A Holy Prose Poem in the Key of G
God Almighty, geez, good golly, and gee willikers. My good girlfriends, Gwendolyn, Grace, Gloria, and Genevieve, say they are aggrieved that greenhouse gases are extinguishing the glorious greenery, and I guess I can do nothing but agree with this ghastly and ghostly augury (egads and glory be!).
No F-Bomb Poem
Far be it from me to infest my free verse with the F-bomb, for this is a family-friendly forum and it would cause a frightful kerfuffle, especially from people of faith. I refuse to use any word that is fraught with fraud or in any other way flawed, because if I want to fly far up there with the highfalutin folk of fantabulous fame and fortune I fathom I could go a lot further with fine formalisms that foment fidelity, friendliness, fantasy, and fun. And now, this non-fractious, non-frenzied, non-fallacious, non-foul-mouthed, no F-bomb poem is finally finito.
Around and About and Around Again
A is for apple and it’s also an alleyway to our awesome alphabet. “Ay?” you ask. “Absolutely,” I answer adamantly. And once you get ahold of that A, it is always accessible. And you can find it anywhere: in Albany, Albuquerque, Andalusia, Appalachia (with a short “a,” not a long “a,” as I’ve been admonished), in arid Arizona, and in all areas of America aboard Amtrak in April or August; in Angola, Afghanistan, and Azerbaijan, in the arctic attic of Aunt Agatha’s abode in Anchorage, Alaska; aloft in the air, along the avenues of Austin or Akron or Abilene, in Article A of your attorney’s affidavit, your advocate, in which he argues for abeyance at arbitration while you absorb an abundance of alcohol. You can accumulate A’s anyplace, actually. Your abdomen, your arteries, your abs, your aorta, your adenoids, your appendix, your armpits, your arthritic ankles, and your alimentary canal (it’s alimentary, my adorable and amiable amigos). Although I am aching to keep this anacreontic* appropriately antiseptic (aha, there’s an asterisk after anacreontic because I already assumed you were going to ask—an anacreontic is an ode and it was named after the Athenian author Anacreon), but all right, I’ll allow an aberration for the sake of all this alliteration. Alleluia and alas. (Now how about them apples?)
Cindy Hochman is the president of "100 Proof" Copyediting Services and the editor-in-chief of the online journal First Literary Review-East. Her latest chapbook, Telling You Everything, was recently published by Unleash Press. Cindy resides in Brooklyn, New York (USA), where she reads, writes, edits, meditates, studies Russian, learns tai chi, and agonizes over politics.