couplets and goblets are not costly or fine
doublets and snubblets are simply mine.
words parade in my brain and do their back flip.
Adjectives and adverbs give me a tiny bit of jazzy lip.
there is a cadence to my poem today I see right away.
The prepositional phrases are on top, getting in everyone’s way.
What about the nouns? Are they doing anything exciting, poet?
You mean the circus, monkey, clown, and popsicle throwing a fit?
Yes, there is a zoo inside my poetic brain today for sure.
My muse is throwing out words like lollygag, and cow pie manure.
I roll my eyes as other words come sliding out as if in the sea….
Who is writing this stuff? I no longer feel my ideas are from me.
My muse is laughing her petootsie off, kicking her legs in the air.
Verbs like swirling, twirling and flicking give her their holiday stare.
I swear to the mythology gods who live in the clouds above,
Writing down words all day long is something I truly love.
.
The emperor rises in murk and fug like a foul mood,
glares and gazes at the bloodied arena below.
The savage screams and blood-curdling shrieks of the
blood-thirsty mob rise to a pitch.
There stands swaying solitary, a wounded gladiator
in a frozen poise of striking with his broken sword
the vanquished at his feet as the crowd roars louder,
more hysterical, more maniacal,
yelling for that sign from the bejeweled hand: thumb up
means spare the maimed; thumb down means kill him.
Although he always can, he won't let them down
for he, too, shares their lust for blood.
Drunk with power and grandeur, he dispenses life or death,
decides who lives or dies, who should be in or out,
who should be up or down - - ah, prepositional aesthetics,
infantile sense of vain omnipotence!
.
Amid the savage screams
and blood-curdling shrieks
of the blood-thirsty mob,
the emperor rises in murk
and fug like a foul mood,
glares and gazes down
the bloodied arena below;
there stands swaying, solitary,
a weary, wounded gladiator
in a frozen poise of striking
with his bloody, broken sword
the vanquished at his feet
as the crowd roars louder,
more hysterical and maniacal,
clamoring for that sign
from the bejeweled hand:
thumb up means spare him,
thumb down means kill;
although he always can,
he won't let them down
for he, too, shares their joy;
drunk with grandeur,
he dispenses life or death,
decides who lives or dies,
who should be in or out,
who should be up or down,
ah, prepositional aesthetics,
infantile sense of omnipotence!