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Give it up for human nature.
Take a while, fly away and see the world.
In and out of sleep, a sea of orange on the horizon.
I love the fresh air, you know.
Give it up now bit by bit.
Like the rubberband man you’re bound to lose control.
But refrain from salt grains to season up your name.
And learn to smile at the ones that hate you.
Give it up for your frustration.
You should know there’s no use to wait.
Your composure slips,
and sometimes you find you’re far, far behind the course.
Some people like to make life a little tougher than it is.
Like the girl who gets up early and stays out late.
And though her voice is dark like tinted glass.
She stays true to the game,
even when the dashboard melted.
Let fondness be our souvenir.
And in time you’ll find it’s just a state of mind.
Word power can plow through acres of cornfields.
And it sounds like a good time to me.
Songs used for this poem.
From I Fight Dragons: Heads up, Hearts down, Give it Up, and Move
From Carbon Leaf: Changless, and A Girl and her Horse
From The Spinners: Rubberband Man
From Jurassic 5: What’s Golden.
From CAKE: short skirt/long jacket, and Tougher than it is.
From Modest Mouse: Dashboard
From Creature Comforts: Big, Buff and Handsome.
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A Mother’s Rage
(this is a poem I wrote for a writer’s cafe session where you take a villains POV. I choose Grendel’s mother from the epic poem Beowulf.)
The Hero
The men on land light blinding fires.
They brag about victories like braying asses.
They throw animals bones in our home.
My son, Grendel, he cannot sleep.
He wishes for quiet.
He wishes for rest.
He wishes the men would go away.
Grendel begs to go and silence these men. He cries about the grand hall.
They are just men, and we are incredible beasts, descended from Cain himself.
We are mighty.
We are powerful.
We are brave.
I tell him to be careful. I cannot stop him. His pride is stronger than my words.
My son is The Hero.
The Fury
My son has returned, belly full and pride restored and fur slick with blood.
They were no match mother, he crows.
Their bones crunched in my teeth and their fires faded under my feet and their men wailed.
I praise his bravery.
I caution his hubris.
I warn him of retaliation.
He does not hear me. He continues to crow, and for many nights, he returns to the surface.
He proves his might.
He proves his power.
He proves his bravado.
My son is The Fury.
The End
My son is dead.
The man, the villain, Beowulf took Grendel’s mighty, powerful arm. Beowulf was man’s response to Grendel’s bravery.
They retaliate out of wounded pride.
They send their monster to kill my son.
They invade my home to kill me as well.
Now he is here, I will break this monster named Beowulf.
His bones will crunch in my teeth.
His blood will slake my thirst.
His name will be forgotten.
I am not my son, and Beowulf sees the sword.
I am not fast enough, and Beowulf is at my throat.
I am not powerful enough, and Beowulf delivers my death.
Beowulf is My End.
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The Writing’s on the Wall
The writing’s on the wall
You don’t see the writing;
not before you move in.
You see writing after everything is gone.
When the shelves of dusty books are boxed up.
And the faded, curling wallpaper is torn down.
And the layers of cracked paint are scraped away.
You see the writing on the wall
After the work;
After the effort;
After the sacrifices.
But hey, you know how it goes,
After all, hindsight is 20/20.
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Brain Dump: World Building
I’ve been writing in National Novel Writing Month in a setting for a superhero comic I’ve been wanting to write since 2017. It’s evolved and changed and solidfied since then and I’m so happy I’m getting it out of my head.
But I also have been digging deep into my fictional city Plunkett, Virginia lately and it’s been so stimulating and satisfying to craft this tiny little world filled with monsters.
I finally understand what makes world building so addicting. You’re literally crafting a place for ideas to live and thrive and interact.
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