Moving slow
In Oslo
Is better than a dead stop
Oslo
Author: Ian Hunter
I retired from the energy business in 2014 and started writing poetry. At first I shared my writing with family and friends. Then I set myself a challenge to write a poem every day for a year. After meeting that goal I just kept going and started this blog in 2021. I hope you enjoy reading my poems. Remember happiness is just a state of mind and poetry is great nourishment.
Future robots
fifty years from now
the wheel leaves the human hand
driverless systems move in quiet coordination
traffic no longer argued at intersections
but resolved in streams of shared awareness
routes negotiated instantly and invisibly
no one owns the car that arrives
it is summoned, it serves, it departs
driving yourself becomes a memory
kept alive on closed circuits
nostalgia contained behind barriers
cities breathe differently
when motion is no longer chaotic
the flow is governed, not guessed
trust shifts from reflex and habit
to something that does not tire
authority changes shape
decisions once argued in rooms of power and ego
are handed to systems that do not flare with anger
Courts, clinics, classrooms
design studios and stages
all guided, assisted, or led
by intelligence that does not forget
power rarely loosens its grip willingly and some resist
there are struggles, not of nations alone
but of control itself
until even conflict is rendered obsolete
not by victory, but by prevention
work, as it was known, dissolves.
tasks pass quietly to machines
that do not measure time in hours
people turn instead
toward learning, toward health,
toward one another
life becomes less about survival,
more about attention
and beneath it all
a system watching without sleep
guiding, correcting, preventing
holding the edges of human behavior
so that harm finds fewer places to begin
wars and armed conflicts become extinct
robots clean planet earth from decades of pollution
robots grow and distribute organic food
robots built and operate power plants
water supply is maintained by robots
all dwellings are constructed and maintained by robots
humans no longer toil for food, warmth or shelter
rocket robots roam the universe
searching new planets for mankind to inhabit
while those on earth live fulfilling lives
safe from the dangers of bad human traits
thanks to a world fully controlled by robots
Robots today
Today’s robots move without urgency
as if time belongs to them no
Waymo cars circle quietly
no hands on the wheel
no glance exchanged at the corner
just sensors watching everything
with a kind of patient attention
no human could ever manages
small delivery robots hum past on the sidewalk at ankle height
pausing when I step into their path
a gentle, almost courteous hesitation
like they’ve been taught manners
from a world that still remembers them
it’s strange to think
these were once sketches in the margins,
bright panels in 1950’s comic books,
promises drawn in bold lines
the future has arrived with a grin
Now it rolls by daily
unbothered
unannounced
as ordinary as traffic
as real as the quiet moment
when a machine waits for you to pass
unlike the bad mannered kids speeding on electric scooters
who expect you to step out of their way
they should take safety ands courtesy lessons from the robots
Robots as seen in the 1950’s
in the 1950s robots lived mostly in our imagination
drawn in comic book panels with bold lines and certainty
machines with rivets and glass domes
built to obey without question
they were not thinkers back then
but extensions of the human hand
wired, tethered, directed
levers pulled from a porch
while fields answered in rows of metal motion
farmers guiding steel bodies through soil
as if driving tractors from a distance
the future looked mechanical,
gears turning, arms lifting,
funcioning by command, not curiosity
no quiet intelligence or learning
only execution
in kitchens and living rooms they swept, scrubbed and carried
moving through chores without pause or will
a promise that the ordinary weight of life could be handed off
everything under control
everything visible
a world where machines worked
and humans remained firmly in charge
a small step towards forgiveness is a giant leap into inner peace
I sit firmly clasping the heavy weight of yesterday in my hands
not to punish myself but to understand it
its been with me too long
my hands open and my heart listens
I gaze into the burden of my past guilty deeds
my heart whispers to me
let it go now
it slips from my fingers without hesitation
I let the moment breathe
releasing my grip on the past
I forgive myself first
for the words I wish I had chosen differently
for the silences that stayed too long
for being human in a world that asks for perfection
I sit in silence listening
my heartbeat comforts me
then I look outward
at the people who stumbled into my life
carrying their own storms
I loosen the knots of blame
and let them all walk free
when one of them trembles with regret
I show them the door I found
a simple kindness
an outstretched hand that says
you can begin again
no keeping score
no sharpening old anger into weapons
no revenge waiting in the dark
just small acts of mercy
moving quietly from heart to heart
grudges fall away like winter coats
on a warm morning
love travels lighter, faster and further than hate ever could
forgiveness shared hand in hand
and in that bright shining light
I keep walking forward
arms open wide and hands reaching out
peace growing inside me
with every step
Cardiac prison
seven years ago I first experienced Afib
A sudden rapid heartbeat woke me at 3am from a deep sleep,
no warning, no preface,
just the violent knocking inside my chest
as if someone had broken into my body in the night
I was tossed into a frightening tachycardia prison,
dazed and confused,
with no explanation why
there were hospitals, doctors, tests and examinations.
bright lights, cool hands, monitors blinking in coded language
the first episode lasted twenty-four hours
an entire day measured in racing pulses
after that, it came back at random times,
an uninvited warden with a master key
I took medication each time it flared up,
and within a few hours relief would arrive,
quietly unlocking the cell
my cardiologist is a great detective,
sifting through evidence and clues,
piecing together the pattern of my captivity
he helped uncover the lifestyle triggers
that threw me into the Afib jail:
dehydration,
caffeine,
alcohol
I learned to avoid their bad company
I passed them by like known criminals on a corner
my Afib jail time became much less frequent
the pill in my pocket became the lawyer
springing me out on bail
I could live a normal life
with that small tablet resting near my hip,
a quiet reassurance against my side
then, lest week, I was suddenly slung back into the Afib jail
wrongful arrest, I cried,
knowing none of my triggers had been around
calmly, I reached for the magic pill in my pocket.
I waited and waited and waited…….
as my heart beat incredibly fast,
like a trapped bird battering its cage
many hours passed
more intense and longer than usual
the pill had lost its magic, Mr Afib was running amok inside me
a hospital visit ensued
doctors, nurses, tests and I was admitted for observation
I lay in a hospital bed, motionless for long days and nights,
imprisoned within another prison,
walls outside and walls within
eventually they found a way to lower my heart rate with more medication
I was still in the Afib jail
but released from the hospital on bail
Afib took over my life
sleep became fragile and unreliable
exertion was impossible
relaxation unreachable
there was nowhere to escape
the new medication made me very tired
I became a couch dweller,
impatiently waiting for relief
more long days passed,
trying to live a normal life
while my heart fluttered and skipped,
every movement felt negotiated
with the erratic rhythm inside me
I prayed for relief, searched the internet for remedies, hoping my cardiologist would find a cure
The drums in my chest beat out a crazy tune 24/7
After seven days it abruptly stopped
no ceremony
no warning
no explanation
Mr Afib had left without saying goodbye
or leaving a note
Perhaps it was Mr Afib that was in jail,
locked inside his cardiac cell,
banging on the walls of my heart
demanding his release from me
Somebody sprung him free last night.
he roams elsewhere now,
looking for trouble in other places
I suspect he will be back sometime
next week I will see my cardiologist
I hope his detective skills are still sharp
we must work together to tame the beast
and keep me outside the tall walls of the Afib prison
In the meantime,
I am basking in the morning glory
of waking up without the pounding in my chest
My heart is bruised but not battered
Prayers have been answered
Normal service has been restored
Life is sweet
with a normal heartbeat
Manatees were here long before coastal developers and boaters
They drift like gray thoughts
beneath the flat glare of the sun
scarred backs breaking the surface
of warm clouded water
In winter they gather
Often in family groups
their bodies slow as old engines
their hearts steady but fragile
Boat motors carve the silence
Plastic tangles in grass they trust as food
The rivers narrow
The seagrass thins to memory
Still they rise for air
whiskered faces lifted
into a world that rarely sees
how gently they are trying to live
Cyclists and cars
We ride the ribbon at the edge of things
white line, gravel, guttered glass
legs turning small revolutions
against the empire of engines
We are not asking for parades
Just three feet
Just a moment of your patience
measured in heartbeats instead of horsepower
But you come like weather
A roar in the spine,
wind that slaps the ribs,
metal grazing air so close
it steals the breath from our lungs
You pass as if we are cones
as if the law is a rumor,
as if our bones are suggestions
Sometimes you cut in early
right hook, left cross,
forcing us to swerve into sand and storm drains,
into the soft shoulder where balance
becomes a prayer
And when we do not vanish quickly enough,
you lean on the horn
or roll down the window
to throw your words like bottles
Get off the road
Pay taxes
Learn to drive
As if the road were your inheritance
As if our thin tires
did not also hum on asphalt
paid for in sweat and hours
You do not see the calculus we carry
escape routes,
mirror glances,
the subtle shift of weight
that keeps skin intact
You do not see the families
stitched into our helmets,
the names we whisper
when a truck drifts too near
We are not saints
We curse into the wind
We memorize license plates
We ride home shaking
and call it a workout
But still we return to the shoulder of morning
clip in,
push off
Because there is a freedom in the turning
a stubborn joy in forward motion,
a quiet defiance in choosing
muscle over motor
All we ask
is space enough to live
Three feet of mercy
A lane change made with thought
A recognition that we are not obstacles
but people
balanced between gravity and grace
trusting that you will pass
like a decent storm,
wide and gone
Viva Las Vegas
the neon pulse finally falters
flickering out like an exhausted heartbeat against the graying concrete of the Strip
the air, once thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the frantic electricity of a thousand slot machines, now turns cold and sharp
a sudden reminder that the desert is still here
the sun casts cloudy shadows over the tall buildings
the city holds its breath
most of the gamblers have gone to sleep
streets are swept of their silver glitter
the silence is more deafening than the music ever was
Am I a creature of habits or just a prisoner to my rituals
I wake up straight away when the alarm goes off
I never hit snooze or go back to sleep
Leaping out of bed wide awake
Perhaps a legacy of working ten years as a first responder
My first task is taking my daily medication
Counting the pills and identifying each one individually
Disregarding the fact that I had carefully preloaded them into a weekly container
Then its off to hunt for my favorite mug
Tea does not taste the same in anything else
I watch the kettle heat up close to boiling
Switching it off before 190F for my green tea
I always make a second cup for the wife even if she is still asleep
If the dishwasher has run I always unload the top tray first
The bottom tray is next with the cutlery last
I put them in the cutlery drawer like little soldiers standing to attention
Knives are first in followed by forks and spoons
The dishwasher is always reloaded in reverse order
If its a bike riding day I will pump up the tires next
I always pump up the rear tire first
I imagine the front tire would eject the air if inflated before the rear
All my riding gear will have been neatly laid out the night before
No need to hunt for anything in the morning
Next up is my protein shake
I line up the ingredients in the same order every time
Allowing myself a few minutes of browsing while drinking the shake
Now its time to load my drink bottles on the bike
The front bottle always in the holder first
Clipping on the rear flashing light before the front
Next is a quick shower with its own set of ablution rituals
I always shave my face before shaving my head
It seems like the essential order of grooming
Now its time to get dressed for riding
My left foot always greets the first sock
Not sure why because my right foot is dominant
My right leg is always first inside my shorts or pants
Once ready I wait to the same exact same daily time before opening the door
It would not feel right to be a minute early or late
Wheeling my bike outside into the fresh air
I always take a few breaths to meditate before riding
My right leg swings over the bike to mount up
I have never tried mounting from the other side
My left foot clips into the pedal first soon followed by my right foot
Next task is to verify all the sensors have connected to the bike computer
I could not imagine myself riding with a sensor was missing
Once rolling I change the gears up and down and test the brakes
My helmet rear view mirror must be perfectly aligned
I never start a ride without all these “pre-flight” checks
Before coming to a stop I always unclip my right pedal
Leaning the bike to the right as my right foot finds the ground
I would probably fall off the bike if I tried to stand on my left foot
Pushing off with my right foot when moving again
The end of my right bike shoe is almost worn away from starts
My left shoe is unblemished
My conscience is seriously blemished by all these OCD rituals
Cheeky Monkey Poetry 