Technology Battles

We’ve got some problems here, Siri —

you don’t come when I call,
you give me bad advice
or none at all.

you say, “I didn’t get that”
or you change the subject
and fall totally  flat.

 

You’ve gotten me lost —
your directions are wrong
and come with a siri-ous cost.

Yes Siri —

lying to your partner
is a capital offence
And so rude to be silent;
I demand recompense.
I’m reconsidering our relationship
You show no remorse —
I’m breaking it off,
Dissolution? Divorce?

I’ve set you up
and set you up
and set you up
yet still you ignore.
Oh Siri, Siri,
I’m showing you the door.

Oh wait,
maybe it’s because you’re American male?

I could give you one last dance—
and change you to British—
at least then when you’re wrong
perchance
I’ll be charmed by your accent
and the extent of your content
and you won’t be so frus-TRA’-ting
and I shan’t throw you in the dust bin.
But seriously Siri
This IS your final chance…

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Relics of Time and Memory

Indian Rock

There are big rocks thirty miles to the south
in Slippery Rock Creek.
There are big rocks thirty miles to the east
in the National Forest.
There are big rocks thirty miles to the north
on the shores of Lake Erie.
But here in the rolling farm lands of Black Ash
there is just one big rock.

Walk with us just down the hill
past the edges of the berry bramble
and the fallow field
to where the
North Fork of the West Branch of Little Sugar Creek
winds its way through the beeches and hemlocks,
rippling and glinting
murmuring and echoing
the breeze of the leaves.

witch_hazel_03_fullTurn here at the witch hazel tree.
The path narrows, but just a stone’s throw
into the little glen
Indian Rock is there,
dominating.
A ten-foot maple tree grows from its moss;
Eons and roots have split the smooth stone.
There is a foot ledge
to enable scrambling,
but no grand view from the top,
for this granite boulder guards a small ravine
and a bubbling spring
that feeds the
North Fork of the West Branch of
Little Sugar Creek.

a giant granite anomaly amidst
a sea of sandstone,
thrown here in ancient days by melting glaciers
and God.

The granite is carpeted with moss
and baby blue forget-me-nots
Pale green lichens and fiddlehead ferns–
Miniature perfection.

delicate rock garden Forget-me-not flowers in moss and stones

Image courtesy of freeimages.co.uk

Relics were found here.
Mortars, pestles, arrowheads
from the people called Seneca.
Picture the mother, baby strapped to her back
pounding the leather, the corn,
kneeling to collect clear cool water from the spring.
i carry my child in a bright green back pack and we
collect the water
in our plastic Mr. Donut buckets,
but i feel a kinship with her just the same.

i lift him from the backpack and sit him on the soft moss;
i step up on the ledge from behind
and we rest in the shimmering green sunlight
on an ancient moraine.

my pale hand reaches to stroke this red haired child
crawling on the mossy rock
as her brown hand tousles the dark hair of her child
crawling on the mossy rock
and in that second
our fingers
touch
through
time.

sunlight on rocks

Love Song

Christmas angel

Wishing you love, joy, peace, and hope this Christmas.

i don’t want a narrow view of love:
you love me and i’ll love you
— no —
don’t want just my needs, wants, don’t needs, don’t wants.

You give love unconditionally
not caring if i love you back right
or if i slip back into that
blind sight of loving you wrong.

there are countless languages that speak love
and i want to know them all
give them all
freely
to you.

i want to fly right over the chasm
where ordinary
freefalls and plummets;

instead you get my imperfect botched love
tainted by pride and selfish fears
while you give me
thirty roses
every day —
the extravagant
exquisite
excruciating
reminder
of those lost thirty years.