Hello blogness, my old friend…  I’ve come to write on you again.  Anybody remember when I used to blog?  Me, too.  But I’ve been busy AF these last few months.

“Busy AF” means work stuff, mostly.  That doesn’t change the fact that it’s again the delightful time of year when the Poem-A-Day Challenge happens, and this is my sixth year venturing in.  The decision to participate this year wasn’t an easy one.  With so much of my writing attention and energy going to flash fiction these days, I was tempted to run along with Nancy Stohlman’s Flash NaNo Challenge.  But what it came down to was this: I know the PAD Challenge pretty well by now, know I can crank it out, and there’s an end-game of submitting your chapbook, as shitty as it might be.  All that, and I’ve been dreadfully lacking in practicing my poetry skills of late.  Plus, I’ve cranked out a short story the last three years each time I’ve been in the thick of the PAD Challenge, and last year’s even got published.  So I decided to wade again into familiar waters.

Anybody who wears their cloak like that probably deserves this. Just sayin’.

The way the PAD Challenge opens my mind and forces me to write even a little bit each day is what keeps drawing me back.  Invariably, a poem I really like and have a lot of fun writing springs forth, and a recent one has given me pause to think about it and post it on these dusty pages.  November 14 brought the prompt “Write a myth poem.”  I was cool with that because I’m a big fan of classical mythology.  In particular, I’ve always found Prometheus’ story rather compelling.  The rebelliousness and jackass stubbornness of the whole thing are where I key in.  So I had myself a good time writing this one.  Dunno how it will change between now and the time I wrap up the PAD Challenge, but here it is in current form.

Also…  I’ve never written a poem before that uses a footnote.  So here’s my first one!

Millenniums of dreadful dawns.
Millenniums of days chained
to a rock, immortal flesh
yielding to talons and beak.
Millenniums of cold, wet nights
in isolation ticking
again to dreadful dawns.

Don’t despair for him—aspire!
No worse off that Sisyphus¹,
he knows the daily ordeal
and is sure he will endure.
Punishment become pleasure;
smug in knowing this again.
Do your worst.  See you tomorrow.

¹Camus, Albert.  “The Myth of Sisyphus.”


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