This poem is from the August 7, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from janet_miles and sponsored out of the general fund.
Teen: I can has cheezburger? N car keys?
Parent: Your wrecking the English language.
Your You're wrecking the English language.
This poem came out of the August 7, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from ellenmillion and sponsored by the general fund.
Legends warn of
the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,
but none of them are horses.
Mosquitoes fill the air with their angry whine,
carrying tropical diseases on the warming air.
Some of the mosquitoes are said to be genetically engineered,
or even mechanical, but the news insists those are only stories.
Fire ants build their hills with dust and tiny dinosaur bones,
sometimes three or four queens together in their fierce empires.
Apparently no one told them it was impossible,
and investigation faces formidable opposition.
Alligators submerge themselves in park ponds,
slink into sewers, drift northward like silent logs -- but
these logs have eyes, and they are always watching for a new niche.
A sewer is not so different from a swamp after all.
Emerald ash borers conceal themselves under bark,
hitching a hidden ride in firewood and craft projects.
They chew their way through whole forests, unchecked,
carried by mutters of "nobody will notice a few little sticks."
Myth cloaks the world like fog,
truths and half-truths and falsehoods
wandering lost in the lazy haze after twilight.
Boundaries shift and bend,
bringing forth monsters.
This poem is from the August 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from siliconshaman. It has been sponsored by the general fund.
The heroes of old have gone
to take their place on Olympus,
wearing the mantle of divinity
and reaching down from on high
to meddle in the lives of mortals
chosen to become heroes anew.
Hercules selects his champion
and pushes her forward.
She is built like a bull,
all back and shoulders
and big burly arms.
She can lift over 568 pounds.
The shadow of Atalanta
follows her champion to the track.
His long muscles ripple
as he paces the lane
in his carbon-fiber feet,
swift and fierce as a cheetah.
Long forgotten and nameless,
the Minoan bull-dancer chalks her palms
and sends out her champion with a firm pat.
"Don't worry, sugar," she says
to the gymnast tumbling through the gilded air,
"they didn't like my outfit either."
* * *
The three athletes alluded to are Sarah Robles, Oscar Pistorius, and Gabby Douglas.
This poem came out of the August 7, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from wyld_dandelyon regarding the recent shooting of Sikhs in Oak Creek. It has been sponsored by the general fund.
The myths we tell create the world we live in.
If we tell myths full of hatred,
they will fill our lives with blood.
It is like spinning wool full of nettles and thorns;
the sharp stems will prick unwary fingers.
This is how it came to be that someone
walked into a Sikh temple and opened fire:
hatred becomes routine, becomes unremarkable,
and then people are surprised when it blossoms into bloodshed.
If we tell myths full of tolerance,
they will fill our lives with peace.
It is like spinning drifts of pure clean wool;
the lanolin will soak into the skin and make it just as soft.
This is how it came to be that someone
who made crosses after tragedies
came to make wreaths for the Sikh victims
and to hold an interfaith vigil in their memory.
Art imitates life. Life imitates art.
Myth is the collective subconscious
from which all is drawn and into which all returns.
It is up to us to change what we would not continue.
The world we live in creates the myths we tell.
Everyone is eligible to vote in this poll. I'll leave it open at least until Tuesday evening. If there's a clear winner then, I'll close it. Otherwise, I may leave it open a little longer.
( Collapse )