V 14 N. 76 Artificial Intelligence Comes to This Blog

 There is a low level AI link that showed up on my computer recently.   It is called Gemini.  I did not even know it was AI until this morning when I clicked on it to see what the hell it was.  I asked it a few questions which it answered rather promptly, so I decided to test it a bit more and asked it to write a poem about running on a cold wintry day reminiscent of a poem I put on this blog a few years ago about a cold winter's run on Robbie Burns night.  Some of you may remember that bit, but in case you do not, here is my laborious composition followed by that of Gemini.

                                                      Cold Sores on an Aging Rump

                                                                  by George Brose

                                        Composed for a Bobby Burns Gatherin’ February 4, 2023

The day was cold and full of rage when I hit the road 

On what seemed a tune up, a final phase .

Butterflies and grizzly bears slept in winter beds warm and dreaming of coming days.

But no, myself I had to prove what I already knew would be an agonizing test, 

My bum would freeze.

Off went the sweat 

And soon  the tee,

As we were passin' mile three.

By lap two I was peeling off the tights 

Feeling a warmth  of Elysian heights.

Unbeknowst that hidden ice 

In shadow betrayed by beer-glazed eyes.

Soon  'twas I  a flyin' high

With flailing body quit askew.

Through the air not toward yon finish line 

but rather future twisted spine.

Yes, and so to land on matted hair.

Behold a scalp wound was all that broke 

My fall as well by  gluteus caught

In yon twisted wire fence  you might a thought

The barbs of which were tetanus wrought.

My arse was gouged by fiendish wire

And misfortune imbued by muck and mire.

My pager smashed by wanton fall

And so for help I could not call.

Carried on by pride, the fool, 

Soon to rue that decision so not cool,

Which came from  bum rather than brain.

As time wore on my arse knew pain.

A breeding ground grown fetid with germs and maggots,  snot

Wracked by pain, relenting not

A twitch from the added strain 

Of picking up the pace, 

Headwind hard burnished my face.

With storm a brewing, 

Knowing to stop would be my  undoing.

Arrived to ER, butt bedraggled, 

That freaking fence was still entangled.

‘Tis a royal screwing near at hand.

But not of me, just my medical plan.

As multiple docs would each consign 

A consulting quack to check my spine 

To recommend a test not yet invented 

So when I’m billed, I’ll be indebted.

And so I rest these weary bones ‘neath bended willows scarfin' scones 

Reading Burns and barfing Haggis 

Jawing with runners, we’ll feed the maggots.

Think you that I am weak, well 'nigh  morose ? 

"Not true", I speak.

 I know what means a dose, 

Of intervals, fartleks, snowy roads (Sigh!)

Now but a laddie a stayin’ close 

Who dreams of drinking Athol Brose*

*Athol Brose , a traditional Scottish drink made of wild honey, scotch, cream, and the elixir of water poured off soaking raw oats.

 

And now to the wave of the future

                               Robbie Burns’ Ode to a Runner 

                                                    by Gemini

The wind it howls, a banshee's wail, 

As runners brave the icy gale. 

Robbie Burns' night, a festive cheer,

But frosty air brings biting fear.

The ground is hard, the path is slick,

Each step a challenge, every tick 

Of frozen breath, a frosty sigh, 

As legs grow weary, spirits die.

The haggis waits, a warming prize, 

But distance mocks with icy eyes. 

The runners grit, their teeth they clench, 

For Burns' night glory, every inch.

The finish line, a distant gleam, 

But warmth and whiskey, a sweet dream. 

So raise a glass to those who dare, 

The frozen runners, beyond compare.

Gemini clearly shows more literary discipline, sticking closely to rhyme and meter.  

God did I say 'meter'? when most of you still think in feet and inches and miles?   Does Gemini let it all hang out on the icy paths and understand the  feel of injury or the pain of modern day medicine and cost of a good medical plan?  The judgement is yours dear readers.

And here is another AI form from Chat gpt on running on Burns night  much more the sound of Scotland.

Ode to the Runner

Ae brisk, chill morn, wi’ sky sae grey,
A runner rose tae greet the day.
Wi’ laces tied an’ heart aglow,
They hit the paths where wild winds blow.

Wi’ stride sae sure an’ rhythm fine,
The world unfurled, a grand design.
The fields, the hills, the roaring streams,
Each step a chase o’ fleeting dreams.

The road ahead, a steadfast foe,
Yet in its challenge, spirits grow.
The aching limbs, the labored breath,
Defy the whispers o’ near defeat's death.

O lass or lad, who kens the thrill,
O' racing doon the heathered hill,
Ye are nae beast, but wild and free,
A force o’ nature, bold tae be!

Through rain an’ sleet, through snow an’ sun,
The runner’s heart has just begun.
Wi’ Robbie’s spirit tae inspire,
Aye, fuel yer steps wi’ poet’s fire!

Sae lift a toast, tae legs that burn,
Tae strides unbroken, sharp and stern.
For running's freedom, pure and fleet,
A bard's own soul in rhythm’s beat.

Brose 1 - AI 0       Bill Schnier

	2:38 PM (2 hours ago)
to me

Give me the human’s verse. It has heart. Good on you, George. 

Jay B

from Jim Mosher

"I'm sorry George I can't allow that."  with apologies to Stanley Kubrik

I didn't know the quote.  Here is the source.  GB

“I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that” is a line from Stanley Kubrick's 1968 film 

2001: A Space Odyssey. It was spoken by the character HAL 9000, a sentient computer 

that shocked audiences with its calm, modulated voice. The line is considered to have had 

a significant influence on the development of electronic assistants like Siri and Alexa.

George, I didn't know you're a poet--and a good one.  The poem created by AI

 is excellent--and scary. - John

George, this is not healthy.  You need to find work to fill your time. 

 I'm thinking something along the lines of Walmart greeter.  

Roy Mason

You did all of this with chatGPT?    Mike Waters

A thirty second training session with my granddaughter while I was driving the car showed me how 

to get on Chat gpt.   With that knowledge about five minutes to open it up and crank out the second 

poem.    A good tool when you have to get something done at work, you can't focus and you would 

rather be playing golf, pickle ball, running or drinking.  Hey boss, do I really need to sit at my desk 

for forty hours a week?   George

I wonder if employees are concerned with A.I. taking over their jobs?       do pickleball and drinking 

go together?  Mike

I think you can do them simultaneously.  Let's see what Chat gpt thinks  George Here's the site's message Pickleball and Drinks: A Rally of Fun On the court where paddles swing, A tale unfolds—a jovial thing. The pickleball flies, swift and true, While in one hand rests a frosty brew. The clink of glasses meets the sound Of rubber balls that bounce around. With every serve and every sip, Coordination takes a slippery dip. A lob, a dink, a volley in air, Players stumble with little care. For laughter reigns, the game's delight, Fueled by drinks on a moonlit night. The rules grow loose, the shots less clean, But spirits rise on this lively scene. A toast to friends, both old and new, And games where chaos sees us through. So grab your paddle, grab your cup, Let’s serve some laughs and bottoms up! In this fusion of sport and cheer, Pickleball’s magic is crystal clear. ya killen me! LOL!  Mike I gotta freakin' stop this. I'm beginning to understand the appeal of drugs.  George This from Dr. James Metcalf former member of Oklahoma State WR 2 mile relay team  I see you have listed some running poetry...this was written after a Federation Invitational meet at Houston.  I was a freshman and Coach Higgins got me  into the race with the upper classmen to get some experience.     The starter cried loudly "Runners take your marks" And 12 half-milers lined up for the start Of a race which later turned out to be A rockem, sockem, nightmare for John, Dave and me. The starters gun rose high in the sky And five seconds later, we started to fly Down the track for the curve which lay just ahead And each had in his heart a fear and  a dread That he would be bumped and knocked to the track, And be trampled under by the horses in back. By a miracle, the first turned we made with no  loss Of a trackman, thinclad, racer or hoss. Down the back stretch and into the turn And by the first lap 12 half-milers did burn. In a time that was slow for even a snail Then around the turn and down the back stretch The pace pick up and  I just had to catch The pack just ahead, so that I would win But I did not make it for I was boxed in. I pushed and I shoved, and then there was dawn I raced thru the hole but the hosses were gone. I  ran like a mad man around the last turn With my arms a churning down stretch I did burn. I hit the line at the end of the race But I had not won, I had finished seventh place. This race was not run, to me, for naught For the greatest of lessons I have been taught. If the tape at the finish, you want to crack Then race down the back stretch at the head of the pack.                                                              Jim Metcalf                                                            Frosh OSU `64