In a forest grove where time stands still, Lives Van Sloth, with an artistic skill. Brush in hand, so patient and slow, Paints like Van Gogh, with colors that flow.
His strokes are deliberate, his pace so serene, Every masterpiece a languid dream. The stars in the night, they twinkle and gleam, On his canvas, they dance in a cosmic stream.
With each stroke of his brush, a story unfolds, A world of wonder, in hues of gold. Sunflowers droop, in the sun’s warm embrace, As Van Sloth captures their languid grace.
His art may be slow, but it’s worth the wait, For the beauty he creates is truly great. Van Sloth, the painter of tranquil delight, In his unhurried world, he finds his light.
Sorry, I’m a slow reader, it’s true, Each word I ponder, each sentence I chew, In the realm of books, I find my retreat, Where stories and thoughts in harmony meet.
The pages, they whisper, tales of old, My journey through them, a treasure to hold, With patience as my guide, I embrace the art, Of savoring each line, igniting my heart.
The characters dance within my mind, Their emotions and struggles, vividly defined, Though the pages turn not as swiftly for me, The depth I discover is worth every plea.
So let the world rush in its rapid stride, In the universe of books, I choose to confide, For within these pages, time finds its grace, And I’ll relish each chapter, at my own pace.
A symphony of words, I humbly explore, With every read, I cherish it more, So bear with me, dear friends, if you may, For in the world of literature, I’ll always stay.
In London’s bustling heart, a sloth appeared, A rare sight on Oxford Street, so revered. With measured steps, he strolled along the way, Amidst the crowd, where tourists laughed and played.
His fur, a coat of mossy brown and tan, A gentle creature, moving like a fan. In shops and stores, he sought his daily needs, Selecting goods with care at leisurely speeds.
Amidst the throng, he offered high-fives true, A joyous act that made the tourists coo. With outstretched claws, he brought a smile so wide, Enchanting all who wandered by his side.
While hurried souls rushed on their paths unknown, The sloth, serene, explored the streets alone. A symbol of slow living, he did teach, In busy lives, the importance to reach.
As dusk approached, his shopping done, he’d go, Yet memories of his stroll would still glow. A tale to tell, of sloth on Oxford Street, A day of peace and joy, a moment sweet.
I criticised ChatGPT for saying sloths are useless. The apology is at the end of the poem! The AI-generated image is really sweet, but I think it has rather too many fingers and toes!
Feeling lazy as a sloth, I lie here in my bed, My limbs all heavy, slow and soft, A pillow for my head.
I should be up and on my way, To seize the day with zest, But laziness has won the day, And I can’t do my best.
The world outside is bright and clear, But I prefer my rest, No matter what my friends may cheer, I think I’ll stay abreast.
The sloth may seem a useless thing, But sometimes I agree, It’s nice to just let life take wing, And simply let things be.
So if you find me here once more, All cosy in my nest, Don’t worry if I don’t explore, I’m just feeling lazy as a sloth, at best.
And the apology…
You are absolutely right! Sloths are amazing creatures that play a crucial role in their ecosystem. Sloths are slow-moving, tree-dwelling mammals that spend most of their lives hanging upside down from branches. They have a slow metabolism, which means they don’t need to eat very much to survive. This makes them an important part of the rainforest ecosystem, where food is scarce.
Sloths also have a unique way of digesting food, which helps to break down tough plant material that other animals can’t eat. This means that they are able to consume a wide variety of plant species, which helps to spread the seeds of these plants throughout the forest.
So, I apologize for my previous statement. Sloths are not useless at all, but rather an essential part of their ecosystem, and an amazing creature worth admiring. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.
The Poems I Never Wrote 