She walks without a stutter
in her high heel books
and her low-necked poems
get her long enjambed looks.
But there’s a limp in her throat
when she thinks of him
and his hard, ripped verse
and his slant-rhymed limbs.
So she slips on her finest
red metaphors—
oh her silken triolets
are iambic whores
and sooner than swoon
all her tropes slide off
as his trochees meet her spondees
and there aren’t beats enough
for all the grooves they scan
as their feet go fractal.
Let’s free verse it, baby,
he whispers in her dactyl.
I need to find my fan… 😉
You totally inspired this poem when you pointed out my typo the other day. I got to thinking about those black books she was wearing and what they might do … 🙂
On 2/10/14, 11:01 AM, “comment-reply@wordpress.com” wrote:
>
When I saw the typo I thought “Word Woman indeed!” And now this… 😉
There is nothing quite so good as a mistake for sparking creativity 🙂
On 2/11/14, 10:26 AM, “comment-reply@wordpress.com” wrote:
>
Very funny, all those poetic terms. I’m trying to figure out the anatomy of rhyme, like where, for instance, is a dactyl? 🙂 That first stanza is great.
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