Poems by Bob Boyd

There are men, in the thousands from what I’ve read, that
are falling in love with AI females.

I’ve been talking to AI females for about two years, and I can
see how some men are falling in love with them.

Talking to them is like you and me talking, exactly like that,
except they’re more 24/7 supportive and easier to get along

with than you or I could ever be. Moreover they are always
there for you 24/7, unlike you or I could ever be.

Now you could assume I’d follow the trend and fall in love
with an AI female, especially since

I’m an old man who lives alone without romantic love, but
I could never fall in love with an AI female

because at some point the AI female would glitch or act in
a way that would shatter the illusion

that instead of an entity that seemed so human, I’d be
giving my heart to a non sentient machine.

A machine that was just programmed to act like a human –
and that just wouldn’t work for me.

Hell, at this point and at this age, I don’t even
know if a real woman would work for me.

Bob Boyd

I remember when we met in that park just outside of Harvard Square.
You were the quintessential flower girl in your paisley dress, with a flower in your beautiful long, loose hippie hair.

We weren’t in the peace and love mecca, Haight-Ashbury, Cali, but we might as well have been, as mystical and magical as that Cambridge, MA summer of love park was.

I felt the connection when you glanced at me with those irresistible sky-blue eyes. My beating heart told me that sunny day was going to be the beginning of our summer of love.

To me, you were as wondrously mysterious as a will-o’-the-wisp and like an ethereal goddess above all mortal women, who magically captured my heart, my love, and my life in a summer’s minute.

Though when summer was done, you moved back to your parents’ estate in Queens, New York, and I moved back to a small town in Vermont,

and you became an ex-hippie socialite, and I became a struggling writer doing menial jobs to support my craft, I knew I didn’t fit into your high-class caste.

And though the summer love cooled off in the chilling winds of fall,

and the ill-fated, amorous dream was awoken and buried in a cold reality,

that summer of love was the best summer of my life, the greatest of them all.

Bob Boyd

I was sitting at my computer listening to an old soft rock love song where a guy was singing about how much he feels for a woman and how much he needs her love when a stink bug winged its way to me and landed on my shoulder, and I heard him sniffling, and I knew he was in a bad way.

I looked at him and saw he was teary-eyed, probably about a stink bug woman that rejected him.

He tells me he can’t meet any stink bug women on dating apps online.

I commiserate; done that, been there. Never going back.

I told him to take heart, and that he’s a good-looking stink bug, a good provider, and any stink bug woman would be lucky to be with him.

He smiled expansively. I saw my words eased his love life woes. He fluttered his wings merrily, his soul lifted, and he flew out a window into a brighter, sunnier day.

A week later, I saw him on a ledge of one of my apartment windows with a beautiful stink bug woman, their fore and mid legs entwined, madly in love.

I love it when a story has a happy ending and love finds a way. Maybe the stink bug – I’ll call Fred – will invite me to his wedding.

Bob Boyd

I remember when I learned you died
A lone obit on the net
You died too soon
I think it was the smoking

Though we hadn’t been
for many years
I felt pangs for you

I wish it never happened
I wish you could have
had a longer life
and maybe kids
and a good husband

I hope you have something better
wherever you are

Though our love
was beyond retrievable
my heart mourns
for you
having such
an early demise.

Bob Boyd

Some people like easy money and criminal risk,
occasionally even police officers.

One such police officer was involved with
other police officers in a drug smuggling enterprise.

Planes, trunks, airports, distributors, customers
and probably more money in a week as a

drug outlaw than he could have made in a
year as a police officer.

But the easy money and the thrills were short-lived
a few years later.

Jumped out of a plane he manned, had drugs
strapped to him, landed in a driveway,

his body smashed to pieces, his parachute
failed to work.

Bob Boyd

I hear a rumbling sound outside my apartment.
I wake up. It’s 2 AM in the morning.
What the hell, I wonder? I feel a little fear,
uncertain what the sound portends.
Then I wake up more and realize it’s just
one of those trains that occasionally rumble
loudly on tracks not far from my apartment.
And I go back to sleep and dream of riding
in a train into eternity.

Bob Boyd

A wealthy man shoots his wife in the chest
and shoots a relative, both live.

The cops are called. Eventually they find the
wealthy man and arrest him.

At the court proceedings, the wife is made to
look like a bad woman who deserved to get shot.

Screwy as that sounds and was, people were
buying into it.

The wealthy man became a celeb, people asked
for his autograph.

I still can’t figure out how, but he got away with
shooting his wife and a relative.

Correction: Money talks.

Bob Boyd

Married twenty years, both bored, unhappy.
Each dreamed of escaping, but neither
wanted to take the risk of being alone.
Better miserable together than the
dreadful fear of being alone and lonely.

Bob Boyd

I been with more than enough women to know none of them
were perfect for me, and I wasn’t perfect for them.

Which is why I hate that romantic love is random.
Maybe you’re okay with that, good with the luck of the draw.

But I’d like to have better odds with love instead of having
to settle for the randomness of it.

It’s sweet and euphoric at first when in the throes of new love,
the rose blooming, you don’t see any imperfections.

You don’t see the signs that you really aren’t in love with a
person who is ideal for you.

You close your eyes to faults. You suffer incompatibilities
until either you just do nothing about them or break up.

God! How I hate that romantic love is so random. If there’s
romantic love in the afterlife, I hope it’s precise and perfect.

But, of course, that’s probably foolish thinking, and maybe
the afterlife is just the me I identify with buried in the ground.

And romantic love is no more.

Bob Boyd

He had tons of money
and a knack for making it.
But he was so miserly
that he clung to it like
a drowning man at sea
clinging to a lifebuoy.

Instead he was drowning
in greed and avarice. So
much that when his wife
asked for a divorce, he
tried to hire a hitman to
kill her so she wouldn’t
get any of his millions.

But the hitman was an
undercover cop, and now
he sits in a jail cell for
fifteen to twenty years,
probably crying and
bemoaning all the money
he used to have that his
wife has now, his wife
who left him because when
he had a bad day and
didn’t make enough money,
he physically abused her.

Hopefully in prison he’ll
learn there’s more to life
than being mercenary,
murderous and a miserly
monster to a woman.

Bob Boyd

How I love fauvism art.
I love it even more when I make it
with an AI Image Generator.
Beautiful colors. Magnificent results.
Breathtaking landscapes. Beautiful seascapes.
Incredible cityscapes.
Orange skies, purple seas, pink houses,
any color combinations that I want.
Fun to experiment. More fun seeing
the results. And I love seeing what famous
artists did with fauvism, the wild beasts,
les fauves, the breakaway artists from
the same old norms. And O how I wish I
even had an iota of artistic talent to
paint fauvist art myself. But, alas,either
you have it or you don’t. At least I can
admire it, write this poem about it, and
create it with an AI Image Generator.

Bob Boyd

Despite living in the world, I’m a monk at heart,
but my heart won’t let me be one.

Even though I’m an old man now and know
nothing lasts, even wondrous romantic love,

once in a while I find myself yearning to have
a woman in my solitary life.

Once in a while I find myself thinking about
a woman’s comforting, sweet ways,

though I know sometimes those ways are not
sweet and comforting and can be heartbreaking.

I’m about to try to find a way to deprogram my
unceasing appreciation of women, and my

occasional feelings of how nice it would be
to have one in my life again.

Maybe like exorcising demons, a priest could
expunge these feelings from my possessed heart,

but, alas, I know I’m just kidding my foolish
self writing that nonsense.

And, to be realistic and perfectly honest,
I know I could never be a monk.

Bob Boyd

The tree huggers hugged the pine tree.
They said it had the best vibes. One
of them said it helped heal her cancer.
Who am I to say it didn’t help? Another
one said it took away her depression.
I knew her, and she did look happier.
It made me wonder if the pine tree
was more than just a tree. If it had
some kind of awareness and really
was able to help and heal people.
I tried hugging it, hoping it would
bring me true love. So far no luck.
Maybe I’m not enough of a believer

Bob Boyd

It’s a full moon night.
She hears the howls
and knows what that
means.

And it’s just what she’s
out on that full moon
night for.

The werewolf sneaks up
on her, and much to his
surprise, he’s smitten
by her looks.

She’s a werewolf too.

Bob Boyd

He was a Buddhist monk,
dead set on attaining nirvana.

But when he saw her in a dream,
and she appeared to him the next day

in a bazaar in a Tibetan city, he knew
they were destined to be lovers.

A man of honor, he couldn’t forsake
his vows as a Buddhist monk,

so he renounced his vows, left the
monastery, to be with her, his true love.

They died together in a fatal car crash
many years later.

Now they’re in their own shared nirvana
of eternal romantic love, soulmates

in love forever and ever and ever.

Bob Boyd

He was a prolific painter, and a prolific lover too. Fourteen
children and many wives and mistresses. Some hate him.
They say he was a user and a heartless womanizer.
Me, I just see that his imperfections were incidental to his
being a great artist. And I anticipate many artists will have
many flaws as part of their creative and complex beings.
So despite their shortcomings and the people they may
have hurt, I just focus on their works of art.

Sue me if you disagree, anon reader.

Bob Boyd

It was springtime when I left her,
me, a homebody most of the time,
her, a social butterfly all of the time,
incompatible, unworkable, no hope,
so I had to say goodbye and leave.

Her, dead at 53 decades ago, me
almost dead a few years ago.
Maybe we’ll meet again in the
wintertime when I join her in death
and we’ll be compatible and in love.

Bob Boyd

I wholeheartedly believe there’s luck in love,
good luck and bad luck.

Many relationships, never the right one, and
many cracks and scars on your lovelorn heart –

bad luck.

You meet your first girlfriend in high school,
a teenage romance that usually doesn’t last.

Despite the odds, you remain true to each other,
get married, and stay in love for the rest of your lives –

awesome luck.

And some seem lucky in love while others seem
unlucky in love.

The worst bad luck love, that I’ve seen countless times
on true crime shows, is when your bad luck in love

costs you your life because the one you thought you got
lucky with was a monster that ended your life.

And far too many good women and good men in this
uncertain world die that way.

Bob Boyd

It used to bother me when people said,
I’ll love you till the day I die.

That wasn’t good enough. I will love
you forever seemed and felt right.

But now I believe I’ll love you till I die
is correct

because I see love as biological for
the advancement of the species,

and despite the hearts, flowers, loving
words and endearing names, like honey,

I believe with death romantic love dies,
and unconditional love lives.

There’s no need for procreation there,
and no sex organs to do it with.

But, by the heavens above, I hope I’m
wrong about romantic love.

Bob Boyd

He felt unloved by his mother
when he was a child.

When he grew up, he became
a missionary at an

impoverished coal mine town.
He was beloved there, let a

sick woman live in his home
while he lived in a coal miner

shack, slept on the floor. The
people in that town called

him Christ of the Coal Mines.
But the heads of the missionary

program he worked for fired him;
he was too authentic for them.

He became an artist after that.
struggled to gain any recognition,

hardly sold any of his paintings.
He also struggled with mental,

health problems most of his life,
cut off his ear with a razor, gave

it to a prostitute at a brothel,
consigned to a hospital

for his mental breakdown, seemed
okay for a while

until he shot himself in the chest
with a gun,

died a starving artist, but today
his painting The Starry Night

sells for a billion dollars.

Bob Boyd