PoetryThreeSixFive

I write a poem a day, every day, all year 'round. It started as a New Year's resolution for 2010, and when Jan 1st rolled around again, I found that I just couldn't stop. What's crazier than writing a poem a day for an entire year? Howabout for five years? Or ten? I'll just keep going until the universe stops giving me material, which I find unlikely. Read 'em, share 'em. Just don't steal 'em, because you could be ripping me off for millions! (this site may also contain trace amounts of satire and/or editorial snark) If any characters bear a resemblance to anyone living or dead, they should because I'm probably talking about you. Or maybe not. Remember, poetry is often fiction and may not reflect the actual views of the author. All poems and photos are original, copyrighted, and the property of yours truly and may not be duplicated without permission. Since each poem is specifically formatted, this collection is best viewed on the full desktop site (select on your smartphone menu). The tumblr app. makes it look less than ideal. Finally, that little folder icon up there in the right corner is the archive, so go check out some back entries! -George J. Filip

[poetrythreesixfive]

James Bond

James Bond taught me

everything I know,

when to floor it really fast,

when to take it slow,

when to linger with the ladies,

when it’s time to go—

James Bond taught me

everything I know.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

I Need to Read some Hemingway

I need to read some Hemingway

to cope with all this heat,

pretend that I am strolling down

some ancient Spanish street

I turn into the plaza,

find a café on the square,

and take a table in the shade

to greet the evening air

The waiter then approaches me,

I order up some wine;

apparently, it’s something quite

poetic when we dine

He comments on the weather

or the bullfights of the day,

with strangers this forlorn

it doesn’t matter what we say

These simple, quick exchanges,

here a greeting, there a joke,

the art of common language used

by ordinary folk

And yet, it soothes the senses,

all this phrasing, short and tight—

I need to read some Hemingway

before I lose the light.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

John Wick

I wonder what it would feel like

to be killed by Mr. Wick;

it probably won’t be painless

but I’m sure it would be quick;

the move he makes to take me down,

I’m sure it would be sick—

I wonder what it would feel like

to be killed by Mr. Wick

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

A Blinding Light

The sunlight blasted in my room

to blind me as I woke,

streaming in beneath the door

like some bright morning joke

Reflecting off the hardwood floor

and straight into my eyes,

a blinding light straight out of sleep

is something I despise

With all my promises to keep,

and dreams of wakeful bliss,

of all the things I could presume,

I’d not expected this

And though I labored to resume

the peaceful sleep I’d known

with doors and windows fastened tight,

my restful state was blown

And so, I took this morning sight

to be some wakeful sign

that I should get myself in gear,

and all things would be fine

As often, it is not so clear

how God exalts our day,

for even when we shut Him out,

He always finds a way.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Autonomous

It’s much the way a pine tree feels after it has been

chopped down, stripped of its branches and bark,

and turned into a telephone pole, transmitting

the chatter and dreams of thousands of humans

vibrating through its dried spine as if resisting

an eternal swarm of cicadas, the human hive-mind

repurposing everything it sees, turning everything

into something else, leaving nothing alone, ever;

you can strip me, nail me, wire me up for sound,

I will never be what you want me to be, always

swaying, forever ready to topple to the ground at

the first wind, taking your delicate world with me.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

When I’m Tired

I can’t write when I’m tired,

the words, they just get stuck;

they flow when I am wired,

I can’t write when I’m tired,

for once my mind is mired,

I could hardly give a fuck;

I can’t write when I’m tired,

the words, they just get stuck.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Cucumber Sandwiches

It was some British cozy detective show set a small

town where everyone dresses in tweed and shawls,

and the two policemen were interviewing the old lady

who runs the local boarding house where the victim’s

body was found and, of course, like any proper lady,

she served them tea and tiny sandwiches crafted of

cucumbers, sour cream, and what looked to me like

shredded carrots, and I can only imagine how tasty

they might have been, but when she offered them,

standing there holding her silver tray, the detective

waved them off, saying no thank you, and resumed

his questioning, and none of it would have mattered

much except for the look on the old lady’s face, one

of mild surprise mixed with hurt, the kind of look

that said, Wait, I took all this time to make these tiny

sandwiches for you and you don’t even want one?

you don’t even want a taste? you just glance at them

for a second and dismiss all my effort, all my hours

of selecting and slicing and preparing? Now what am

I going to do with all this food? let it go to waste?

and in that moment, looking at her face, that is exactly

how I felt about my entire life and every woman who

has no interest in all that I have created: my home,

my education, my career, my physical and emotional

self, the adventures I’ve had, the children’s books I’ve

collected, the garden I designed, all the poems I’ve

written, all for nothing because no one wants a bite.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Coming Together

This year, the 4th of July was a strange one,

the country immersed within the World Cup,

raving about our national team taking charge

and the mingling of dozens of nations coming

together, mixing, singing, dancing, drinking,

rowing like Vikings, playing bagpipes in the

streets, still horrified by the corruption and

anarchy, but revitalized by the human factor

of common spirit that cannot be politicized

by those who would have us believe that we

are more different than alike, and when the

time came for fireworks, the clouds rolled in

and unleashed a barrage of heavenly bursts

that made our meager paper toys diminutive

by comparison, reminding us that though this

single country has been around for 250 years,

we have all been here so much longer, and

the world in which we live much longer still.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Put it Down

Trauma is when someone hurt you

a long time ago, and ever since,

you’ve been hurting yourself,

and even though they are

long gone, you keep

doing it for them

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

The Secret Prayer of the Outdoorsperson

Poison ivy just wants to grow,

but frankly, I don’t care—

eradicate it all, I say,

to hell if it’s not fair

Take the sharks with them,

and cancel their ocean lease—

I know they’re predators, blah, blah, blah,

I’d rather swim in peace

Finally, the mosquitoes,

remove them from the earth—

the bats will find some other bugs,

of that there is no dearth

Then I can be merry,

enjoy my outdoor living,

while counting all fucks I give

upon my middle finger.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

104° in the Shade

Hottest day of the year

this is no way to live;

I hold my ice-cold beer,

hottest day of the year;

I hope the end is near,

something has to give;

hottest day of the year,

this is no way to live.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Anticipation

In the ancient Germanic calendar, the day

was marked not from midnight, but from

dusk until dusk, as if the anticipation of

the following day was to begin long before

it occurred, which makes sense in that the

eve of new year’s is always more exciting

than the day; as is the eve of Christmas,

and of All Hallows, for urgency is always

more thrilling than fulfillment, expectation

of something to come overwhelming our

senses, for arrival is the ending of things,

but rising towards the peak of imagination

will always be the wellspring of our dreams.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

I Still Believe

Love adds meaning to life the way

God adds meaning to the universe;

without it, we’re just

there.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Some Words Today

I’m going to write some words today

that may not be profound

but seem to be the only ones

within me to be found

No epic tale of heroes,

no opera full of woe,

just words upon a page

and my decision how they go

They have no moral purpose

and serve no social cause

and seem unlikely to inspire

the busy mind to pause

But as is wont of poets,

I’ve saved the best for last:

for if you still are reading,

you’ve survived your sorry past.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Caught in the Rain

Walking on a summer’s day,

caught out in the rain;

it often seems to go that way,

walking on a summer’s day,

yet getting wet, I must say,

hardly qualifies as pain;

walking on a summer’s day,

caught out in the rain.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Surreality

The sky is blue,

the grass is green,

people can be

really mean

The grass is green,

the sky is blue,

I just don’t know

what to do

The grass is blue,

the sky is green,

I think you know

just what I mean

The sky is green

the grass is blue,

I hope it’s not

the same for you.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Never said a Thing

So often when someone kills themselves,

loved ones say, they never saw it coming,

their co-workers declare they are shocked,

the neighbors are confused, and it’s always

for the same reason: I had no idea that they

were depressed—they never said a thing

They never said a thing because they felt

that they were not going to be heard because

everyone was invalidating their pain, telling

them that everything was going to be alright,

to get over it when all they wanted was for

someone to help them to just get through it

Ask yourself, are you that person who is

not really listening to someone, who keeps

telling them that everyone has it bad, that

everyone is struggling, it’s not so bad, the

grass is always greener—and will you be

surprised in the end when you lose them?

Or are you the one not saying a thing—

-GeorgeFilip