What A Day
This is a comic poem, a ludicrous poem, the kind of poem I do so very much enjoy being a part of because, in some strange way that I do not understand, they give me hope.
I have tried to stick with some kind of schedule but I’m a poet not a doctor.
What A Day
Whilst you piffle about
in this sumptuous haberdashery,
a boutique resplendent with such
headwear, such fascinators
that would give even a
pampered princess pause and,
dare I say, palpitations,
I shall be in the park
across the river,
the one with the bell tower
and the tiny merry-go-round,
ruminating upon the sparrow
and other important matters.
You will not be able to miss me
as the lanes are narrow (but charming)
and my legs are long,
punctuated by large feet
and substantial footwear, and
inasmuch as you might find yourself
gazing upwards at the morning light
sifting down through
the pale green spring leaves
making delirious patterns
onto the sycamore bark,
you may well trip over me
while I may well be equally absorbed,
pouring all of this into
my brave little black notebook
which shall be sent ignominiously
sailing up through the leaves
in order to catch you
in my arms
before your newly acquired
and very smart looking hat
should meet the lane,
charming as it is narrow.
The day is afoot
and what a day
we shall have.
Out of date words, outrageous syntax, events of no real import. This is about form over substance, beauty over brains, style over meaning. There are times when all I crave is just beauty and a Fred Astaire dance in a very good suit. Sometimes poets are deeply shallow.
I really enjoyed this. It sounds great, and it ends well. Word-magic is afoot.
Sharing the happiness just by reading this and seeing your gallant sacrifice of your notebook to save the day (not to mention that hat!) I needed this.