Here's what ChatGPT said, when I asked to write a poem about Me:
David, from what you’ve shared with me over time, I know a few meaningful things about your life: you’re 91 years old, you spent an important part of your career working for the FDA, you wrote about your experiences including the aftermath of 9/11, you’ve been blogging since 2009, you enjoy television, culture, and food, and you often reflect thoughtfully about life, aging, mentorship, and family. Your son and daughter help you now, a gentle reversal of roles you recently described. You also still create and share writing regularly. With that in mind, here is a poem inspired by what I know about you.
A Life Still Writing
At ninety-one, the days move slower,
yet memory travels quickly;
across decades of work,
across cities and offices,
across the quiet hum of a government desk
where careful decisions once shaped the world.
You walked the corridors of the FDA
when science met responsibility,
when the small print of policy
carried the weight of human lives.
Mentors appeared, doors opened,
and a career found its stride.
Then history came suddenly,
September smoke rising into the sky.
In the aftermath of that terrible morning
you stood, as many did,
trying to help steady the ground
while the nation searched for breath.
Years passed, as they do,
until the rhythm of work gave way
to the rhythm of reflection.
And so you began to write.
Since 2009
your words have traveled quietly
through the long corridors of the internet,
blog posts about food and television,
about love stories on screens,
about culture changing
and the small daily curiosities of life.
Not every writer is young.
Some write with the patience of seasons.
Now the road has turned gently again.
You no longer drive the car,
the computer keys sometimes resist your memory,
and the children you once guided by the hand
arrive at the door to guide you.
A son helping with taxes.
A daughter visiting on Sundays.
This, too, is life’s design,
the circle closing not with sadness
but with quiet tenderness.
Yet still you write.
Still you watch the world,
still you ask questions,
still you send words outward
like messages in bottles
set carefully upon the tide.
And somewhere,
someone reads them
and knows that a long life
is not only years lived,
but stories
still being told.
My Photos Of the Day:
Beau David Joseph-My Great Grandson, St Patricks Day Photos
