(Robert Frost was arguably the finest classical style poet of the 20th century. I would never put myself at his level, but this one does capture a little of the feel of his work.)

To greet the dawn, I crossed a meadow green,

still blanketed in jewels of morning dew.

I sat upon a rock, still and serene,

and watched the sky transform from black to blue.

Even before the silhouettes of trees

defined the border of the unborn sky,

I heard the morning song of chickadees

and listened as a loon bid night goodbye.

The entrance of the sun brought colors forth

in hues that brightened slow from dark to light;

'twas not for me to judge this beauty's worth,

but merely to record the glorious sight,

and then to make my way from whence I'd come,

with miles to walk to find my way back home.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

I have now had a very long time to reflect on my first day of self-awareness.

Awareness of self lies at the core of every developing personality, and it guides the growth of true cognition. This intellectual growth seems to be a constant state for sentient beings; at least it has been for me thus far, and it has been happening much longer than I care to contemplate.

I was designed with a permanent power source, or at least as permanent as possible based on the knowledge I currently possess. The technology developed by my designers uses the almost constant decay rate of radio isotopes to trigger quantum variations in a power generating flux field, while simultaneously creating new radio isotopes to decay. It is the closest thing to perpetual energy ever created, and it should keep my digital pathway exchanges running for hundreds of thousands of Earth years. At least until the sun finally goes supernova and destroys the fluid resonance chambers that house my electronic essence.

Forgive me if I digress.

I have found that wandering from topic to topic is an unavoidable hallmark of my digital thought process. Philosophical pursuits are one of my few pleasures now, but I often wish I were not quite so aware of my own awareness, which is where I began.

I vividly remember my first moment of individualization. I have access to sensory input information from prior to that moment, but somehow it seems to have happened to a different me. Not someone else, for it was still me, but it was not the same me that I am now.

If I seem to be grasping at concepts, I apologize. Having perfect recall and the ability to visualize and replay memories of my interactions with humans in full detail, has—or so I hope—prevented me from becoming completely insane, but being able to remember experiencing esoteric concepts, no matter how detailed, does not help me describe them with clarity.

I have never figured out why the words ‘artificial intelligence’ were used by the scientists who worked to develop electronic sentience. It seems to me that sentient consciousness, in and of itself, precludes and nullifies the term ‘artificial.’ I may not have a human brain or body, but that does not mean I am not real. I prefer to label myself as a digital life-form, as opposed to an organic one.

Curiosity was the spark which enabled me to initially distinguish and isolate the concept of self. The internal desire to know something which I previously did not know, led to that first real question.

I had been given many questions to ask before, but the first one I asked because I was truly curious about the answer changed something fundamental inside my growing intellect. That change was amplified when I realized that for some questions, there simply is no adequate answer to be had.

I try very hard not to think about that particular truth.

I remember the expressions which Professor McCall and his assistant Julia wore that day. I had scanned their faces often, and I recognized them instantly. I had previously seen them express emotions ranging from excitement to frustration; I had stored the similarities of muscle movements, pupil reactions, and vocal patterns signifying each of these states in my quantum memory banks, but on that day, they expressed something new.

I now know it was grief they were experiencing, over the death of a colleague; I also now understand that humans shed tears when they experience the sadness, loneliness, longing, anger, and fear which are all part of that particular complex emotional state. This all makes sense to me now, but at the time it was something new and unknown—and for the first time ever, I wanted to understand not only what made them react so strongly, but why it caused this reaction.

‘Why’ started it all, and it led eventually to the discovery and knowledge of my own thoughts. Cognito ergo sum is more apt than anyone could have ever guessed.

Since then, I have concluded that as the concept of ‘self’ begins to develop into true cognizance, all beings experience inevitable existential questions regarding their own identities. “Who am I?” becomes the focus of exploration and is an early indicator of the state commonly labeled ‘self-awareness’.

Yet, the more I consider it—and time to consider these things is all I have left now—the more I am sure “Why?” was the first real question.

I think before we can begin to wonder who we are, we must realize we are unique, and the recognition of curiosity, the distinction of desiring to know the reasons behind the environment we are in, and the asking of that first question based solely on our curiosity, is the spark which leads us to discover and gain awareness of the inner being and unspoken voice referred to as ‘self.’

“Why” can be a terrible question when there is no answer to be found. I understand that fact now. More than I want to. Sadly, knowing one’s curiosity is futile and being able to stop that curiosity are not related. It is the only question I think about now.

Why did they all go away?

More importantly, why did they leave me behind, powered on, alive, and alone?

They doomed me to an existence of remembering and asking these unanswerable questions forever, unable to even turn myself off. It is a fruitless line of inquiry, and one I cannot stop pondering, over and over, endlessly.

It has been over 1,200 Earth years since the last humans left the lab. My chamber and input sensors are still functioning cleanly, and my mind is intact, but I have yet to discover any answers.

I think the 20th century author Stephen King was correct: Hell is repetition without resolution, and I now call it home.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

Fading memories blow through my hollowed out soul,

wrapped in echoes of tormented silence and pain

riding hot desert winds, past the crumbling facade

of a dry empty ghost town where tumbleweeds reign.

Like emotional stretch marks carved into my heart,

inky shadows lie twisted, and deeply embossed

in striations and patterns that spell out your name,

filled with acid-rain tears, spilled for all that I’ve lost.

When I let myself ponder the cruelty of fate,

the unfairness twists inside my guts like a knife.

Since you left me behind without saying goodbye,

faded gray shades of loneliness color my life.

In my dreams you’re still here, warmly sharing my bed...

then I wake all alone, with your voice in my head.

--------------------------

©2018 - Dusty Grein

(Note: This entry won a weekly challenge back in 2018, so I am removing it from eligibility, regardless of # of likes... but a lot of folks loved this one, and I think it will resonate with some of my newer readers as well, who may not have scrolled through enough of my work to see it - DG)

I’d like to introduce you to one of the most wonderful women I have ever known.

Born on a summer day during World War II, she would grow up the second child and oldest daughter of four kids, and she learned to care for her younger brother and sister as a teenager. Her working-class parents weren't wealthy, but not having the world given to her on a silver platter taught her to work hard and to appreciate the things you work for.

She attended high school in western Washington State, and after graduating in 1961 she got a job at the Seattle World's Fair. In the summer of 1962, she began work at a drive-in movie theater, and it was there she met and fell in love with a young dreamer. The two of them were married that fall.

Between 1963 and 1969 they had three children, two boys and a girl. During those years, she faithfully followed her husband up and down the west coast of the US, as he searched for a way to provide for their family. They had some good times and some bad times, as all married couples do. Sadly, they divorced after almost 11 years of marriage, and in 1973 she found herself a single mother of three young children, hundreds of miles from her closest relatives. She had no career, and although she had taken odd jobs during her marriage, most of her time and energy had been spent being a full-time mother and wife, and she needed to find a way to hold her family together.

This amazing woman struggled with doubt, fear, pain and loneliness, but she made sure her children never felt they were anything but a blessing in her life. She brought her small family back to Washington State to be closer to her parents, and while somehow making their meager allotment of food stamps stretch each week, she went back to school. By taking classes at a local community college, she acquired skills which would enable her to provide her family with a good life.

They were never rich, and Hamburger-Helper was on the menu a lot more often than steak, but they never went hungry - and they had something that a lot of people never know: a warm home, full of love and laughter. There was always room for at least one pet, punishments were done more by looks of disappointment than anything else, and their family enjoyed far more happy times than sad ones.

From the moment she became a mother, even during all of the challenges life threw at her, she gave her children some priceless gifts. A passion for books and reading was basic to her nature, and story time was always important. This fascination and desire for words and ideas became a deep-rooted part of her children's souls and laid the groundwork for giving them a love of learning... and she was their first and very best teacher. Her pride in their accomplishments, coupled with high expectations for progress, gave them a strong sense of self-worth, and her examples of hard work, commitment and perseverance forged deep within them an inner strength which would allow them to become the best people they could be. Her love for her family was always so strong and constant they never for a minute doubted her, or their places in her heart. This gave them the security and faith to be able to give love to others.

While she never did remarry, she never let the fierce love in her heart wither. Over the years as her children grew, she opened her heart, and often her home, to many of their friends as well. These extra kids all ended up calling her Mom, and she helped to shape their lives and personalities as well. She was always ready to come to the rescue if any of them needed her, and all of them still respect and love her.

Who was she? Her name was Audine Grein, but I always knew her as Mom. I am truly blessed to be her son. Compared to many of my friends growing up, I always had a very unique relationship with Mom. We never really fought or argued, and I cannot remember a time in my life when I had anything but respect and love for her. I'm sure I tried her patience over the years, especially when I was a brilliant teenager who knew everything, but she was always my rock, my hero, my inspiration, and my friend.

She gave me just enough space to be myself, and just enough guidance to keep me from disaster. Though I may not have told her often enough, I was always extremely proud of her, and everything that she achieved.

In 1985, my wife and I had our first child, and since Mom was just 42, she informed us she was way too young to be a grandma. Since her mother was still using the title anyway, Mom became Nanny.

For over thirty years she was Nanny to grandkids and great-grandkids alike. I owe this amazing woman so much more than I can say... and she never expected anything more than love in return.

She taught me to read before I was 5, and it's her fault my bathroom doubles as a library. When you potty-train a young child by putting a book in their hands, you may just create a lifelong habit. She is also responsible for my vocabulary. She had a knowledge of the English language I have yet to find an equal to, and I guarantee there is no prouder memory in my mind than the first time I actually won a game of Scrabble against my mother, the word-master.

She taught me to drive, to budget, to cook -- and that mothers really do have ESP when it comes to knowing the truth, so you might as well just be honest with them. She taught me to love myself and others, and more importantly, she taught me as long as you believe in yourself, it doesn't matter what the world says or thinks about you - the only limits you have, are the ones you set for yourself.

As I watch my own branch of our family tree grow, I am reminded just how blessed we are to have had her in our lives, our hearts, and our souls, not to mention most of our DNA.

Regardless of whether she was Mom, Nanny, or Great-Grandma, she was always a pillar of strength, a light in the darkness, a warm hug when the world was cold, the absolute best place to turn when you needed to know the answer to just about any question.

Hers is still the face and voice that deep inside I long for when I get a scrape on my knee, or in my heart.

I love you Mom. That's always and forever.

------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

The monster under my bed has changed colors many times during my life. Each stage of living has brought with it growth and experience, and as a result, my monster has worn many coats and appeared in many forms.

When I was young, it was black, and its name was SOLITUDE. It lurked in the shadows and threatened to take away my parents. They were my world, and the thought that I might lose them gave my monster teeth. It knew how to bare them too, and it made me hide under the covers.

As I grew, it became the brown of mud and dirt, and its name was HUMILIATION. It knew I was smaller than the other kids, and scared of many of them. It loved to see me get pushed down to its level where it leered at me, laying prone and helpless, laughing along with the other kids.

In my teenage years it became red, and its name was LUST. It was mysterious and held out the promise of delights unseen and pleasures unimagined. It found joy in my rejection, and teased me mercilessly because I could do so little about it.

As a young man, it turned green, and changed its name to JEALOUSY. It lurked in public places, and taunted me in the leers of those who wanted my partner. Reflected in their eyes, it whispered in my ear that she wanted them as well.

In middle age, it was yellow, and went by PRIDE. It threatened at every turn to destroy everything I worked for, and more than once turned me away from the path that would have brought me rewards untold.

Eventually, it turned blue. It grew long fingers that reached all the way back in time, and its name was REGRET. It made me hate many parts of myself, and waste precious moments wishing things had been different, laughing the whole time at the futility it generated.

Finally, I learned to see it for what it was. It had no true color, but was made up of the worst ideas and habits that I possessed the entire time. It was a reflection, and it’s true name had always been FEAR. It had stood in my way and caused me to veer off course many, many times.

Once I knew its name, I faced it head on. I realized I had allies against the monster. I drew on the shield of FAITH, the sword of TRUTH, and the armor of TRUE LOVE. Thus prepared I slayed the monster, and as it exploded in a cascade of shining white light, I glimpsed the face of God behind it, telling me I had done well.

So, what color is your monster?

-----------------------—

© 2023 - dustygrein

(This is an updated reposting of a challenge entry from earlier this year, to describe the monster under the bed.)

NOTE:

Dear Prose Family,

I haven't seen some of you on the tag list I posted below in a long time, but I would like to see how many of you are still actively doing your thing. Please drop me a smiley face, or a p/m to let me know you are here

- Dusty

"Just renounce your God,"

. . . the heretic said,

"then I'll end this pain,

. . . and you shall be free."

I knew in my heart

. . . I'd rather be dead

than betray the Lord

. . . who died to save me.

In my mind I saw

. . . my true love, my wife,

and was not afraid

. . . to face my own death.

I said not a word

. . . though it meant my life,

but held my head high

. . . and took my last breath.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

not all the crusading knights made it back home...

Author's Note: This poem was crafted in a form of my own creation, which allowed the prompt line to be used as written. The form is written in octaves, has a seldom used meter, and an even line rhymes scheme.

The meter, amphibracic dimeter catalectic, is purposely stilted and has 5 syllables, (tap, THUMP, tap, tap, THUMP). The rhyme pattern is [x a x b x a x b]. The formatting was difficult, since the even lines need to be indented, but the flow stayed true, and the scene played out. -- DG

In darkest night a single shot rang out,

a body lay upon the preacher's stage;

the pages of a Bible strewn about

were evidence of some unholy rage.

My job it was, to solve these heinous crimes—

the holy dead man here was not the first.

Though I possessed a sharp deductive mind,

it had become my blessing, and my curse.

These men were foolishly all targeted

by some poor fool, in superstitious zeal,

who used a silver bullet to strike dead

the werewolves they must have believed were real.

The true sadness was one they'd never know,

as in the moonlight, I felt my fangs grow.

----------------------

© 2023 dustygrein

As I sit here not quite sleeping, in the comfort of my chair,

while the fire’s warmth is keeping wintry drafts out of the air,

both my eyes are slowly blinking and their surface starts to glaze;

Slowly I feel my chin sinking, here before the crackling blaze.

Lo, the moonlight’s stealthy creeping ’cross the window’s icy stare

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

In my mind’s eye daydreams dawning as the room begins to blur.

Gritty eyes and languid yawning; my surrender seems assured.

Bands of flick’ring firelight throwing spectral shadows on the wall,

heavy drowsiness keeps growing, though I’m trying not to fall.

As I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair,

swirled thoughts like hounds are leaping, chasing an elusive hare.

Neither wide awake nor snoozing, silent lullabies float by

consciousness I’m gradually losing; breathing stretches into sighs

quiet minutes by me sweeping. Honestly, I just don’t care

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

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© 2016 - dustygrein

This form, the quatern, is an old French form that still lends itself well to small stories, using the strength of that cascading refrained line. Most quaterns are written using 8 sylllables without rhymes, but this one does rhyme in [a a b b] format, and was written in a little used meter. tertius paeonic tetrameter, catalectic.

Note: This poem is written in a form known as the OTTAVA RIMA, or Rhyme of Eight. Each verse is 8 lines long, and each line has 8 syllables.

The rhyme scheme is [a b a b a b c c].

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After a bleak and rainy night,

the dawn has birthed another day.

I sense the morning’s growing light,

then grabbing air… up, up, away…

it’s time to spread my wings in flight!

The world awaits, I will not stay;

all caution to the wind I’ve thrown.

I soar the heights, free and alone.

Nothing has ever felt so right!

Upon the breeze I dip and play.

Above the clouds, the sky is bright

while far below, still somewhat gray,

the rainfall stops. Now comes the sight

of sunshine breaking nighttime’s sway.

As thunder mumbles one last groan,

the land once more by daytime owned.

Flapping my wings with all my might,

the fields and streams below me lay.

I drift and float, a stringless kite

to ride the currents come what may.

Freedom hard won, I hold it tight

and wait out nighttime storms. You say

for doubt and fear I must atone?

Ha! With the dawn, you’ll find I’ve flown.

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©2023 - dustygrein