just cuz you have something better to do?

Rolling through stop signs, turning left on red,
do traffic laws not exist in your head? 

Your rear window says “This Man Puts Up a Fight!”
but have you ever hauled anything heavier than Bud Light?

One last question, you’re such a good sport.
(And we all know you have that appointment in court.)

With all of that going, from To and to From,
have you ever been able to make someone come?

Take It From Me

Allow me to introduce myself (“sir” is how I’m correctly addressed)
    You see I happen to be a reverend (you don’t seem properly impressed)
What if I said I’m also a shrink (people usually stare in awe)
    You’re in the presence of a PhD (please do pick up your jaw)

Tell me all your thoughts on God (I’ll smirk and roll my eyes)
    Pay close heed to my commands (only I may criticize)
Obey me or face consequences (I didn’t push, you fell)
    Only I can truly help you (else you’re going straight to hell)

Are you feeling down or addled? (for a fee I’ll run a test)
    You must follow my directions (though you’re really just a pest)
Confess me all your secrets (you’ll feel better when you do)
    Then I’ll repeat them at the table (we’ll be laughing right at you!)

Oh I’ll answer all your marriage questions (I’ve been divorced for 20 years)
    And offer child rearing tips (my three all hide from me in fear)
Yes I’m a master of relationships (I’ve been engaged 10 times)
    Though I have no friends or family (they won’t forgive my crimes)

Yes I truly am the best. I know every single thing.
You’re blessed to even meet me, I’m practically a king.
Should you ever meet my children, please just turn and walk away;
They’re all a bunch of liars. Don’t believe a word they say.

Kenwick Neighborhood Association (Allegedly)

Oh Facebook Group! My warning please take heed,
A man (I think) with height and weight and hair,
Was, down the walk, strolling with mod’rate speed.
Hold tight your purse, and with your life take care!

“Perhaps,” you say “A neighbor on his way,
To town, happily minding his business?
Or the mailman, say, daily comes this way.
Oh no, there is nothing here to witness.”

You Fool! This criminal’s on cam’ra, caught!
Nests and Rings see only the suspicious;
Gray shorts, blue shirt, he scopes out ev’ry house.
Those boots! That bag! Why dress so auspicious?

    One quick phone call – the cops are on their way!
    Oh can’t you see, that I have saved the day?

Hopefully That Wasn’t Too Painful

Thank you for your kind indulgence. As a reward for sitting through all that poetry here is a little bit of Not Poetry before you go.

Sike, More Poetry

I asked ChatGPT to write a poem, cuz I’m an original thinker and now one has blogged about that before. All I said was “write a poem,” and after about half-a-second’s thought it spat out this:

In the heart of a tranquil glade, 
Where sun and shadow gently played, 
A whispering breeze began to dance, 
Inviting all to take a chance.

The trees, with leaves of emerald green,
Swayed softly, weaving nature's scene,
Their branches reached towards the sky,
Embracing clouds that floated by.

A river sang a silver tune,
Reflecting rays of afternoon,
Its waters laughed and shimmered bright,
A mirror for the golden light.

Among the flowers, vibrant, wild,
A secret world of dreams compiled,
Each petal held a story dear,
Of love and loss, of joy and fear.

Beneath the sky's vast canopy,
A symphony of life, so free,
Unfolded in this sacred space,
A testament to nature's grace.

So if you wander through this place,
Take time to feel its warm embrace,
And listen to the tales it tells,
In whispers, hums, and gentle swells.

Which…is fine, right? It looks like a poem, sounds like a poem, and if one of my middle school students had turned that in in 2018 not only would they have received an A+++ I probably would’ve claimed it as my teaching’s crowning achievement. But knowing it came from a computer makes it less special, right? ChatGPT didn’t want to write a poem, I made it write a poem.

No one asked Data to write poetry and so his poetry is special. He decided to spend his own time pursuing an artistic, “human” endeavor. He was drawn to it on his own. The spark of life within him has a dep creative drive, and as a result Data is a prolific painter and poet, as well as a virtuosic musician and shitty stand up comic. 

If you were to ask Data to write a poem, would his synthetic eyes spin in his head for 10 seconds before he recited something similar to the poem above? Or would he retreat to his quarters, study his subject, write several drafts, practice them aloud, even seek the opinion of others before returning to you with a finished product? 

I was curious how much thought ChatGPT had put into its poem, so I asked it to identify the theme of its work. This was the result.

Again, fine, ample analysis to get the grade. But when I asked ChatGPT why it decided to write a poem about nature, well, see for yourself.

If you asked Data why he writes poetry, do you think he’d respond with an error message?

Next Time! Season 7 Episode 23 “Emergence” and WTF Is AI Anyway?