Poem-A-Day: Day 572

Cycle 2

The whole idea, the whole project
was discovered on the brink of madness,
destruction historically recorded
in green skies of falling trees,
broken glass memories,
and one simple brilliance
that shares the same disastrous omen:
nature knew better than to let it slip idly by. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 571

Cycle 3

The whole idea, the whole project
grew, as things will do given chance;
chance marking spots of indiscretion,
of marring jolts dripping electric bolts
smashing wave after wave
of portents, poor chance,
and the sweet aroma of resilience
given circumstantial evidence to convict. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 570

Cycle 4

The whole idea, the whole project
was a concept in the making,
surpassing tense to see the world
as it seems from one minute location
shooting blaze and rage in all direction;
stopping to scoop the earth
among the desperate faces yellowed
with damnation petals and withered hearts. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 569

Cycle 5

The whole idea, the whole project
was never fully understood,
or truly realized,
given electric dreams of electric sheep
and some computation adding;
replicating through the past
straight past the future gone back again
before returning to a point left vacant. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 568

Cycle 6

The whole project, the whole concept
was never meant to be anything
but a sore scraping through the meadow
drenched in one dollar crapulence;
muttering repetitive shits
left to sink to the clouds
and racing forever higher to inevitable splash:
the distinctive beauty of a soaring bird. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 567

Cycle 7

The whole project, the whole concept
fashioned historics from hysterics
and spit down from the ground
somehow leaving the sun sizzling
and dreaming of black days passed;
black rays balking at basking divers
able to take the plunge,
not wallow deep down in shallows. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 566

Cycle 8

The whole project, the whole concept
was beginning to move in ways not understood,
not easily understood by time;
no essence of thought or deliberation,
reflections bouncing signals off screams
and the jealous panic of what will,
but not the what hasn’t, not has it,
what was hasn’t always been so forgiving.