were I an ailing spinster
downtrodden in whalebone stays
pale and pince-nezed nosy
would my verses flow
\snake oil slick\
along with river Thames?
I find I am much too hearty
to sit abed and scrawl
longhand iambic pentameter
with dainty perfect pen
so my words trudge
stagnant in the sludge.
were I an artiste avant-garde
flouting dilletante conventions
skirting societal hems
with off-color threads
\malcontent connection\
would my stanzas stitch
themselves permanent press?
I find I am much too staid
a slave to stoic strictures
to scribe poesy astride
a horse of different colors
so I scrawl off-kilter odes
to a life of stodgy standard
mayhaps the day will dawn
when my morphemes will march
with motoric locomotion
utterances in extremis
emotive brave locution
Very clever and very well done.
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Thank you!
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You had fun!! 🤗
And gave us fun!!
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Thanks! And yes, playing 😉
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Reblogged this on A Global Divergent Literary Collective and commented:
Aurora Phoenix/Insights from ‘Inside’
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Reblogged this on hands in the garden.
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Thank you!
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my privilege
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