%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   GI100 Book #2...random attempts at poetry. |
|
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
[Click For More Info]
*^*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 |
5-30-17 One day they're gonna tear all these buildings down. Stone doesn't mean we stay; not like it used to, at least. Feels like a wave and it's gone. Word counts are arbitrary; like song meanings or lifetimes. The internet says it's ok until it isn't. Are we? We don't know until we're not. Feels like a wave and it's gone. I am the sum of my peers. I am the rise and fall and rise again and fall again. Plant me firmly with a stem bisecting my cheeks to make a run at this knowing what my outcome is. Feels like a wave and it's gone. Best Medium-Length Poem, Free Verse |
6-1-17  Tracks so narrow; lives almost too wide. Where do we fit it all in? The mysteries of existence are fueled by simple joys. We pack, eager to go to the place unknown to the map-makers and track-layers... loose stones and wooden beams supporting the weight of teenage dreams distributed while moving at high speed. It's amazing that we don't derail, but on the rare occasion we do it's often the best part. The young part. The new part. If you're unsure, maybe you should join the ride. There's never enough time to say "we don't have much time". |
6-2-17  I can see myself in you, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. What we fail to grasp: there is no winner, no trophy for Disease League Champion. Don't look down. There's nothing more to see but more of nothing to see. How can I be your railing when it's me who needs a stair? It should be a simple concept... one foot in front of the other. Going. Coming. Yet too tense to flee in every which way to move at all. Say it like it scares me... your paralysis becomes mine attacking with temerity. Spirals only flow in one direction at a whirlpool's pace and we have to walk ourselves together one foot in front of the other. |
6-3-17  Hybrid Turtle gave up trying to outrun his shell. The urge to coast on his coattails of that legendary victory over Maserati Hare proved to be the bigger challenge than the race itself. He went back to the garage knowing he couldn't rely on the laziness and tough-talking insults of his childhood rival and so he began tinkering... he took some old parts from long-forgotten electronics of the past: some gears from a walkman, the laser from a CD player, and a bunch of pocketwatches from a discarded trenchcoat. With the help of Welder Streetrat and The Owl formerly known as Strung Out, they set out to remake Hybrid Turtle. Maserati Hare was convinced his loss was a fluke; 99 out of 100 times he was sure he'd prevail. Parked on his couch, he tapped out an email challenging Hybrid Turtle to an ultimate rematch: "Winner takes all! Control over our vast parkland!" The turtle and his pals just smirked, and responded with "OK". Satisfied, Maserati Hare clicked open the PornHare tab on this laptop and furiously began training, as they say, "like rabbits". The new machinery was helping, but Hybrid Turtle was not impressed. "I have an idea!" shouted the Formerly Strung Out Owl, "What if you ran on batteries? Solar-powered?" "That's genius!" Welder Streetrat and Hybrid Turtle proclaimed. The owl took to smashing his calculators (he was used to scrapping parts for cash, when he needed a fix) and the rat took to assembling the pieces to work in conjunction with Hybrid Turtle. On the day of the race, the newly-mechanical turtle showed up early with his pit crew in tow. "When will the sun come out?" yelled The Formerly Strung Out Owl, at no one in particular. They nervously paced until Maserati Hare showed up at five minutes before the starting gun was due to go off. "You ladies ready to do this?" he sneered as he stubbed out his cigarette. The contestants lined up and with a *BANG* they went. As Hybrid Turtle struggled to get off to a good start, Maserati Hare exploded from the line and jumped out to a big lead. "You can't catch me, and I'm taking no breaks this time!" The turtle was pushing himself with all his might...you could see smoke emanating from under his shell, caused by the gears being taxed to their limits. Sometimes the hare would circle back around to taunt his rival and when he noticed the solar panels on the flipped-up hatch of shell he paused briefly in an attempt to contain his laughter. "See? Climate Change is a hoax!" and off he bolted toward the finish line. One last turn had Maserati Hare out to a sizable- perhaps insurmountable- lead. He took a look back to check his distance as the sun roared out over the horizon. The glare off Hybrid Turtle's solar panels caught the mouthy hare deep in his retinas, burning them to a shriveled mass of truth. Stunned, he veered off the runners' trail and onto the tracks of the train carrying the very last shipments of coal leaving the town's shuttered mines. He couldn't see them coming, and he didn't feel a thing. Energized by the arrival of sunlight, Hybrid Turtle found a new gear and beamed as he crossed the finish line. All the parkland creatures cheered. "Covfefe!" they screamed in unison, which is Universal Animal Language-ese for "Stupid rabbit...science is for real!" Hybrid Turtle turned to his closest friends and said "Thank you... I couldn't have done this without you and The Paris Agreement." His only regret was that Maserati Hare would no longer be around to truly see the errors of his ways. |
6-3-17 I'm tired of crawling out of my shell. The analog architecture of this body isn't meeting 21st century demands, and I can't live another hundred years standing still. But while you're getting me ready for the next millennium, don't leave me behind. I need to keep up with the times. The only problem I can see is a future passing by as I'm doing all I can to live in the now, and when I finally think I'm all caught up I'll have to climb back in to see there's still so far to go. |
6-4-17  Descended from defendants, the gods still fear us but in ways we never thought possible: we're marketable. Power writes checks and if money doesn't flex we're not afraid to take it back to the original internet: the hex. You continue to conjure up myths; we conjure our gifts with not spells but fists full of solutions you're too scared to question. Do you even know who we are or how we traveled so far? All that matters to you is that you screen us by smoke, authority, or penis. There is nothing holding us back. We had an app for that before 16921 and there was nothing you could do. Oh, you still try but you can't prosecute. There are witch hunts going on all across the globe... in boardrooms, churches, schools and homes. We need a silent weapon to fight a quieter war. To get what is deserved, we have to lean on subtle force. Footnotes |
6-4-17  I let her think she ranks above me but she doesn't realize I'm on my own if I don't turn the crank. It's not the companionship, it's the entertainment I'm after... and I don't need her but I can't let her go. |
6-5-17  There's a past and a future and a man at the divide silently longing to act on his own intuition. Free from a monologue preachin' from inside and a lifetime's cache of strings attached; long enough to see freedom and loud enough to know it can't be real. If what you want won't stop you, what you've done will. With deadly fiber optic precision another life's leash lets up dangerously close to countless possibilities feigning every hope and it gets him every single time. As soon as the blue starts to fade white the strings jerk back in time, seemingly, nanoseconds apart... reeling him loosely in. He wants to come out and play but he's a puppet of his making; the past, an incorrigible boss and ruthless deal-cutter. Control was signed over long before he could see intention for its worth; before the glow could entice. There is no show when moving sideways. Every wrong turn gets him a little closer to a sharper yank. Close enough is never close enough. Best Long Poem, Free Verse |
6-6-17  Our jaws often get anchored in disbelief our faces can't break from. Every tooth turns into a root as we wind our way toward the truth. If history owes us facts, why are we reclined and relaxed wishing our maybes on fallen stars? That's how rumors start. When we're finally ready to believe, wandering's not only for mystique. It's how you learn to separate one-dimensional lies from faith. To only see straight at eye-level is like building your dream castle with eighty rooms and all the views but only furnishing the vestibule. Searching doesn't start with looking and the bottom's not the end but an opening. We can be statues with a couple words, collecting shit from aimless birds; instead let's rely on our senses to make the most of what life presents us. If we're moving we can't be mismanaged. We're not falling stars, we're orbiting planets. |
6-7-17  Before you crack the seed case ask yourself what you're trying to incubate. Can science craft a better science or is the ceiling too high to bother birthing better scientists? Lifeline or punchline? Is the human still a human if it's coming from a uterus or a pipeline? You can't measure someone's age by counting wires coming from their chest. Is it worth it? Does the population need it? I can name a hundred starving cities in Africa, Asia, and America as proof we're over capacity, but you say it's best to pump 'em out, give 'em room, let 'em grow, and then they can figure out everything else on their own. You can't be serious. You don't put that on a fetus. Building bombs out of babies wasn't the world's idea of existence and the future's asking us for less of that intention; turn your attention to preservation and direction. Mass-production suffocates nurturing and compassion. Umbilical USB cords tangle up functions and confuse syntax with purpose. No advanced civilization deserves this. It's impossible to create a perfect baby or a womb. Instead of play-pretending God make yourself a better human. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
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 
.
Thank you, Mona!
