Let's have a thread for it then - fuck knows, there's enough shitness in the world, we should celebrate words. Poets - post up one of your own, let's have a looksee.
Here's one I prepared earlier.
Mundanity is . . .
king. We keep it from our babies.
Let them lead
crazy lives while we just sit at home,
catching naps, watching walls
knit thoughts,
hope our luck stays good, that
we don’t lose our love
like so many have before.
That the jaws of our tomorrows
won’t gorge on our todays,
and the light stays bright enough
to blind us.
. . . clinging to the uneventful.
No such thing as boring.
Dull means the day is drained
of drama; lacks adrenaline
stirred by a scary lump or bruise
that’s likely nothing.
We hope;
meditate, serene
within uncertainty.
We’ve seen too many sinkholes
gobble up goodness, faith
in hope and charity for children
lost to poverty by out of touch
ministers for cruelty.
. . . precious, to be treasured.
We try not to fret, check
for everything; nothing
can be trusted in a vehicle
rusted overnight
at half a century.
All downhill from here, people say,
tempting fate, touching wood,
craving commonplace,
the smooth-skinned arrogance
of yesterday.
. . . equal parts blue and grey;
grateful for another breath.
Echoes of senescence bounce reflections
round our synapses, excitable.
Scent, song, material;
a jumper in the cupboard,
her scarf still silk around your neck.
We never let on because we didn’t
know ourselves
until we did
when we realised
mundanity is king.
Here's one I prepared earlier.
Mundanity is . . .
king. We keep it from our babies.
Let them lead
crazy lives while we just sit at home,
catching naps, watching walls
knit thoughts,
hope our luck stays good, that
we don’t lose our love
like so many have before.
That the jaws of our tomorrows
won’t gorge on our todays,
and the light stays bright enough
to blind us.
. . . clinging to the uneventful.
No such thing as boring.
Dull means the day is drained
of drama; lacks adrenaline
stirred by a scary lump or bruise
that’s likely nothing.
We hope;
meditate, serene
within uncertainty.
We’ve seen too many sinkholes
gobble up goodness, faith
in hope and charity for children
lost to poverty by out of touch
ministers for cruelty.
. . . precious, to be treasured.
We try not to fret, check
for everything; nothing
can be trusted in a vehicle
rusted overnight
at half a century.
All downhill from here, people say,
tempting fate, touching wood,
craving commonplace,
the smooth-skinned arrogance
of yesterday.
. . . equal parts blue and grey;
grateful for another breath.
Echoes of senescence bounce reflections
round our synapses, excitable.
Scent, song, material;
a jumper in the cupboard,
her scarf still silk around your neck.
We never let on because we didn’t
know ourselves
until we did
when we realised
mundanity is king.
