She and her war-torn undergirl
wriggled restless-
intrepid, the way
'round the battlefield.
In the flushing aftertide,
sizzle, said the grass before the gloam.
In her feet, she stood
her calico feet
on her argyle legs
with a straight-brimmed hand
to shade the slipping sun.
But the way was fraught with battle scars
itching for an arm.
She swizzled her stirring stick
with sweaty fingers,
antsy hands.
The scourge of sweet baby skins
be damned.
With her stomping boots and stick
skull-n-crossbones shells and shot
a lone patrol, she marches on.
The Hills of Hymenoptera
shall burn this night.
________________________________________________________________________________
dVerse Poet's Pub-
MeetingTheBar- Beautiful Solitude
________________________________________________________________________________ MeetingTheBar- Beautiful Solitude
smiles...i like your description of her in her stomping boots and skull & crossbone shells and shot...i almost know her in that....you sent me off to google hymenoptera....intrigiuing...nice response
ReplyDeleteMore cowbell - too funny. Sorry, to the poem, I like the imagery and tone.
ReplyDeleteGo girl go
ReplyDeletenow she def. knows what she's doing and where she's going...cool images in this...have to google Hymenoptera as well
ReplyDeleteThis is great, it crackles with energy.
ReplyDelete