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409th Weekly Poetry Contest winner: The Adjective River Spills Out Her Thoughts

by Miles T. Ranter

When you used to immerse your wild, whimsical verse
   in my river of radiant color, 
blooms were indigo, yellow, ambrosial or mellow —
   then, promptly, the world became duller.

For, my dear, you put bounds on my use, claiming nouns
   and verbs were the principal creatures
of eloquent writing. I went into hiding,
   and the world was devoid of all features:

Neither salty nor sweet, neither sluggish nor fleet,
   neither loud, dulcet, ovoid, or square; 
subtle hues were all gone from the heavens at dawn,
   and Earth was space-cold, desert-bare.

In less than a week, I decreased to a creek,
   and the fish and the frogs had all left
with each dragonfly, heron, and mallard. So barren
   of spirit, so wholly bereft

of attributes now was your poetry, how
   any reader could stomach one line
was beyond comprehension. A single dimension
   now made up your formerly fine

artistic endeavor. But you chose to sever
   my current of polychromatic     
flora, fauna, and stones. Now your poems were bones
   stripped of all that was once charismatic.
With no “large,” “small” or “medium,” ongoing tedium
   moved you to want me anew.
Skin’s now silky or hairy; beasts, friendly or scary —
   though we’ve lost that disconsolate-blue.
But that is a hue you could certainly do
   well without, for you’ve infinite flavor
in your phrases once more. While I surge and I roar,
   all your nouns have such spices to savor!

See all the entrants to 409th Weekly Poetry Contest