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