artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 11:

4001863-LOSOMNXO-6

Based on Banksy’s ‘Floral Protestor’. 

A War of Roses

Flower bombs

as tossed into a bed of bedlam

only pepper the sheets

that scream.

 

There, the feet carry

sprouting shields,

but the flaming fields

can’t speak.

 

They’re a squeak

in the disquieting dark

and the spark

that can’t be heard amidst the shrapneled shouts.

 

Over the notes of thistled throats,

the canary coughs crimson.

 

It’s about time the metals gather their litter.

-A. Struthers

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poetry, prose, rhyme, shakespeare, Uncategorized, war

The War of Rhyme and Prose

The Montagues and Capulets is a tale of tragic throes,

yet nothing half as hapless as the war of Rhyme and Prose.

Its fragments seem to tell the tale of rhythms crossing stars,

that happened by their fervor to foment familial bars.

Good Rhyme when met by pretense, in the riddle that was Prose

skipped her mental pitter at the flitter of his flows.

And in seeing Rhyme had rhythm, Old Prose fell off his feet

and said without her reason that his life was ne’er complete.

The two did meet in secret, for none could bear the shame

of mixing up the metre with the measure of their name.

Faint ‘Iamb Yours’ were muttered by the flutter of the page

which escalated friction in prediction of the phage.

When word broke out they wronged their tome, the two were told to part

and ushered from their opus into isotropous art.

The weight of all the fighting by the pen that was their sword

severed ink, as Prose did drink, the critic of his chord.

Good Rhyme was soon beside herself, for depth that did depart

and sung, though so inside herself, of how her beat had heart.

Each age has seen its liking,

though in form, some do detest

the pairing of a dactyl with a tactile anapest.

The moral of this war of words

is that their feud found way

to mystify the masses in dividing present day.

The only hope we have to end the war of Rhyme and Prose

is not to feed the fodder to the slaughter of the close.

If, perchance, we’re lucky,

such words will find a way,

to heal the strains of sorrow

in the sonnets that we play.

-Amy Struthers