Pink flamingo had a flaming personality for sure.
The highhanded words he used were always so pure.
He kicked off a shoe and it landed smack into manure.
This made him a little less uppity, but a bit more mature.
Categories:
highhanded, 1st grade, 2nd grade,
Form: Monorhyme
He is almost perfect, just a chip on his nose,
a neatly bearded patrician.
His spouse is seriously damaged,
her face mangled by time.
In the museum two Roman busts
placed a little apart from each other.
I sense her mood; insight gives her words.
“I never loved him.” the marble woman says,
her one crushed eye tilts toward her consort.
“He was ever the highhanded martinet.
His original bust was hacked off,
it lay face down in the dust for hundreds of years
covered in goat . This one is a fake him.
I like him better.”
Categories:
highhanded, poetry,
Form: Free verse
What is your philosophy? The expert at work asked.
He was putting on airs, and I simply wanted to pass.
What are your educational theories and dichotomy? He demanded.
I thought him arrogant and off-putting, and ever so highhanded.
It was my first second at this school, not in the building yet.
I was carrying six boxes, and holding two bags by their net.
I prefer to keep my ideas firmly in my head, I told the silly man.
Surely you have theories, he argued, without lifting a single hand.
Yes, I certainly do, I thought but you are above rude and no help.
I nodded and marched back to my car for my net and greenish kelp.
Can’t hold the door, he told me, as he whisked in holding not a thing.
Come and tell me your theories when you get time and everything.
Categories:
highhanded, school, teacher, work,
Form: Rhyme