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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 |
7-28-17 You're a machete when the day breaks gargled ice and you don't know any better to be calm. There's a sense of what you can sense and it's mistaken for confidence by your soldiers, your allies and patent defenders...but you charm malfeasance transcendentally. Optimism walking over a black cloud. Snatching defeat from the living ends of practiced headaches. The red- headed prep child who answers but to no one. Particular grace. The sharpened blade. By lunch you're complete and starving for more...blood or irony. Maybe both. I saw you on the news, so I know you can do tremendous but you won't have to. You're a machete; a patient saint and a voracious go-getter, gotten. The camel's hump. The whale's blowhole. The all-in- one window, frame and shade. Take me out to dinner, and I'll buy dessert...a nitecap. A quiet place. A slow death. Precise. Tight. You don't say. |
8-3-17 Everything is draped in an aura of beauty and mystery. Each dress. Each sigh. Each eyebrow. You want to, but you can't. You need to, but you shouldn't. The catacombs within the creases fold over, exponentially. The complexities...are national secrets. An underworking fit to undermine science so rich it can only come across in the softest pastels willing to lure you to lie and to cheat and to mischaracterize your own image to death. She doesn't forgive. She doesn't need to. You know what you did, and why. Her casually questionable contributions are now only yours. |
8-3-17 There are bug-like blood stains on everything. Someone's been here before making some regrets. Mistakes were clear. I catch a warm wind and inhale the sand of another's bones and I catch myself. No one should've known, I can hope. My periphery sees things I don't as I spin my head to acknowledge; a sun that's not a neighbor and an ally unable of trust. You're unspeakable but I can hear you. Your trail was ending at my feet. A breath and a curse. A cloudless rain. Unseen at the destination, I don't have the option of a smarter retreat. I must face this. I have to draw a margin and stay within as the details begin to emerge. There's a responsibility and I should understand its outline but the murkiness is blinding. It's all I have left. And I know you were around. Even the most desolate places bear the autumn of your presence. Do better, it says. Give yourself a chance to take another breath. Do better, it says. Give yourself a chance to see whatever's left and make an existence outside this silhouette. Do better, it says. |
8-6-17 I'm in the middle of shooting a movie and I have yet to learn my role. Really, I'm not the star and never was... it's the majestic landscape recreated on these backdrops in an old warehouse that's intended to carry the plot subliminally directed by the girl who was found strangled and hung from the rafters back in '87. If you listen closely she's in each scene. And like me, I don't think she wants to be here. At least I'm getting a little paycheck and maybe an Oscar nomination from the launch pad this vehicle will be for my career. I left out a sandwich and a bag of chips for her one day, as a sort of peace offering. An hour later there were only crumbs, and I was humbly satisfied...until I smelled the tuna on my costar's breath. Everyone's a lie in this town- especially the town, and probably the murder victim. And perhaps I haven't forgotten my lines at all... she just hasn't whisper-moaned the words everyone thinks they need to believe in yet. I'm not a good liar, and I'll convincingly wink with exaggerated lips to prove it. |
8-8-17 It's the wrong kind of happiness guiding me again. I don't know where it finds the time. I don't got some. You can only fatten up a hog so much before the slaughter without ruining the meat. I'm on the underside, undersized, being forced against the inner working of my skin. This is a truth. We all die alone, so what do we know? |
8-9-17 One hand across your heart; the other over your face. This place is death and there's nothing of consequence. Aretha Franklin taught me how to spell and Helen Keller proved I could see, but I can't solve even the easiest of mysteries and you're running out of time. It's over when the funnier person makes a serious face. Check, please. Am I breathing ok? Am I doing this right? If we don't tell anyone, this never happened. Chalk it up as another failure at finding relief and as always we should've known better. |
8-9-17 Breath control...an art I never mastered. It's something you can study but can't take a class for and class is the kinda thing I always think I have 'til I open my mouth and out comes my ass. I've got numbers like math and digits like toes and I've heard I spin phrases like nobody knows but ask me to read 'em out loud in front of people? I might stare at you and there won't be a sequel. |
8-9-17 This is slum village Cuisinart for your cousin's cousins. I don't know art without panic and if it's undescribed it must be epidemic but what we most fear when words go too far might be the hipsters crawling from the latte bar with their cardboard cutout beards made of construction paper. Like, haven't you guys heard of saving anything for later? When it's not a bad idea? Maybe talk yourselves outta it, know what I'm meanin'? It's no wonder your girlfriend likes us, not ironically... deeply meaningful trends live stoically and that's not the hill your grandfathers died on to teach you the ways a waist gets a flannel shirt tied on. Say it with me one time- with feeling- real feelings and not the dollar store dimebags you've been inhaling: There's more to life than me. Now, don't you feel better? Put it up on Instagram and tell your people how you never felt so good making an honest mistake... you've never met a villain you couldn't replace. What'll happen to you when your culture war fame is over? Time, pestilence, agony, death, terrible comb-overs (?), maybe. Everything's a maybe. Never is forever, so write back soon, ya filthy little trendsetter. You love us like you love a like; not hurtin' nobody #nonewfriends but the parking lot's camera'd up like you're not gonna love what you look like when the footage leaks like a comments section on the worst part of the internet you grew up in. That territory is all your own- yours alone- to own like the home you won't. Blown, but it's not your fault, is it? (Hint: It never is!) Life's a trophy and your name is Participant. Don't be art, make it! And quit being a panic if you can't be creative. |
8-12-17 You see the knockout blow comin' 2-point-five seconds before it hits you and you make a third, fourth, and fifth lifetime out of space. I wonder how you keep risin'. Who's pullin' your strings? "Let's go somewhere quiet and talk," and those were the last words I heard before changing into wings. It was your sign that goodbyes aren't final when you don't know how to let go, and there is hope in every new eternity if you can adapt on the fly. I was gonna ask you about your secrets but you put your finger to my lips, almost as if to say silence is every answer I could possibly need. One kiss and you vanished; I'll turn over every leaf to see you again. |
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. |
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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!
