(5×3)+2

Heroic Hexameter (5×3)+2. Five dactyls and a spondee (with approximate rhyming)

Life of Riley

Leapt from the eighth floor and sailed to her peril — a pine bush the cushion.

A survivor and flyer the cat carries shrapnel and now she’s a-bleeding.

I grabbed her and ran off to get to my vet as she bled on the console.

She bellowed two wails from deep pains and her sadness and rode on my lap.

Her eye is a mess as I run in the front door — oh the scene I’m creating.

“I need some help,” I announce all too loud I hope they can save her.

 

Dactyllic Hexameter

Vincent Van Gogh he’s the joke I am living with bandaged up earlobes.

Cancer keeps flagging my hopes for a full life on into my 90s.

And yet I wonder why I’d want to live on to cranky old ages.

Smell like a dead dog and slurp while I’m dining and yell at them damn kids.

Get off of my lawn and

Dactyllic Hexameter:

Petting the cat is as great as it got if you don’t count the dog love.

Open in Britain and bills all around me. I sipped on my coffee.

My love for the golf game is fallen and broken with too many privileged and no time to swing my own sticks.

The swelter is Hell here as the world is on fire.

I’m fighting fatigue and I nap like a fiend until more TV captures my heat and my mind. Toy Story Toy Story Toy Story one two three. Did you know there’s a four.

Heroic Couplets:

Walked among the NPR elitists.

Pushy-wushy privileged can’t-defeatists.

First the farmer’s market then the arts fest.

Portobello luncheon was the best test.

Elbows nearly touching in the Gardens.

Here my poverty is granted pardon.

Heroic Hexameter Rhymed-ish:

Cherries and melons and white girls with

pure breds awash in their privilege.

Old men with loud wives and credit buy

blurry bad paintings of sewage.

I gobble burgers of fake meat and

soy beans in curated gardens.

Poor as a church mouse I hobnob with

egos where I am the margins.

Heroic Couplets

Walked among the NPR elitists.

Pushy-wushy privileged can’t-defeatists.

First the farmer’s market then the arts fest.

Portobello luncheon was the best test.

Elbows nearly touching in the Gardens.

Here my poverty is granted pardon.

Heroic Hexameter

Cherries and melons and white girls with pure breds awash in their privilege.

Old men with loud wives and credit buy blurry bad paintings of sewage.

I gobble burgers of fake meat and soy beans in curated gardens.

Poor as a church mouse I hobnob with egos where I am the margins.