I fear this world of prompts has gotten slightly out of hand and so their choice of prompt words is likely to be panned. Antediluvian? Come on!!! Who uses that strange word? It best describes itself. In modern usage, it’s absurd. Please give us words that help us, not vocabulary puzzles. We need words that lead like leashes and not creative muzzles!!!!
Do not try to impress us with obscure nomenclature.
I don’t care about their backgrounds. I don’t care about their nature.
Give me conglomerations of letters that I know,
and not these fancy words that seem simply meant for show!!!!
In short, I’m pissed because I do not like “antediluvian”
which only seems to rhyme with hard to use words like Peruvian!!
This prompt sort of threw me for a loop, so instead of just giving up and going on to a different prompt, I decided to write a gentle protest, meant in fun.. The Ragtag prompt today is antediluvian.
This is one of three waterfalls that spill down the mountain behind my house during the rainy season.
You, my wild and rushing daughter remind me of falling water spilling from one place to another while your sister and your brother are calm ponds—docile and still. Do you think you ever will come to rest within our glade or will you continue to cascade from mountainside to jungle floor, always rushing out the door to adventures in a farflung world? Another part of you unfurled in some new place and some new time, a foreign place you find sublime. We’ve had one life. You’ve had a few. Why, love, will one world not do?
Although I don’t have a brother and my family did move around a bit (but not as much as I have,) this poem was based a bit on the only letter my father ever wrote to me. I had been traveling and working abroad for a few years by then, first in Australia, then in Singapore and Africa. I’ve remembered one of sections: “The wild geese have rested on the pond for the night. They remind me of you, my wild fledgling, winging your way across the world with no place to call your own.” Those words, so poetic, show a side of my father I wish he had brought out more frequently on paper, so here I’ve done it for him.
I fear there’s a frustrating schism between progress and atavism. For though I’d like to best my folks, adding my genius to the yolks of eggs of the next generation, instead I feel great perturbation. I could improve the family genes, but fear that I have not the means. For though I’m sure I’m an improvement, our gene pool won’t see any movement. There is a sure futility regarding mutability. My evolution’s hit the skids. I forgot to have some kids!!!!
This was written to fulfill two prompts. The RDP daily prompt is atavism and Daily Addiction’s prompt is futile.
They say he was a bastion of the community. Of what their youth should aim for, the exact epitome. Mothers named their kids for him and he was so discreet, his name labelled a shopping center and a city street.
Asked to speak at graduation, his words were most succinct. Not one old lady fell asleep. Nobody even blinked! Moral, staunch and upright, he was everyone’s ideal. He always used the crosswalk. He didn’t cuss or steal.
No forensic laboratory ever had a label or test tube or fingerprint of his upon their table. In short, his reputation was one without besmirch. He went to each town meeting, every Sunday, went to church.
He did not exceed the speed limit, use liquor or smoke pot. Every single vice on earth was something he was not. His genes were the best of genes. His relatives all lasted at least until one hundred, and he dieted and fasted.
Ate kale and probiotics, whole grains and leafy greens. He sponsored many charities and lived within his means. So when he died it wasn’t from alcohol or drugs. He did not die from violence–his own or that of thugs.
He did not perish from obesity or accident or whoredom. In the end, they say that he simply died of boredom!
You hide yourself in shadows deep to watch me as I fall to sleep. Half-lidded, with your sleepy stare, you cup my cheek and stroke my hair. I do not know as I fall deeper that you stalk this drifting sleeper.
Then just as I do not resist, you give my hair a painful twist. I try to jerk awake but fail. I tense my muscles, fight and flail, but I cannot escape your grasp. I call for help, I moan and gasp.
Sir Nightmare, from where do you come with death knoll beat on ragged drum? I hear its pulse now through the day. At every hour, it sounds the way back to the horror of the night–– a pathway to that final fight
when I will mount at last that steed that nightly stands to do its deed to carry to oblivion this sleeper off to meet her kin. That father lost, those lovers three who wait for my delivery.
Is this nightmare just a dream–– a mere digression from the stream of conscious thought––a nightly swim through a fantasy most grim, or a window showing me an inevitability?
This is a repeat of a poem I wrote two years ago. It is just too perfect for the prompt not to use it. hope it warranted rereading. The Ragtag word of the day is nightmare.
I fear that I am flummoxed about where to post this poem since Daily Post abandoned us, our postings have no home where we can find each other sufficiently clear. Just where do we post them? Is it here or here or here? I applaud your efforts. I know you’ve planned and planned. You have your daily promptings sufficiently manned. The problem is we need one place where we can find each other once we have surveyed the prompt and written yet another poem or essay most profound that we would like to share. Except, where should we put it? There, or there or there? The solution to this problem has me tearing at my hair. Please give me a solution. Where should I post this? Where?
Perhaps I’ve overstepped my bounds, and if I have I fear that you’ll simply say that I should hang it in my ear!
My intuition sounds its gong. I have an inkling something’s wrong. I look around for what’s amiss, but cannot tell what signals this. My arm and neck hairs stir and rise, as if to warn me of surprise. This tiny hunch keeps me alert, but insight is a fickle flirt. When nothing happens, it goes away and I live out my normal day. That tiny niggling little prickle might lead to nought, for insight’s fickle, and sometimes things are just so small that they aren’t there at all.
This poem was written in October of 2016. The RDP2 prompt today isinsight.