T.G.I.F. 12/27/19
#1
Hello! Welcome to T.G.I.F. 

What this is:  A new prompt will be posted every Friday.  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, December 27, 2019

Topic: luck of the draw:  choose a word source (literature, music, magazine, grocery list etc), choose a selection process (close your eyes and point, drop it, drop something on it, spin it, spin you, etc) the words you happen to read are your topic in whatever way you choose.  You can use the words you read in the poem or simply use them as inspiration.  

Form: any 

Line Requirement: any
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
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#2
Hills and Families


They were hill-men, Alexander
and King David, one born royal,
one born humble, father to
a greater king than he.

Hills of Macedon, Judea,
warriors from birth or by
necessity of shepherding,
one conquered his king’s heart with verses
and sweet singing, one the world
by leading loving soldiery
and push of pike.

What of their families,
Olympias and Phillip,
Jesse and Nitzevet,
Uriah and Bathsheba,
Abasalom and Solomon,
patrons Aristotle, Samuel?

A smaller stage for David,
no less crowded or less savage
but from him songs and sons,
for Alexander cities named,
sung far from hills of home.



A poem containing, or inspired by, words chosen at random from: a souvenir ballet program dated 2009.  (You’re lucky - the next publication on the stack was  Windows Annoyances.)

The words:  Alexander David connection Hill Tickets Partner (“Tickets” not used.)
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
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#3
A faint smell of fish

His hands creased red with knife guts
skin threads lashed on sail tight knots,
in-land he polishes park bench brass
and names her with a dark rum flask.

His eyes are dead, dragged in the net
free-diving, caught amongst the wreck
last on the line he starts to thrash
old seabirds left to bloodied sprats.

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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