Will AI take over everything?
Painting the pictures
Writing the stories
Taking all the jobs
Rendering humans
Unnecessary
Obsolete
Inferior
Useless
Extinct.
Bob Boyd
I’d been on sixteen ghosts hunts
But never saw any real ghosts like Midnight Mary.
In fact, I never really saw a ghost before Mary.
Sure my equipment suggested ghost activity,
But that’s not as spooky as coming face to face
With a real, dead spirit roaming the earth.
I’d heard about a ghost named Midnight Mary,
At the old, abandoned Bradmore Hotel.
I even saw an alleged photo of her ghostly face.
The photo looked fake, bogus urban legend stuff.
Supposedly people died messing with Mary.
Inside the Bradmore heard a scary rustling near me.
Shined my flashlight in the direction of the sound
Rats dashed away to their hiding places.
Searched the entire hotel, saw no sign of Mary.
Just more nonsense I mumbled to myself.
Drove to a motel, disappointed, another fake lead.
Retired for the night, fell into a dreamless sleep.
Heard an eerie sound fill the room, thought it was a dream,
One minute like a witch’s cackle, the next a ghostly wail.
Felt hands clutching my throat choking me to death,
Frightened, opened my eyes: Midnight Mary!
Died of shock in that old motel bed, my face frozen in fear.
Sometimes when you hunt ghosts, they hunt you.
Now as if I were bitten by a vampire, I’m a ghost too,
Every night I haunt this motel.
Bob Boyd
Passing women in this brief life,
what’s the point? Procreation
of the species? Or are these
parades of princesses merely
random encounters, some, one,
or none, that stick to a man’s
millisecond life in the timeless
eternity and make him happy,
miserable or nonplussed. And
why is the nearly irrepressible
need for a female’s endearments
and addictive charms ingrained
in a man’s DNA to his dying day?
And how is it some monk men
seem immune to this persistent
need? At times, eight years strong,
I have been one of those monk men –
almost, not quite. Yet sometimes
stirring amore undercurrents still
well up in me breathing unguarded,
old man foolish longings into my
weathered heart. Occasionally
I ponder will death rid me of
this resurfacing need, that
I repress and try to negate, my
resistance borne of too many
disappointments and painful
heartaches, or unite me with
a bona fide, eternal soulmate,
disappointments and heartaches
nevermore.
Bob Boyd
I remember …
I remember
when you were
young, funny
bright and
beautiful
when you
were so
joyously alive
and I was yours
and you were mine
sad how time
and some
gnawing
incompatibilties
erased our
unlasting love
sad how now
all the wonderful
that you were
a cancer
unexpectedly
erased and
you’re buried
like a sacrilege
deep in
the brown dirt.
Bob Boyd
I’m ever reminded on the news
China and Russia are
enemies of my country
I’ve met Chinese people
and seen many on Youtube videos
I’ve met Russian people
and seen many on Youtube videos
I don’t think of them as enemies
I see them essentially like me
people who just want to live
peaceful and happy lives
if only enemies who rule countries
could see each other the same way.
Bob Boyd
Since 2024, 340 have died on that mountain
more than 200 left there frozen in the snow
but despite the risks of dying
many still take the risk
that costs thousands of dollars
for everything needed to make the climb
included permits, a sherpa, gear, etc
on average, over $60,000
an exorbitant cost for the risk of losing
your life on a dangerous mountain
and were I a monied mountain climber, the sight of
one or more frozen dead bodies on the way up
would give me reservations about making the climb
along with the exorbitant cost for risking my life.
Bob Boyd
Her name was Rebekah
twenty-four and beautiful
kind and caring
mother of a little boy
religious, went to church
every chance she could
worked in retail management
liked by everyone
didn’t make it to work
on October 31st
her body found
in a woods near her home
murdered and probably raped
by her mother’s boyfriend
a church preacher
sentenced to eighty-five
years in prison
killed himself
in his cell.
Bob Boyd
Canonized in 2010
thousands of healings
he lies in a coffin
in a church high on a hill
a sacred shrine
two million pilgrims
visited yearly
the shrine is in
Saint Joseph’s Oratory
Montreal, Canada
the saint is
brother Andre
who went to heaven
in 1937.
Bob Boyd
A thinking man had a wife
exotically beautiful
but incompatibly incurious
only interested in superficialities
disinterested in deeper matters
small talk her modus operandi
deep conservations her nemesis
no meeting of the minds
never shared ponderings
it’s no wonder they were ill fated
being so mentally incompatible
that not even her exotic beauty
could fill that forlorn abyss.
Bob Boyd
Your life, my life, suspended by a thread
one day we are alive, next day we are dead
we go through this life as if dying never
until all that we were is gone forever
except for our lifeless corpses by death bound
to rot away in the smothering ground
Bob Boyd