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 |   GI100 Book #2...random attempts at poetry. |
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A second attempt at "Give It 100!"  , since the first one ("100" ) turned out pretty well even though I didn't complete it within 100 days.  ![Merit Badge in Mythology
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*^*Salute*^**^*Balloonb*^* YAY!!Congratulations on your fabulous challenge of writing 100 poems is less than your 100 days!! An amazing feat so you deserve a trip to Mount Olympus for a treat! You can walk in the hall of champions. *^*Trophyg*^* Wonderful expressions! Keep on shining. *^*Starstruck*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Mythology-1105.gif) These are just rough sketches and ideas that are barely a little more rounded-out...they're not perfect but they're gonna be good enough to share here at least. Your comments, support, and words of encouragement will be greatly appreciated!  Best Poetry Collection |
8-14-17 I'm sick of this story, but not the message. What is it we're so attracted to? Why? Don't you know the math? Divide + Conquer only works for so long before you wind up cutting into yourself...before you cult yourself. I don't know how to make the truth any more clear, but I do know this: when there are too many truths, there is no truth, and attempting to push forward a new one is a good way of ending up dead. Is it any safer to keep running in circles past the same markers of attempted heroism fallen short? Following dreams that don't exist or won't submit? I can't watch the damage, but I will notice what is and what is not done. All I can do is report and you can hear, and you can tell your friends so they can notice what is and what is not done. And it'll keep going until we replace the markers so that those coming after us can make the same choices we made, for the same results. |
8-15-17 When you write your name in tiled letters, the ingredients of an artificial language substitute, do you box up the leftovers for your neighbors (if there is enough)? Or do you loosely pack 'em up and toss them where you keep the things you hope not to see again until you really need to? We live in this place where seldom is the end of anything, and there's always a little left at the bottom/middle/end that we can't get at or won't acknowledge other than to admit it's probably greater than us based on our intentions alone to look the other way as we cast it aside. We don't know how to create something and not misuse it. And when you run your hands across those tiles, scrambling up your name into fragments of undefinable sounds, do you feel a sense of relief because you won't have to share? Even if your neighbors will still know your mess is there? |
8-16-17 You don't even have an army to get you off the tarmac. A face like herpes walking controls your legs and your phone rules your fingers like democracy itself watching self-inflicted wounds... suicide by 1,000+ tweets lapped up only by those who'd do the same if they could. But all I see are smiles and the dumbest looks surrounded by white hair and dead eyes echoing cassette-fed soliloquies blaming everyone but the real culprits...themselves. Have another. Here, have another. Here, have another...the bones in your back break. Here, have another...white terrorism fuels an economy. Here, have another...dance, I say, dance, boy. Here, have another...failing, failing, failing fake news. Here, have another...so tired of winning. Here, have another. Here, have another. Here, have another...make mine a double and maybe it'll all be over with faster. |
8-16-17 I've got bones that pop like I ain't worthy of the fat they support or the muscles that are fading with each pill I take for this thing or that thing or this thing caused by that thing. My body is a junkyard symphony; a cultural institution about to have its funding slashed again, faster than you can say " washboard solo arpeggio", let alone play one. Ligaments twang like violin strings plucked too often. Knuckles the reminder of snapped drumstick ends, fraying. Hips out of tune with my spine's weary metronome, and the conductor shows up when he wants... when he can get out of bed. Yet everyone wants a song! Some, because they think you can and have no idea. Some, because they know you can't and want to see your pain. Some, because they know you can't yet will convince you you can, so they can say your effort is good enough to keep you alive and nothing more. Yes, everyone wants a song! But no one wants to know what goes into the crafting and the performance. They don't want the soul; they only want the show. |
8-17-17 I'm gonna make you sound debilitated. Full of virtues I can't spell (if I need to look it up, chances are you won't understand it either), I'm determined to get right. Determined to make right. Do you need a voucher atlas to tell you where to get free? Null and void; avoid...signs point you everywhere but where you need to get right. You need to make right. Soft and loyal, soft and royal. (null) Crowned foal. Loose soil. (void) Raking coals to burn on, the brighter to get right. Brighter to make right. Seven is your secret (null) screwdriver like a key in a (void) car theft headed for a crash course to get right. Cause course to make right. I'm flying calmly into a storm full of overwhelms and unknowns. I'm a child in your new school determined to get right. Determined to make right. |
8-19-17 Jerk me off like a stranger. Show me that finishing move. Touch it, then don't. Keep doing it until I say HEY *sploosh* man, this isn't right and I can only let you get away with so much before I pop like your balloon. I'm a thousand skeins of knots and you're just anxiously dying to untie them all, aren't you? I don't think, and I don't think you want to find out what happens when you keep tuggin'. *sploosh* |
8-20-17 Only you could've worn those faces. I've cataloged many in my pages. I'm glad to see that ability passed on. The sole reminder the past isn't gone. I know you wish we had more to say; to laugh, to analyze, to commiserate. There's not much in the way, but what's there to deliberate? Maybe I don't know where to begin, or I'm afraid that it'll have to end. Everything in between I know'll be fluid. We've got miles of material to use. This longing can't be my own. We know ourselves too well for unknowns. There can be openness within restraint, so what's there to deliberate? I didn't wanna be the future you saw. You learned better than I taught. Life's rich with subtle reminders that time drains faster than what binds us. No need to feel so uncertain or wonder if approaches are worth it. I'm sure we've got much more to say, but what's left to deliberate? |
8-23-17 You said "Please, stop!" but I couldn't like a patriotic freight train afraid of its own voice on a silent night of tripping over variables in physical equations. Sick of scraping from the bottom of the patriarchal barrel, I saved up all my hate over three decades and switched sides, just like everyone else and- shut up, it's my turn- why should I, now, be the only one who's sorry? And why'm I even bothering to apologize? I can't own something that never belonged to anyone in the first place. I just think it's funny how "We've had enough!" is eventually, one way or another, everyone's motto at some point, but when it's not yours it's fine and when it's mine it's criminal. Words conveniently lose their meaning over time; either through their puncturing punctuation or their loss of elasticity. Claws or teeth. Bounce too high or stretch too thin... we're all destined to meet the ground and no matter how we get there or try to defend it, there's no way it's not gonna hurt. |
8-25-17 You sound like fire. Not flaming, but crackling. A summer settling. How could they know it was you first? Trying to match your glow. Errant show, blow by flickering blow. They didn't understand the effort necessary was also futile... you're copy-protected. Non-protracted. Safe enough to not be erased. You're a stranger setting fire to my head. Not flaming, but crackling. A summer stunner. How could you know it was me first? These words were set to explode on impact. Blow by faithless blow. I want to forget you by heart. |
8-30-17 Face your thief; thank your demons. We're all veins in the game of life, bleedin'. Stay loose for the next fix, the best trick, the joke sidestepped, or the misdirect. Are you a function or conjunction? Dysfunction or inappropriate adjustment? Nobody wins by walking. Nobody wins period like, stop talkin'. Where's your fitness? You listenin'? Bearing witness? Goals glistening, go-getting and fate-tempting. Self-righteous. Self-underling. I'm not noting my lack of expectations; your misplacement (of them) is bargain basement which seems more than appropriate for your appropriation of my concern. You forgot how to be thought-provoking. You're the poem, the ode: "The First Syllable Of Someone Choking". And we laughed. And we cried. "And from one begot the other," we sighed. I spent too much time explainin' to too many people too many meanings to too many things they don't believe in. So much time wasted. Left deceived and I've faced my thieves and thanked my demons. We're for better and for worse our wisdom, our religion, and our reasons. Dreaded and threadbare but thankful. Heavy and mangled but still manageable. Wondering. What is worth the weight? Wondering? Nothing's worth the wait. Move around. Stay hot, or remain steady and get caught. I know someday life will outpace me. I'm not there yet. I'm not ready. I'm ahead to some degree; motivating friends and bating enemies. Classic. No magic. Face down; closed casket. No static. Kingdom? Tragic. Wisdom from the back, bottom to the top rack. Seriously joking while remaining though-provoking; I'll be the poem, the ode: "The First Syllable Of Someone Choking". |
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Probably not...how I write them and how they sound in my head is dramatically different than how they sound coming out of my mouth 
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Thank you, Mona!
