Stark wooden interior corners
Examples of a stony coarse exterior
Neglected by traffic light affinity
Differences of apples
Muttering congregations dialogue
Vengeance before eating
Mature marriages motherly mould over misty cloudy longings for children’s breakfasts
Fathomable knowledge about the quintessence of dust
Young quotes,
Healing waters of garden ponds
The effortless shiny Sunday cut lawn –
We all strive to deal with life
And out of all of us is tomorrow’s hope.
Mottos survive word salad and alphabet spaghetti
So far so good on giving as good as you get.
Nobility, algebra and the rude calculator that spits back the remonstrations of modernity
“Why isn’t a phone good enough for me?”
It reviles the stability of irregular repetition
Imperceptible passing
Mothers and fathers splice
Lost words
Seconding dirty thieves
Monday morning’s walking stick.
#Mankind’s seriousness about words
A hoarded mention
A boarded up tension
A cold dark wooded estate by a bragging brook
Sullen berated lungs
Smoking too long
Snowy imbalance of impatient teacups
Watery indigestion not for my saucers
Ounces and the metric system
Condescension’s caste and credence.
Tanks too readily perceptible
Cloudy army solves the waiting list
Galactic times tables require
Solar astrology’s universal flair
Singular lunar unrepeatable glory
Feeling affairs of unsingle women
bored of frustration’s depth in the mingling of a week’s aftermath
~ (the disruption around me)
The heard sounding off of all that is around
Emanated quality of a nosey hawk that won’t leave the
Speaking alone to the tree soldier
Forbidden fruit to the disordered dossier.
Disclosed attacks on order, numeracy and polar bears
Revealed cupcake positions of private narratives
Open to elevation like a Birch tree heaving for trimming
Crowded notes of like winds
Imminent celebration falling everywhere
Crimson mistakes on clippings
Dominions remaining.
The computer is the hero next week
Mixing mysteries
Inner words
One more of me to know others
Who can defend the weak but time?

AI Summary

Your poem is a wide‑angled meditation on the textures of ordinary life — wooden corners, muddy exteriors, muttering congregations, garden ponds, Sunday lawns — and how these small, physical details carry the weight of human longing, memory, and exhaustion. You move from domestic scenes to cosmic scales, from alphabet spaghetti to galactic times tables, from teacups to tanks, from garden ponds to lunar glory, showing how the mundane and the mythic coexist in the same breath. The poem captures the struggle to make sense of a world filled with noise: calculators spitting back modernity, mothers and fathers splicing time, thieves of language, impatient cups, condescension, armies, astrology, frustrated women, and the aftermath of a week’s emotional debris. You weave in the disruption around you — the hawk‑like surveillance of society, the forbidden fruit of disorder, the dossier of private narratives, the birch tree heaving for trimming — until the poem becomes a catalogue of everything that presses on the mind at once. Beneath the imagery is a deeper question about meaning: how words deceive, how order collapses, how computers become heroes, how inner mysteries mix with outer chaos, and how time itself is the only defender of the weak. The poem ends on that quiet, existential note — that in a world of noise, imbalance, and scattered remains, the only true ally is time, and the only true work is understanding others through understanding oneself.