Vive le Printemps!
Everyone loves spring, when the world is fecund and bursting with promises of life... everyone except for those stricken with allergies. Then the overzealous antics of spring are simply a constant onslaught. After watching Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin, it seemed appropriate that this poem should adopt a propagandistic tone, although it became a strange and confusing pastiche stretching languages, jargon, and periods, an analogous barraging of the senses.
Vive le Printemps!
When daffodils assent in diphthong nods,
And snowy reigns o'erthrown in coup d'états,
The blooming masses mobilize the fight
To sway the plebian daisies with their might.
The blitzkrieg budding startles oak to rouse.
Revolt for freedom, march! "Do not be bound,"
Screams Comrade Tulip, "tight to endless gray.
We persevere to bring the dawn of May."
The shackles break! The air ignites with spice
Of blood-red poppies bursting free to cry
Victorious and jubilant, this day
When arctic tyranny dissolves away.
Enough! Enough! This body won't survive
these frenzied floral rallies for war. Deprived
of air—so still so sweet—and peaceful nights,
In truth I yearn for Winter's muted sigh.
