January 16th, 2021
Anger is a flood,
destroying all before it.
Don’t get swept away.
Anger’s flood destroys.
Neither son nor stranger
can it distinguish.
Written on the occasion of my son calling me what you might call the driver that cut you off (guess where he learned this diction) and trying to kick me after I told him to turn off the television. Attempt to come up with a creative writing assignment to give him in order to practice handwriting.
Repeatedly not finishing a sentence. Either subject or predicate but not both. Becomes some poetry itself.
An enthymeme, right? Maybe not right.
The last line of the first iteration makes chuckle, with its juvenile self-righteous tone. Also take exception to this x is y structure in the first line, which is simply weak.
One of the tips that used to give (student) writers was to avoid using either version of be or have. Always active verbs. Hence the second iteration’s first line.
Wrote first haiku in second or third grade. Syllable count deemed vital. This emphasis officiously ruled all efforts and encounters, until recently. So permit myself to include only six syllables in the second line of the second iteration.