image borrowed from bing
“Poetry is man’s rebellion against
being what he is.”--James Branch Cabell
Poetry is chameleon.
It can survive even the most
absurd of parameters by
blossoming in concrete,
or being written without the letter “E”,
soaring in a vacuum, being thrust
from inner to outer space, blasting
free, racing unharnessed, mixing meter,
metaphor, moments, & machinations,
only stopping as stanzas
to gasp for more breath.
the amazon-green blades of grass
nearly concealed the treasure
of those aero petals, the amaranth hearts,
the lurid amethyst stamen with their fetching
fuchsia spots and bright apricot stems,
sporting stripes of arylide alternating with ash,
as squads of insects paraded over them waving
their Bangladesh-green & barn-red banners.
The Jersey Jambon could not get his metamorsel
to unsnap, so he had to use his flangial
shoe-spoon as a limp lever, pressing hard
until it twanged & thwacked his pelvic forethumb
ten times ten, finally forcing him to unbuckle
the headband off his left ankle, and tie it
to his third tongue.
Finally is stood finished, sparkling
with fresh red paint in the middle
of his father’s garage, with its
air mattress wings, using coat-hanger
struts to hold them up, attached
with red & green duct tape to its
soap box derby fuselage,
TITAN ONE proudly stenciled
on both sides of its plywood pallet tail,
its propeller made from yellow spliced
canoe oars, handleless frying pans
mounted between broomsticks
for front wheels, skateboards for
rear wheels, a blue plastic beach chair
in the cockpit, red scarves for seat belts,
three golf clubs for stick controls,
with hand-painted instruments on
a styrofoam dashboard, and a Saran-
Wrap windshield stretched over rulers.
He & his pals pushed the plane
outside for its test flight. The sky
was electric blue & the white cliffs
awaited, but oddly, nobody
wanted to play pilot.
Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB
Would you like the author to read this Pastiche poem to you?