T.G.I.F. 11/01/19
Hello! Welcome to T.G.I.F. 

Everyone is welcome to participate in this thread at any time, no restrictions apply.  Don't overthink the prompts, just let loose and have a bit of fun.  

How it Works:   
1. Write a poem on the suggested topic using the form described.  (However, the prompt is more like guidelines, not a hard and fast rule.)
2. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread.
3. The goal is to have FUN!!!   Comments, kudos, and questions are welcome responses.

Friday, November 1, 2019

Topic: Write a poem inspired by a classic Greek (or Norse, or any other) Myth. 

Form: any

Line Requirement:  10 ish

If you have prompt suggestions, feel free to pm your ideas to Quix.  If every Friday is too often, we can tone it down to bi-monthly or even once a month.  Let's see how it goes.   Big Grin 
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
Essence of Zeus

Saturn, or, to give his Greek name, Kronos,
embodied Time not as progression
but as devourer and destroyer.  Thus
he lorded over his contemporaries, Titans,
yet gulped his offspring down until
Zeus tricked his father into eating stone
instead of him, then rescued all
his brother- and his sister-gods
by making Kronos throw them up again.

What symbolism!  Zeus wills immortality
to others of the Nine, as to his own
heroic kids like Hercules by rescuing
them from death-dissolution in Time’s bowels.

How tightly interlocking, this mythology–
so literate, so different from Council-decreed
monotheism with one Source of verity
on which archangels, devils, genies fringe
without significance, though mortals know
(as Councils must deny) that true eternity
is its own Resistance.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Before Reading the Myths

Knew about the professional wrestler,
Hercules, remember him never winning
a title, losing a featured match against
Hulk Hogan one Saturday night when
my parents allowed me to stay up late-
that same Hercules died at forty-seven,
in his sleep, no fist fuelled comeback,
nor swerve or run-in at the funeral,
just Cardiovascular disease.
Time is the best editor.

They love their own reflections above all.
Painted pursing lips, contours, shadow tricks
mesmerize even their own eyes. Self enthralled,
they croon into the camera, “Magnifique!”
At night they coat their skin with retinol,
all day they starve to keep a gaunt physique.
They waste away while selling heart and soul 
to time-stop fleeting youth for one more click.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 

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