Do footles ever fournicate?
From two come more, and soon there’s eight
The image conjured up ain’t great
Them spondees, trochees on a date
Gosh, aren’t they cute? They’re all the rage
right there in strands across the page
Cuz less is more, and I’m a sage
The tribble's I don’t act my age
Or have you ever metaphor?
I’ve met a ten, but ’twas before
My wife - we don’t use scales no more
a weighty matter, out the door!
Why's it folks don’t discuss meter?
You mention length, the convo peters…
‘Was thinking more 'bout counting sheep
And not how long the missus keeps
The high regard for iambs, odd
The way they sound, you’d think they’re god
And what about the punks you ate?
My colon’s bad; I still dash great.
And then there is the Bard’s blank verse
I think they’re hiding something worse
Like sometimes how, here at the Soup
They filter words worse than Jan’s poop.
I’d best not rant on dactyl feet;
For now I think my work’s complete
Y’all come back, we'll spin a yarn
I'm ratcheer at the Poem Barn
if meter refers to a poem’s beat ~
why are iambs, spondees, and trochees feet?
----------
Measuring with Metrics by Milt Hankins got me thinking...
'Plane, take me by coach sky high - reach cold space.
Race Sol's bright light beams westbound - beat night's shade.
Make brain's mind glow like flambeau shines my face,
fly me high so I might know globe's great grace.
Green trees, gray slopes, wide plains, deep lakes we trace,
These wholesale sights show wide view - they don't jade.
We see white fleece shade piles while haze veils brace:
Wheel ways, phone lines - those laid by roadwrights made.
Go high my kite so right.
Seek thy sky flight, flow free.
Make thy way, find breeze light.
Take hold, wee prize, we see.
Tied tail needs airspace height.
Make sleek line tight, jolt me.
Please find wayout, gain space.
Show Lane they windswept grace.
Simon´s Sonnet. .
Simon is full of glissandi and spondee today
and writes poetry for the literati; that is ok,
it is good to know wonderful words.
I sit on the terrace facing east, a sparrow
has a nest nearby, it sits on the phone line
shrieks without the slightest hint of glissandi,
want me to go away sees me a threat to its eggs.
It never learns saw it last year when it was
protesting my presence. But in the end it realized
I was not a risk and took to sing with much
spondees, impressing it mate.
But Simon is right if we go on ending the habitat
for song birds, we leave crickets to annoy musical
ears, when heralding spring.
Its feet are tiny dimeter,
Body, spirit, soul, trimeter,
Would you look at those ears and eyes
Whose tetrameter rhyme defies
Its foot with pentameter toes,
Smelled by monometer nose!
Don’t fret when its iamb voice speaks
Cheerful quatrains for days and weeks.
Stand still while it jabbers spondee,
In stanzas of metered trochee.
Well, my friend, please do not pretend,
Or you’ll cause more stress at the end.
Each verse it speaks is oh, so sweet
For it’s growing Longfellow feet!
Sit back, relax, put on a smile,
You’ve been zapped by a poet’s grandchild!