Category: poetry

Future robots

Ian Hunter1 Comment

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

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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

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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

Ian Hunter2 Comments

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

Manatees were here long before coastal developers and boaters

Ian Hunter2 Comments

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

Ian Hunter4 Comments

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

Ian Hunter1 Comment

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

Good morning Las Vegas

Wedding Celebration Reading

Ian Hunter1 Comment

Today’s the day, the moment is here

Abby and Addison—we’re all full of cheer!

Soon the I do’s and promises will be said

A brand-new adventure for them lies ahead

Now Addison’s other passion is something ever so cool

Football, AKA soccer and his team is the mighty Liverpool

“Come on you reds” is the song he sings like a vow

So Abby you must learn to sing along with him now

While Abby may smile at his game-day obsession

She knows that his heart is her true possession

Because love, like football, takes teamwork, passion and great insight

And if you play really well you might get lucky and score every night

But marriage is a lot more than a 90 minute game

Its a lifelong match without a referee to blame

Together they’ll enjoy what marriage may bring

like dirty dishes, financial decisions, and watching Mo Salah running down the wing

They’ll dance through the highs, laugh off the lows

build a strong team where the victory grows

Now marriage is not just one single shining day

it’s cheering each other in every good or bad play

Please remember this day with affection and pride

Stay loyal to each other and never drift offside

So here’s to the Wests—forever the best

may love be their anthem, their cheer, their quest

Listen to the roar from your wedding fan zone

They’re singing “Addison and Abby”

“You’ll never walk alone! ”

Country life

Ian Hunter1 Comment

English countryside

East Sussex

Rolling hills

Green fields

Windy roads

Tall hedges

Tiny villages

Local pub

Warm beer

Pub lunch

Good banter

Friendly people

Slow pace

Afternoon stroll

Sunny intervals

Dark clouds

Passing shower

No shelter

Soaking wet

Trudge home

Warm fire

Dry clothes

Feeling hungry

Heading out

Pub food

Fried cod

French fries

Warm beer

Country life

Ideas

Ian Hunter2 Comments

Ideas arrive like small sparks

Not enough to light a fire

But bright enough to to distract you

Some cling to the edges of your thoughts

Thin as spider webs

Trembling with the weight of expectation

Others stagger around aimlessly and fall into oblivion

Ideas do not come with a manual or a tool kit to finish the build

They do not explain themselves

They press against your silence

Asking to be acknowledged

Not seeking approval

Simply wanting recognition

Left untouched they will fade away

Leaving a feint trace

A memory of what might have been

Embraced ideas will sometimes flourish

Especially if you develop them with a passion

Occasionally emerging from the sea of your imagination onto the dry land of reality

Waiting patiently for that inevitable question at a dinner party

And where are you from?

Replying

I was just an idea before