Mama, I’ll make you proud

How are you?
How’s dad?
How’s my little sister?

I’ve got news,
I know you’ll be excited
I’m living my dream

I hang out with all the gods
They make great company
Cronus is a friend of mine

I’m taking lessons on how to become a god
The exams are at the end of this year
after that I’ll start certification

We had smiting class today
that was fun
though I accidentally smote the wrong person

I hope to undo that tomorrow
after miracle practice
but miracles are hard
I’m not very good at them yet

I get straight A’s
in divide and conquer
– thank you for being such an inspiration

For my current project I’m raising fundamentalism
I want to get rid of some of the other gods
and take over their followers

To be honest, I don’t care much for vision creation
We’re obliged to work in colour
I feel I shouldn’t accept restrictions

Mum, will you come to our graduation?
I think it will be me and two others
I’m afraid you won’t be allowed to meet my teachers
the gods shy mere mortals

I think I need to renounce you during certification
I hope you won’t mind
it’s just a formality

I believe I’m predestined
to become the most powerful god of them all
I’ll smite whoever you want me to
Mama, you’ll be so proud!

Love, your son, G.O.D. In training


2 thoughts on “Mama, I’ll make you proud

  1. Angela van Son Post author

    Actually, my poem was inspired by the work of two poetic friends. They agreed that I could share their work here. My friend Moonie started us off with this one:

    Twas graven on the earthen pot,
    How ancient vessels, wrecked on rocks,
    While young men stood on burning decks.
    Whilst maidens lay in soapy suds,
    And my companions tried to
    Not fall in.
    Whilst Athens fought
    And went the extra half a league,
    To stand and deliver our democracy,
    Though perhaps not on valentines day,
    That dream of rose petalled youth,
    That flowers yet on many a wall.
    Amidst the serried ranks of boys,
    The youthful shepherd
    Carried off by Zeus,
    To lie as found, upon some rustic hill,
    While other men make money
    Within the Empire’s hive.
    Those digging gold
    From out this ancient realm
    Would make the blood pound
    And the tongue thrust forth
    From out the neck,
    Like lilies from a vase,
    Or like young Charlie,
    Dead on Spion Kop,
    Laid out in golden sun
    Like Tutahnkamun,
    Whilst I lay in the arms of she
    Who is no more,
    Those times and customs
    Wherein we ploughed the furrowed field,
    No longer spoken of,
    And shunned like Bandersnatch.
    The English Oak, slow growing,
    Like the plans of Ataturk,
    Or like the dying of young Peter
    Whose poppy blood wet Flander’s field
    May one day rise to greatness in the town
    Or perhaps like poor old Percy,
    Simply drown.
    ………………………………….this must be the best poem ever!!….

    You can read more by the Moon man here: Rest assured he doesn’t usually beat his own drum. That was part of the inspiration (no, I’m not unveiling the prompt, I love these poems too much).

  2. Angela van Son Post author

    Then my friend Queenie followed up with this fabulous piece:

    My ultimate poem

    Uncle Ernie’s final remains are in an Urn, it’s tasteful like
    Unlike the poor lost souls on the Titanic, that sunk
    Course, it were women and children first
    While bravely the Captain went down as the band played on.
    I like a bath; I have to have a sitter, to make sure I don’t drown
    But If I did I want me mates to stand around my grave with leeks

    Poets fighting like Kelphts
    When can their glory fade?
    Dashing highwaymen, who were too scared to mention
    Find the noose too soon, but they had it coming
    A woman’s beauty fades just as surely as she wrinkles, if she stays in the bath too long
    Though the skills that she learned in the St John’s ambulance brigade will remain
    Probably not much help if a beautiful bull tempts you to slide on to its back, plunging you into the sea.
    Still many an innocent ends dumped, viewing strange stars
    Bees depend upon a queen; don’t piss of yours if only Zeus had learned this sooner

    London needs more hives but
    No fracking, no dead prospectors or dirty water
    England, let’s keep it as green and pleasant as we can
    Imagine choking, the only fruit on the deadly nevergreen
    Empty vases nothing grows in a wasteland
    I think of Charlie too, that damned black week disaster
    How much nicer it would have been to visit Ozymandias’s tomb, statue, thingy
    I dream about us walking hand in hand looking, on and despairing
    But oh the times and customs
    We could not make hay while the sun shined
    The thought if getting caught gave you the Jabberwockies

    The holly and the oak, compete throughout the year
    Much like the staunch Turks and those damn Greek insurgents
    So many friends, who walked the hallowed halls of Oxford
    Poor Wilfred who resonated the anthem of a doomed youth
    Unfortunate Cecil who drowned after being bucked of the back of a beautiful bull
    When Zeus realised he wasn’t an exquisite Phoenician Princess.


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