The rogue poem

Sitting on a sunlit hill

I heard a distant rumble

I posed a theatrical stance,

To be sure I didn’t stumble.

And raising up at the very peak

Was a viscous poem in force.

Twelve stanzas stood up in line

Each one like a gallant horse.

Each a recurring metric unit

And a gigantic accent verse,

Then came a group of anagrams

Standing in reverse.

To one side of the body,

An acrostic line stood still,

Which from one end to the other

Spelled trouble on that hill.

Dressed as an anthropomorphism

A man shouted commands

But I saw no apostrophe

Noting ownership of his demands.

I thought I saw an allegory

Of mighty mass confusion

But on much closer reflection,

T’was only an allusion.

An anachronism rode the line

Seeking a place to rhyme

But I shouted out and said

“I’m sorry, but this is not your time.”

Above an area around an anthropomorphism

Arrived an artillery of alliteration

Standing on their dimeter,

They could not form a collation.

A group of onomatopoeia

Came clashing, puffing and banging

Then turned back up the hill

And went fizzing, clacking, clanging.

At once the poem came charging,

Quintains standing on my right

And Quatrains to the left,

And fighting filled the night.

We wrestled in fields of dactyls,

Dogs of punctuation bark

And I could not hear a sound

Above a loud quotation mark.

In desperate carnage I raised

My sharp exclamation point

And crashed it down upon the field

And the battle did disjoint.

Words came crashing down around

Colons cowardly fled the field,

Diction gave way to babble,

The poem commenced to yield.

The last dying act before the end

A couplet split in two

The poem laid waste in a pool of ink

And I ran the blighter through.

 

 

COPYRIGHT © 2017 GRANT FENTON – ALL RIGHTS RESERVED