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Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . September 11th. September 11th. MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I implore you not to leave me now that I am once more happy and contented. Disregard what Thedora says, and I will do anything in the world for you. I will behave myself better, even if only out of respect for his Excellency, and guard my every action. Once more we will exchange cheerful letters with one another, and make mutual confidence of our thoughts and joys and sorrows (if so be that we shall know any more sorrows?). Yes, we will live twice as happily and comfortably as of old. Also, we will exchange books.... Angel of my heart, a great change has taken place in my fortunes—a change very much for the better. My landlady has become more accommodating; Theresa has recovered her senses; even Phaldoni springs to do my bidding. Likewise, I have made my peace with Rataziaev. He came to see me of his own accord, the moment that he heard the glad tidings. There can be no doubt that he is a good fellow, that there is no truth in the slanders that one hears of him. For one thing, I have discovered that he never had any intention of putting me and yourself into a book. This he told me himself, and then read to me his latest work. As for his calling me “Lovelace,” he had intended no rudeness or indecency thereby. The term is merely one of foreign derivation, meaning a clever fellow, or, in more literary and elegant language, a gentleman with whom one must reckon. That is all; it was a mere harmless jest, my beloved. Only ignorance made me lose my temper, and I have expressed to him my regret.... How beautiful is the weather today, my little Barbara! True, there was a slight frost in the early morning, as though scattered through a sieve, but it was nothing, and the breeze soon freshened the air. I went out to buy some shoes, and obtained a splendid pair. Then, after a stroll along the Nevski Prospect, I read “The Daily Bee”. This reminds me that I have forgotten to tell you the most important thing of all. It happened like this: This morning I had a talk with Emelia Ivanovitch and Aksenti Michaelovitch concerning his Excellency. Apparently, I am not the only person to whom he has acted kindly and been charitable, for he is known to the whole world for his goodness of heart. In many quarters his praises are to be heard; in many quarters he has called forth tears of gratitude. Among other things, he undertook the care of an orphaned girl, and married her to an official, the son of a poor widow, and found this man place in a certain chancellory, and in other ways benefited him. Well, dearest, I considered it to be my duty to add my mite by publishing abroad the story of his Excellency’s gracious treatment of myself. Accordingly, I related the whole occurrence to my interlocutors, and concealed not a single detail. In fact, I put my pride into my pocket—though why should I feel ashamed of having been elated by such an occurrence? “Let it only be noised afield,” said I to myself, and it will resound greatly to his Excellency’s credit.—So I expressed myself enthusiastically on the subject and never faltered. On the contrary, I felt proud to have such a story to tell. I referred to every one concerned (except to yourself, of course, dearest)—to my landlady, to Phaldoni, to Rataziaev, to Markov. I even mentioned the matter of my shoes! Some of those standing by laughed—in fact every one present did so, but probably it was my own figure or the incident of my shoes—more particularly the latter—that excited merriment, for I am sure it was not meant ill-naturedly. My hearers may have been young men, or well off; certainly they cannot have been laughing with evil intent at what I had said. Anything against his Excellency CANNOT have been in their thoughts. Eh, Barbara? Even now I cannot wholly collect my faculties, so upset am I by recent events.... Have you any fuel to go on with, Barbara? You must not expose yourself to cold. Also, you have depressed my spirits with your fears for the future. Daily I pray to God on your behalf. Ah, HOW I pray to Him!... Likewise, have you any woollen stockings to wear, and warm clothes generally? Mind you, if there is anything you need, you must not hurt an old man’s feelings by failing to apply to him for what you require. The bad times are gone now, and the future is looking bright and fair. But what bad times they were, Barbara, even though they be gone, and can no longer matter! As the years pass on we shall gradually recover ourselves. How clearly I remember my youth! In those days I never had a kopeck to spare. Yet, cold and hungry though I was, I was always light-hearted. In the morning I would walk the Nevski Prospect, and meet nice-looking people, and be happy all day. Yes, it was a glorious, a glorious time! It was good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg. Yet it is but yesterday that I was beseeching God with tears to pardon me my sins during the late sorrowful period—to pardon me my murmurings and evil thoughts and gambling and drunkenness. And you I remembered in my prayers, for you alone have encouraged and comforted me, you alone have given me advice and instruction. I shall never forget that, dearest. Today I gave each one of your letters a kiss.... Goodbye, beloved. I have been told that there is going to be a sale of clothing somewhere in this neighbourhood. Once more goodbye, goodbye, my angel—Yours in heart and soul, MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Fyodor Dostoyevsky (2000). Poor Folk. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2302/pg2302-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I implore you not to leave me now 

ProductHunt Hunting Etiquette Greetings! 👋 My name is Alexander . I’m a and . My work requires being well informed about new tech products and startups, that is why has been my favourite place on the web for the last few years. Isora web creator blockchain enthusiast ProductHunt had been founded long time ago by . Initially ProductHunt was nothing but a helping discovering cool tech products. Today, it’s the face of the industry. ProductHunt Ryan Hoover newsletter startup Many tech products use ProductHunt as a very efficient promotion platform. For small beginning teams, PH is the market entry point. And being successful there is often extremely important. Via Giphy. To be successful on ProductHunt, one must be well prepared. The team must be ready for a 48 hours work , the social media should be active, the landing page must be polished, CDNs and servers are tuned etc. “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail “—Benjamin Franklin And the crucial point is to know exactly your ProductHunt debut is. It often happens that guys are hunted unexpectedly. And, if they are lucky enough to notice the surprise, they have to drop everything and urgently accumulate all the power. when The example living is , whose has been recently hunted without his will. Sad results we see. Josh Petty CryptoAquarium Via Giphy. To avoid such occasions I’ve created . The idea is dead simple: donthuntmenow.club TL;DR Makers should: Create an .html page telling about their ProductHunt preferences (or download the free page from ). donthuntmenow.club Place it in the “/ph” directory of their website. Make sure that visiting “/ph” returns the “/ph.html” (or any other *.html) or redirects to a website that describes their ProductHunt hunting preferences. Hunters should: Before hunting a startup, have a look at their “/ph”. For example, before hunting CryptoHackers.party, go to and see if I want the product to be hunted. https://cryptohackers.party/ph Connect the product owners and be sure that the team is fully prepared and ready for the hunt. Being nice to each other, we will make the world a much better place and create a larger influence on it.

Do Not Hunt Me Now🙅🏻

VPN: Now You See Me, Now You… Still Do…

How to Define, Save, and Restore Models in TensorFlow

Як вызначыць, захаваць і аднаўліць мадэлі ў TensorFlow

Com definir, guardar i restaurar models en TensorFlow

Cómo definir, guardar y restaurar modelos en TensorFlow

Ինչպե՞ս ստանալ, պահել եւ վերադառնալ մոդելներ TensorFlow- ում

TensorFlowでモデルを定義、保存、および復元する方法

როგორ დააყენოთ, გადარჩენა და გადარჩენა მოდელები TensorFlow

Осылайша Франклин өз беделін қайтадан қайтарып, саяси аренаға қайта

उनले हाइड्रोसिल, हर्निया, एपेक्टोमी लगायतको सेवा समेत सुरु गरे ।

How to Define, Save, and Restore Models in TensorFlow இல் மாதிரிகளை அமைப்பது எப்படி

Cách định nghĩa, lưu và khôi phục mô hình trong TensorFlow

Indlela yokufaka, ukugcina, kunye nokuguqula iimodeli kwi-TensorFlow

如何在 TensorFlow 中定义、保存和恢复模型

Here's the 7-Step Framework I Use to Get Ahead in Automation Testing

Lies We Often Tell Ourselves: Simplicity, Microservices, and More

Valentine Special: Hot or Not? The Unbalanced Scale of Modern Dating

Picture a young freshman in the early 90s, fresh out of high school, proudly clutching a scholarship for a Bachelor of Commerce. That was me, standing at what I thought was the beginning of a carefully planned path. Yet beneath the surface of that commerce scholarship lay a different passion, one that had consistently earned me accolades throughout my high school years: Industrial Arts. The irony doesn't escape me now. My original scholarship intended application was meant for a New Zealand Certificate in Engineering (NZCE) in Architecture, a prestigious qualification that aligned perfectly with my natural inclinations. But like many young people, I found myself swayed by well-meaning voices, my father's and my form teacher's, steering me toward what they believed was a more practical path in Finance and Economics. What followed was a lesson in life's unexpected turns. Two years in New Zealand playing rugby for Mount Albert Grammar School (MAGS) and Auckland Grammar School (AGS), despite championship winnings and victories, left me with more injuries than achievements. Yet sometimes, what appears to be a setback carries within it the seed of transformation. Being dropped from AGS 1st XV, a disappointment at the time, became the wake-up call that redirected my focus back to academics, ultimately leading to passing my bursary exam and qualifying for university. But life wasn't done teaching me about resilience. The loss of my scholarship in that first year at MAGS, coupled with my father's temporary pause from civil service, pushed me into the workforce. For ten years, I worked, starting at the very bottom of the corporate ladder, carrying within me that dormant dream of education. Then came what some might call coincidence, but what I recognize now as divine intervention, another scholarship opportunity, this time in computing science and information systems. This morning, my brother Dr. Laiseni Fanon Charisma Liava'a shared a profound insight about life that perfectly encapsulates what I've learned through this journey. He said and I paraphrase, "Life is so much easier when we accept that we do not know everything and we do not control anything. We should just trust on the creator of this Universe to provide accordingly the best for us at that perfect point in time." Sounds like destiny? These words resonate deeply with my own experience. The path I traveled wasn't the one I originally envisioned, but it was exactly the one I needed. Each setback, the rugby injuries, the lost scholarship, the years of work, wasn't just a obstacle but a stepping stone leading to where I needed to be. Remember what I said about will-power in my previous piece? About how our capacity for change lies not just in our desires but in our ability to persist? Now I understand that this persistence isn't just about forcing our way forward, it's about having the strength to keep getting up after being knocked down, yes, but also having the wisdom to recognize when life is redirecting us toward a better path. This journey has taught me that true will-power isn't just about pushing through obstacles, it's about maintaining faith in the face of uncertainty. It's about trusting that even when our carefully laid plans crumble, something greater might be at work. To those of you facing similar crossroads or setbacks, remember this: your path might not be straight, but every turn has purpose. Keep nurturing your passions, even when circumstances seem to pull you away from them. Stay open to the possibility that what appears to be a detour might actually be divine redirection. For in the end, our greatest achievements often lie not in the perfect execution of our plans, but in our ability to remain faithful to our journey, even when the destination changes. The road continues to unfold... Picture a young freshman in the early 90s, fresh out of high school, proudly clutching a scholarship for a Bachelor of Commerce. That was me, standing at what I thought was the beginning of a carefully planned path. Yet beneath the surface of that commerce scholarship lay a different passion, one that had consistently earned me accolades throughout my high school years: Industrial Arts. The irony doesn't escape me now. My original scholarship intended application was meant for a New Zealand Certificate in Engineering (NZCE) in Architecture, a prestigious qualification that aligned perfectly with my natural inclinations. But like many young people, I found myself swayed by well-meaning voices, my father's and my form teacher's, steering me toward what they believed was a more practical path in Finance and Economics. What followed was a lesson in life's unexpected turns. Two years in New Zealand playing rugby for Mount Albert Grammar School (MAGS) and Auckland Grammar School (AGS), despite championship winnings and victories, left me with more injuries than achievements. Yet sometimes, what appears to be a setback carries within it the seed of transformation. Being dropped from AGS 1st XV, a disappointment at the time, became the wake-up call that redirected my focus back to academics, ultimately leading to passing my bursary exam and qualifying for university. But life wasn't done teaching me about resilience. The loss of my scholarship in that first year at MAGS, coupled with my father's temporary pause from civil service, pushed me into the workforce. For ten years, I worked, starting at the very bottom of the corporate ladder, carrying within me that dormant dream of education. Then came what some might call coincidence, but what I recognize now as divine intervention, another scholarship opportunity, this time in computing science and information systems. This morning, my brother Dr. Laiseni Fanon Charisma Liava'a shared a profound insight about life that perfectly encapsulates what I've learned through this journey. He said and I paraphrase, "Life is so much easier when we accept that we do not know everything and we do not control anything. We should just trust on the creator of this Universe to provide accordingly the best for us at that perfect point in time." Sounds like destiny? Dr. Laiseni Fanon Charisma Liava'a Dr. Laiseni Fanon Charisma Liava'a These words resonate deeply with my own experience. The path I traveled wasn't the one I originally envisioned, but it was exactly the one I needed. Each setback, the rugby injuries, the lost scholarship, the years of work, wasn't just a obstacle but a stepping stone leading to where I needed to be. Remember what I said about will-power in my previous piece? About how our capacity for change lies not just in our desires but in our ability to persist? Now I understand that this persistence isn't just about forcing our way forward, it's about having the strength to keep getting up after being knocked down, yes, but also having the wisdom to recognize when life is redirecting us toward a better path. This journey has taught me that true will-power isn't just about pushing through obstacles, it's about maintaining faith in the face of uncertainty. It's about trusting that even when our carefully laid plans crumble, something greater might be at work. To those of you facing similar crossroads or setbacks, remember this: your path might not be straight, but every turn has purpose. Keep nurturing your passions, even when circumstances seem to pull you away from them. Stay open to the possibility that what appears to be a detour might actually be divine redirection. For in the end, our greatest achievements often lie not in the perfect execution of our plans, but in our ability to remain faithful to our journey, even when the destination changes. The road continues to unfold...

An Unplanned Path Led me Right Where I Belonged

Profound Ignorance in the Age of AI: Lobste.rs as a Case Study

Like many authors I have been playing around with AI. It both excites me and frightens me. So I did this AI experiment with an original poem written by me called COLD. Then I turned to AI. and I curated this anthology. Poetry is a realm where language, emotion, and thought collide, each poet bringing a unique lens through which we see and understand the world. I embarked on this exploration of translation, inviting the voices of many poets to converge around a single poem, not only to honor the legacy they’ve each left us but to experience how distinct styles and eras might reshape a singular idea. Each poet brings with them a way of seeing, a different rhythm and shade of light, refracting the poem through a prism of voices that echoes the diversity of human expression. In this anthology, you will find translations inspired by: Geoffrey Chaucer, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickinson, James Joyce, Patrick Kavanagh, Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, William Shakespeare, Franz Kafka, Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Wordsworth, Homer, T. S. Eliot, John Keats, William Butler Yeats, Hunter S. Thompson, Walt Whitman, William Blake, Eavan Boland, Spike Milligan, Samuel Beckett, Dylan Thomas, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Omar Khayyam. Each interpretation is an experiment—a passage through time, culture, and tone. In embracing these voices, I hope to unearth new meanings in the familiar, a tribute to the richness of poetry’s varied forms and an invitation to consider how timeless words can shift, resonate, and reinvent themselves through different eyes. I hope you like my experiment - I loved doing this. Please support my writing and exploration. A digital version of my book is available now. A paperback is also available. Here is the original poem Cold: Cold by Jillian Godsil Robinson Crusoe I am not. The abandoned island I live on is just above Arklow harbour
– it’s a floating pontoon with a timber frame, no window, no door, three sides with an opening facing the sea.
Cold
The opening facing the sea means only gulls look in, surprised,to see a grizzled old man hugging a thin blanket, trying to keep warm.
Cold
In the morning I am dragged from my stupor by the cold morning light, more often than not accompanied by rain.This is winter and winter in Arklow lasts all year, or at least until July.
Cold.
I stand up, stiffly and shed my thin blanket, like skin off a snake.Walking to the edge I greet the sea gulls, surprised, and open my flies to aim a steaming arc of water into the sea.
Cold
I wouldn’t give the steam off my piss to anyone, cos nobody would give it to me.I return my impotent worm and close my flies. Kavanagh knew all about that alright.
Cold
Returning to my corner I have a choice. Curl up under the threadbare blanket or make out for town. The urge to defecate forces my hand and I stand up again, unsteadily. I have before bobbed the arse over the edge but the floating accusers cannot all be blamed on the sewage works. Anyway, Maise’s café will be open and there is tea available there.Warm
I fold my blanket, like I was taught, and close my coat, slept in, and start out. The steel light of early morning, shards the seawater, cupping little curls of white. Head down, I hasten to the main street and steal in, before the regulars. I stink too much for polite society.Stench
Deposit left, tea drank, bones a little warmer, I nod thanks to Maise and leave, before I create a bubble of old man stench in the corner by the door. I look back and she is already wiping down the table and seat.Stench
Better to be in the semi-open air, facing the surprised seagulls whirling overhead, where I can think for the day.Cold
If every man should be his wife and the honeymoon is in the hand, then I have no need of anything else. Now I don’t even have need of the hand, drop the hand, drop it. Only the gulls talk to me now, surprised, but even they would suck the eyeballs from my head if let.Juicy. And here is AI’s version as a haiku poem: Cold wind on the dock,Gulls glance at a threadbare soul—Sea whispers alone.
Rain taps at dawn’s light,Old bones rise from ragged dreams—Gulls look, cold, surprised.Tea warms brittle hands,Steam fades with a nod, unseen—The stench stays behind.Waves curl in the grey,Gulls circle, waiting for scraps—Eyes, juicy, they dream. To read more, please visit my author page on Amazon Like many authors I have been playing around with AI. It both excites me and frightens me. So I did this AI experiment with an original poem written by me called COLD. Then I turned to AI. and I curated this anthology. Poetry is a realm where language, emotion, and thought collide, each poet bringing a unique lens through which we see and understand the world. I embarked on this exploration of translation, inviting the voices of many poets to converge around a single poem, not only to honor the legacy they’ve each left us but to experience how distinct styles and eras might reshape a singular idea. Each poet brings with them a way of seeing, a different rhythm and shade of light, refracting the poem through a prism of voices that echoes the diversity of human expression. In this anthology, you will find translations inspired by: Geoffrey Chaucer, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickinson, James Joyce, Patrick Kavanagh, Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, William Shakespeare, Franz Kafka, Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Wordsworth, Homer, T. S. Eliot, John Keats, William Butler Yeats, Hunter S. Thompson, Walt Whitman, William Blake, Eavan Boland, Spike Milligan, Samuel Beckett, Dylan Thomas, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Omar Khayyam. Each interpretation is an experiment—a passage through time, culture, and tone. In embracing these voices, I hope to unearth new meanings in the familiar, a tribute to the richness of poetry’s varied forms and an invitation to consider how timeless words can shift, resonate, and reinvent themselves through different eyes. I hope you like my experiment - I loved doing this. Please support my writing and exploration. A digital version of my book is available now. A paperback is also available. Here is the original poem Cold: Cold by Jillian Godsil Robinson Crusoe I am not. The abandoned island I live on is just above Arklow harbour – it’s a floating pontoon with a timber frame, no window, no door, three sides with an opening facing the sea. Cold The opening facing the sea means only gulls look in, surprised, to see a grizzled old man hugging a thin blanket, trying to keep warm. Cold In the morning I am dragged from my stupor by the cold morning light, more often than not accompanied by rain. This is winter and winter in Arklow lasts all year, or at least until July. Cold. I stand up, stiffly and shed my thin blanket, like skin off a snake. Walking to the edge I greet the sea gulls, surprised, and open my flies to aim a steaming arc of water into the sea. Cold I wouldn’t give the steam off my piss to anyone, cos nobody would give it to me. I return my impotent worm and close my flies. Kavanagh knew all about that alright. Cold Returning to my corner I have a choice. Curl up under the threadbare blanket or make out for town. The urge to defecate forces my hand and I stand up again, unsteadily. I have before bobbed the arse over the edge but the floating accusers cannot all be blamed on the sewage works. Anyway, Maise’s café will be open and there is tea available there. Warm I fold my blanket, like I was taught, and close my coat, slept in, and start out. The steel light of early morning, shards the seawater, cupping little curls of white. Head down, I hasten to the main street and steal in, before the regulars. I stink too much for polite society. Stench Deposit left, tea drank, bones a little warmer, I nod thanks to Maise and leave, before I create a bubble of old man stench in the corner by the door. I look back and she is already wiping down the table and seat. Stench Better to be in the semi-open air, facing the surprised seagulls whirling overhead, where I can think for the day. Cold If every man should be his wife and the honeymoon is in the hand, then I have no need of anything else. Now I don’t even have need of the hand, drop the hand, drop it. Only the gulls talk to me now, surprised, but even they would suck the eyeballs from my head if let. Juicy. Robinson Crusoe I am not. The abandoned island I live on is just above Arklow harbour Robinson Crusoe I am not. The abandoned island I live on is just above Arklow harbour – it’s a floating pontoon with a timber frame, no window, no door, three sides with an opening facing the sea. – it’s a floating pontoon with a timber frame, no window, no door, three sides with an opening facing the sea. Cold Cold The opening facing the sea means only gulls look in, surprised, The opening facing the sea means only gulls look in, surprised, to see a grizzled old man hugging a thin blanket, trying to keep warm. to see a grizzled old man hugging a thin blanket, trying to keep warm. Cold Cold In the morning I am dragged from my stupor by the cold morning light, more often than not accompanied by rain. In the morning I am dragged from my stupor by the cold morning light, more often than not accompanied by rain. This is winter and winter in Arklow lasts all year, or at least until July. This is winter and winter in Arklow lasts all year, or at least until July. Cold. Cold. I stand up, stiffly and shed my thin blanket, like skin off a snake. I stand up, stiffly and shed my thin blanket, like skin off a snake. Walking to the edge I greet the sea gulls, surprised, and open my flies to aim a steaming arc of water into the sea. Walking to the edge I greet the sea gulls, surprised, and open my flies to aim a steaming arc of water into the sea. Cold Cold I wouldn’t give the steam off my piss to anyone, cos nobody would give it to me. I wouldn’t give the steam off my piss to anyone, cos nobody would give it to me. I return my impotent worm and close my flies. Kavanagh knew all about that alright. I return my impotent worm and close my flies. Kavanagh knew all about that alright. Cold Cold Returning to my corner I have a choice. Curl up under the threadbare blanket or make out for town. The urge to defecate forces my hand and I stand up again, unsteadily. I have before bobbed the arse over the edge but the floating accusers cannot all be blamed on the sewage works. Anyway, Maise’s café will be open and there is tea available there. Returning to my corner I have a choice. Curl up under the threadbare blanket or make out for town. The urge to defecate forces my hand and I stand up again, unsteadily. I have before bobbed the arse over the edge but the floating accusers cannot all be blamed on the sewage works. Anyway, Maise’s café will be open and there is tea available there. Warm Warm I fold my blanket, like I was taught, and close my coat, slept in, and start out. The steel light of early morning, shards the seawater, cupping little curls of white. Head down, I hasten to the main street and steal in, before the regulars. I stink too much for polite society. I fold my blanket, like I was taught, and close my coat, slept in, and start out. The steel light of early morning, shards the seawater, cupping little curls of white. Head down, I hasten to the main street and steal in, before the regulars. I stink too much for polite society. Stench Stench Deposit left, tea drank, bones a little warmer, I nod thanks to Maise and leave, before I create a bubble of old man stench in the corner by the door. I look back and she is already wiping down the table and seat. Deposit left, tea drank, bones a little warmer, I nod thanks to Maise and leave, before I create a bubble of old man stench in the corner by the door. I look back and she is already wiping down the table and seat. Stench Stench Better to be in the semi-open air, facing the surprised seagulls whirling overhead, where I can think for the day. Better to be in the semi-open air, facing the surprised seagulls whirling overhead, where I can think for the day. Cold Cold If every man should be his wife and the honeymoon is in the hand, then I have no need of anything else. Now I don’t even have need of the hand, drop the hand, drop it. Only the gulls talk to me now, surprised, but even they would suck the eyeballs from my head if let. If every man should be his wife and the honeymoon is in the hand, then I have no need of anything else. Now I don’t even have need of the hand, drop the hand, drop it. Only the gulls talk to me now, surprised, but even they would suck the eyeballs from my head if let. Juicy. Juicy. And here is AI’s version as a haiku poem: Cold wind on the dock,Gulls glance at a threadbare soul—Sea whispers alone. Rain taps at dawn’s light,Old bones rise from ragged dreams—Gulls look, cold, surprised. Tea warms brittle hands,Steam fades with a nod, unseen—The stench stays behind. Waves curl in the grey,Gulls circle, waiting for scraps—Eyes, juicy, they dream. Cold wind on the dock, Gulls glance at a threadbare soul— Sea whispers alone. Rain taps at dawn’s light, Old bones rise from ragged dreams— Gulls look, cold, surprised. Tea warms brittle hands, Steam fades with a nod, unseen— The stench stays behind. Waves curl in the grey, Gulls circle, waiting for scraps— Eyes, juicy, they dream. To read more, please visit my author page on Amazon Amazon

COLD - a Poem by One Poet and Many More

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