stonepicnicking_okapi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote2020-05-23 01:10 am
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote2020-05-23 01:10 am
My Poem: Original: Mouse Paint: Gen
Title: Mouse Paint
Fandom: Original
Poetic form: Ottava rima x 4
Lines: 32
Word Count: 256
Inspired by: Children's board book Mouse Paint by Ellen Stoll Walsh
For: GYWO - Poetry - Sevens
Picture Prompt:
a trio wandered into the old loft
the dozing artist didn’t see them slink
the three petites of fur so white and soft
and little tails and ears of petal pink
an afternoon siesta, he was oft
to take, the don, to dream perchance to think
he didn’t hear the mice, so ever nice
and quiet they crept, three little lost mice
against the plain white canvas, three mice stood
well-camouflaged ‘we can hide here,’ squeaked the one
‘oh, no,’ the second squeaked, ‘how ever could
we wile away our chance to have some fun?’
‘what fun?” the third inquired ‘oh, those look good’
‘what are? those jars?’ ‘mouse paint!’ ‘the fun’s begun!’
they scurried, mice three, to jars (also three)
unscrewing the lids, diving head-first with glee
‘I’m red all over!” cried the first ‘just look!’
on dancing feet, he tapped a poppy field
‘I’m blue! woo-hoo!’ sang another, who shook
an azure rain as he tumbled and keeled
the third skipped cheerily from nook to nook
‘what a yellow fellow am I,’ he pealed
into bowls they bowled, and on tubes they sat
‘til sticky, then bathed in a pool marked CAT
at stealthy hint of feline paws, they raced
a-pant, a-dripping back from whence they’d come
the echoes of awakened artist chased
them far they ran for home ‘til shouts were dumb
‘oh, Tabitha, you fiend! my work disgraced!’
but damning oath gave way to thoughtful hum
‘how modern is this mess! how avant-gart!’
and that was how mouse paint became High Art
Fandom: Original
Poetic form: Ottava rima x 4
Lines: 32
Word Count: 256
Inspired by: Children's board book Mouse Paint by Ellen Stoll Walsh
For: GYWO - Poetry - Sevens
Picture Prompt:
a trio wandered into the old loft
the dozing artist didn’t see them slink
the three petites of fur so white and soft
and little tails and ears of petal pink
an afternoon siesta, he was oft
to take, the don, to dream perchance to think
he didn’t hear the mice, so ever nice
and quiet they crept, three little lost mice
against the plain white canvas, three mice stood
well-camouflaged ‘we can hide here,’ squeaked the one
‘oh, no,’ the second squeaked, ‘how ever could
we wile away our chance to have some fun?’
‘what fun?” the third inquired ‘oh, those look good’
‘what are? those jars?’ ‘mouse paint!’ ‘the fun’s begun!’
they scurried, mice three, to jars (also three)
unscrewing the lids, diving head-first with glee
‘I’m red all over!” cried the first ‘just look!’
on dancing feet, he tapped a poppy field
‘I’m blue! woo-hoo!’ sang another, who shook
an azure rain as he tumbled and keeled
the third skipped cheerily from nook to nook
‘what a yellow fellow am I,’ he pealed
into bowls they bowled, and on tubes they sat
‘til sticky, then bathed in a pool marked CAT
at stealthy hint of feline paws, they raced
a-pant, a-dripping back from whence they’d come
the echoes of awakened artist chased
them far they ran for home ‘til shouts were dumb
‘oh, Tabitha, you fiend! my work disgraced!’
but damning oath gave way to thoughtful hum
‘how modern is this mess! how avant-gart!’
and that was how mouse paint became High Art
no subject
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