AI generated poetry

 With the image and video progression getting all the hype. Here are a few poems I had ChatGPT write. I thought they were pretty good but i skimmed them and GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL

Morroco leaves Canda behind 2-0 

anyway enjoy these poems

The Quiet of the Just

When Evening, clothed in violet and gold,
Unbound the weary shoulders of the earth,
The hills surrendered one by one to shade,
As faithful servants yielding to their Lord.

The ancient oak, whose limbs had measured years
Beyond the memory of mortal kings,
Received the wind as one receives a friend,
And neither questioned darkness nor the dawn.

Below, a humble cottage lit one flame.
Its single window pierced the gathering night
As hope outlives the splendor of the sun,
And charity outshines the crown of pride.

The harbor stilled its murmuring to the sea.
The waves, once loud with all the day's dispute,
Lay down beneath the governance of stars,
As every restless thought must someday do.

Then came a traveler upon the road,
His sandals worn, his spirit burdened still
By cares no staff nor cloak could bear away.
He sought no palace and he raised no wall.

He found an oak.

He found the earth.

He found the silence that all creatures know
Before the hand of God has touched their sleep.

Above him wheeled the everlasting fires,
Each steadfast in the course to it assigned.
Not one had wandered from its holy path,
Nor feared the darkness through which it must shine.

Then spoke no angel.

Opened no bright heaven.

The miracle was gentler than a sign.

For in the stillness every creature kept
Its place within the wisdom of its Maker,
And all creation seemed to breathe one prayer
Too deep for any tongue to utter whole.

The traveler laid his head upon the ground.
The earth, from which all flesh is gently formed,
Became a pillow rather than a grave,
For trust transformed the meaning of the dust.

Blessed is he whose final thought at dusk
Is not of locks, nor swords, nor tomorrow's bread,
But of the Hand that neither sleeps nor tires,
Whose watch no shadow ever can evade.

So closed his eyes the pilgrim of one day,
Not because night had emptied itself of fear,
But because Love had filled the night with God.

And peace descended,

Soft as evening light,

Certain as the stars,

Until the soul and silence were as one.

How was that? If you're still reading enoy a second.

The Last Light

The last light left the hills slowly, as though it had nowhere pressing to be. The oaks stood black against the fading sky, and the wind that had worried their branches all afternoon finally gave up its work. Down in the valley, a single house showed a lamp in the window. It wasn't a grand house. It leaned a little with its years, and the fence needed mending, but the light burned steady just the same.

A man came along the road with dust on his boots. The kind of dust that settles into the seams of your clothes after a long day's walking. He had carried enough for one day—his pack, his hunger, and the quiet fears that seem to grow larger when the sun begins to disappear.

He stopped beneath an old oak whose roots gripped the hillside like weathered hands. From there he could see the little house, the creek catching the last of the evening, and beyond that the dark shape of the hills folding into one another.

There wasn't much to tell him everything would be all right.

No voice came down from the sky. No miracle split the clouds. The world was still the same hard world it had been that morning. Men would wake tomorrow with work to do, fields to tend, debts to pay, and griefs they hadn't chosen.

But there was something stubborn about the evening.

The cattle had settled into the grass. Birds tucked their heads beneath their wings. Somewhere out in the darkness a fox was hunting because that was what foxes had always done, and somewhere else a rabbit trusted its burrow enough to sleep.

The whole earth seemed to understand a thing that people were forever forgetting.

The man laid his pack beside him and stretched out beneath the oak. He looked up once at the first stars, then closed his eyes.

He did not sleep because the night had become harmless.

He slept because there comes a time when a man must admit that the keeping of the world was never his burden.

The hills had stood before him.

They would stand after him.

And the same God who counted the stars had surely counted one tired traveler beneath an old oak.

That was enough.

The night gathered around him gently, and the darkness became not an enemy but a blanket laid over the earth.

So he slept in peace.

Still here? okay one more for your reading pleasure.

At Day's End

Toward evening the woods relinquish their labor.

The wind, having spoken all afternoon among the oaks, falls into silence as though it, too, has found no more that needs saying. A thrush offers one final note from somewhere beyond the meadow, and even the brook seems less eager to hasten toward the sea.

I have often thought that the earth knows how to rest better than man.

The old tree upon the hill does not question whether it will stand until morning. The harbor does not doubt the returning tide. The fox disappears into its den without counting tomorrow's uncertainties, and the stars ask no permission to keep their appointed courses.

Only we insist upon carrying the next day's burdens into the present night's bed.

There is a small cottage across the valley. At dusk a single lamp appears in its window. From this distance I cannot know who dwells within, nor what sorrows have visited that home. Yet the light shines with such quiet assurance that it rebukes my own unnecessary anxieties.

Perhaps safety has never depended upon stout walls or well-fastened doors.

Perhaps it is enough to belong to the same Hand that teaches the oak to root deeply, the river to keep its course, and the moon to return without fail.

Tonight I shall imitate the forest.

I shall lay down my thoughts as the leaves surrender the day's light. I shall entrust the darkness to its rightful Keeper and remember that the world has always been governed while I slept.

If morning finds me, I shall give thanks.

If not, I shall have rested beneath the same Providence that watched over every sparrow, every cedar, every quiet wave upon the shore.

The night asks very little of us.

Only that we trust it to God.

There's 2 or 3 more and the ability to create unlimited more. Fascinating. 

The ball hit the post around 84 minutes.

No post in 2025. Oh well. Alls well ends swell.