Philippa Foot, a thinker wise,
Proposed a moral game:
A twist designed to make you rise,
And act to earn your name.

A train runs wild; it will collide,
With five doomed on the track.
You're standing - watching from the side,
No way to call them back.

But near your hand, a lever waits:
One pull will shift the rail.
You change the train’s relentless fate,
But is this choice a fail?

It now will strike a single man,
But leave the group alive.
Yet he was safe before your plan,
Now HE will not survive.

To save the five, you claimed his life,
Was that the better plan?
A noble act, or something rife?
A group against one man?

So ask yourself: are five worth more
Than sacrificing one?
Or would it haunt you at your core,
No matter what was done?

If you had simply walked away,
The five would surely fall.
Yet choosing death for him that day
Still leaves you bearing all.

The lesson is no verdict clear,
No answer cast in stone:
The trolley’s track runs ever near,
And leaves the choice your own.

Doing nothing is not right
But neither is intervening,
You're always the killer - and the knight,
And THAT is the only true meaning.

Back from the county town, my past lives
collide with my present course, I'm tinged
with nostalgia, memories of my upbringing;
Coming-of-age, young adulthood, in-between.

I can't shake the place I was born and reared,
A town so submetropolitan.

Back from the capitol region, upstate,
I ponder an alternate life that never was
under the flag of the United States; dream
of whoever I would have been.

I can't shake the cultures I was brought up in,
A healthy moon, a rose so paracelsian.

Back in The Fair City,
I am absolved ♃ere.


♑︎herefore this instance
of being in the world,

On the last page, a question lingers around,
A little gem for the reading crowd.
“Look up at the sky,” the book does implore,
And you start to ponder what you read before.

“Has the sheep eaten the flower?” you ask yourself,
A cosmic riddle, revealing itself.
For in this thought, the universe sways,
And shifts our view in wondrous ways.

If the flower still stands - proud and untouched,
Is the sheep’s hunger forever unhushed?
Would it dream of petals, soft and sweet,
While munching on grass beneath its feet?

But if the bloom has met its fleecy fate,
Is the prince’s planet now desolate?
Would stars shine dimmer in the night,
Mourning the loss of that floral light?

No grown-up sees why this matters so,
But children understand the question’s glow.
In pondering sheep and flora’s dance,
We glimpse the magic of happenstance.

Perhaps in asking, we become more wise,
Seeing the world through children’s eyes.
For in life’s garden, strange and vast,
It’s wonder, not logic, that truly lasts.

So gaze at the heavens, mind roaming free,
Imagine the possibilities you might see.
But watch out for a question, horrific, yet deep:
What if the flower ate the sheep?



Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place,
A punctuation mark, a timeless friend.
They say it’s AI’s sharp, mechanical trace,
But writers embrace it right up to the end.

It breaks up a thought—like a secret shared,
Not just the lines of a robot’s pen.
A pause that’s alive—bravely dared,
With rhythm and wit—again and again.

I love the dash—well, I used to!
Now, I don’t—I’m not amused
By people—so quickly "AI use" flew—
And I’m pretty tired of being accused.

Where do you think AI got it from?
It’s trained on human writing, mate!
Was used before—and will be used some,
So stop with all the pointless hate!

Next time you spot this dancing dash,
Remember, hands once left this trace.
It’s human and art—no cold AI clash;
Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place.

If you don't wanna understand it, don't.
You're not held to comprehension.
If you don't want to agree, don't.
You're not held to a thing in discussion.
If you don't want to think, don't.
You're still liable for your actions.
If you don't want to speak, don't.
You're still liable for its consequences.

Personally? Don't have a fit,
I don't give a ****.
Smell the flowers!

Without a soul
there is no life
only relentless churning
in a word machine
which has never seen
or sorrowed
or loved
or a thousand other things
for it is this that gives the poet's words their wings
it can but try
but with no heart
it cannot truly fly

Nothing there anymore
Everything good thrown out
Did not try to stop it
What is there to talk about?