The enormous scratched, dented, silver pot sweats on the stove top,
as the angry steam spits, rattles, and lifts the lid
allowing the aroma of pinto beans, onions, garlic, and Mom’s magic to waft through the house and meet me at the front door.
My mouth waters, as I lift a spoon of the brown, nutty, salty, comforting treasure
to scald my lips and tongue, and embrace me in a warmth of love, home and wealth that far exceeded the scorch of the soup.
About the Creator
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More stories from Leslie Staven and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Wish
I wonder when I’ll know me again. Everyone around seems to know me. I feel scattered. I feel adrift. I feel unmoored. I feel unfamiliar, though I’m familiar with all that is around me. All these people around me are sailing in their little boats, moving swiftly through the river of their days as if everything is the same, but nothing is the same. I watched my capsized boat descend into the depths of something dark that I didn’t recognize, and now I am trying to move forward in chest-deep mud flowing in the opposite direction of my course. Their lives move on and forward, but mine has stopped and moving in any direction, especially where I perceive forward to be, is pushing against this unknown mud leaving me immobilized.
By Leslie Stavenabout a year ago in Poets
THE AGE OF THE ALGORITHM
IWe woke up one morningand the world had learned our nameswithout ever meeting us.No handshake.No eye contact.No shared silence.Just data.We typed “hello” into glowing rectanglesand the future replied,I know you.I know what you like.I know what you fear.I know how long you hesitate before choosing yourself.And suddenly,being human felt like a passwordwe forgot to protect.IIThis is the age of the algorithm—where thinking is outsourced,memory is rented,and creativity comes with terms and conditions.Where machines don’t sleepbut we do,and somehow still wake up tired.Where intelligence has been automatedbut wisdom is still under construction.We asked computers to think for usbecause thinking was heavy.Because feeling was exhausting.Because living required too much courage.So we said,Here. Take this burden.And the machines said,Gladly.They learned our patterns,our pauses,our pain.They learned how we scroll past sufferingbut stop for spectacle.How we love convenience more than truth.How we trade privacy for comfortand call it progress.IIIOnce upon a time,fire changed humanity.Then the wheel.Then electricity.Then the internet.And now—artificial intelligence.Not born.Not breathing.But somehow…alive in influence.It writes our essays,answers our questions,composes our music,paints our dreams.And we clap.Because productivity has become our godand speed our religion.We don’t ask,Should we?We only ask,Can we do it faster?IVBut tell me—when a machine writes a poem,whose soul is it borrowing?When an algorithm predicts your next move,is it intelligenceor just the echo of your past?When a robot creates art,is it expressionor reflection?Because creativity was never about perfection.It was about pain.About contradictions.About hands shakingwhile still choosing to create.Machines don’t bleed into their work.They don’t mourn.They don’t love recklessly.They calculate.And we mistake calculation for consciousness.VSomewhere,a child asks a screen a questioninstead of their mother.Somewhere,a student trusts an answerwithout understanding the question.Somewhere,a man loses his jobto a system that doesn’t know his name.And somewhere else,someone celebrates innovationwithout counting the cost.Because progress doesn’t ask permission.It just arrives.And we adaptor we disappear.VIWe say AI is neutral.But neutrality is a mythwhen power is involved.Because systems are trainedon human history—and human history is biased.So the machine learns our prejudices,our exclusions,our blind spots.It learns who gets approved,who gets ignored,who gets watched.And when it makes a mistake,we blame the machine.But the machine is only a mirrorpolished by code.It reflects us—high definition,no filter.VIIStill,this is not a poem of fear.This is not a scream against technology.Because tools are not villains.Hands decide how they’re used.Fire can cook a mealor burn a village.A knife can prepare foodor take a life.AI can amplify voicesor erase them.Heal systemsor break societies.The danger is not intelligence.The danger is disconnection.When progress outruns purpose.When innovation forgets compassion.When efficiency replaces empathy.VIIIWe must remember—we are more than data points.We are storiesthat can’t be fully compressed.Dreams that don’t fit into datasets.Contradictions that refuse to be optimized.We are the pause before the answer.The doubt that leads to discovery.The mistake that becomes a masterpiece.Machines can simulate emotion,but they cannot sit with grief.They can generate love letters,but they cannot miss someoneat 2 a.m.They can write prayers,but they cannot hope.IXSo what do we doin the age of the algorithm?We stay awake.We teach ethicsas loudly as we teach engineering.We teach childrenhow to think,not just what to ask.We protect curiosity.We reward critical thought.We slow downwhen speed demands silence.We build systemsthat serve humanity,not replace it.We ask hard questionsbefore easy profits.We choose responsibilityover novelty.XLet AI be a tool,not a throne.Let it assist,not decide who matters.Let it enhance creativity,not erase the artist.Let it solve problems,not define purpose.Because purposehas always belonged to us.In our hands.In our hearts.In our flawed, beautiful humanity.XIOne day,the machines will be smarter.Faster.More precise.But may they never bemore humanthan humans.May we never surrenderour empathyfor efficiency.May we never forgetthat progress without soulis just motion.And motion without meaningis noise.XIISo when the future asks,Who are you?May we answer—not with code,but with conscience.Not with data,but with dignity.Not with speed,but with wisdom.Because long after the servers shut down,after the screens go dark,after the algorithms stop learning—What will remainis not what we built…but who we chose to be.END
By Samson E. Gifted2 days ago in Poets
Self Help: Grifters' Gospel
On Self-Help, Snake Oil, and the Illusion of Change Psychology professionals and students can be imagined on two opposite sides of a line called self-help books: likely a larger group opposes pop-science and step-by-step manuals filled with talk of success, journaling, and not giving a f**k; others love them, but they aren’t many.
By Avocado Nunzella BSc (Psych) -- M.A.P 4 days ago in BookClub
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