London, Island of Sodor

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt encouraged us to “first, make a list of ten words” in whatever way we liked then “for each word, use Rhymezone to identify two to four similar-sounding or rhyming words”. I’m reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt right now and decided to select my ten words by closing my eyes, flipping to random pages and pointing to a spot on the page. The words that came out of this exercise were broke, lean, never, hand, mother, drunk, focus, worker, paranoia, and raincoat. I won’t list all of the corresponding Rhymezone words (they’re italicized in the poem) – I was able to integrate most of the words from my original list except four.

Anyway, I didn’t ponder this one at all really and it just evolved as I wrote, so definitely turned out a bit strange…


From the West she ambles across the avenue, sporting a red paisley raincoat
Her glassy brunette curls poking out from her beret, glistening, in the unexpected rain
Her left hand clenched around a wrinkled banknote
In her right a purple handbag that she swings in dismay
It is embroidered with an autumn crocus
And she glares ahead with focus
Yet from the quiver in her gait
It is evident she is astray

On the other side of the cobblestone lined pavement, sprawls a drunk worker
His twill sequoia overcoat damp and stained with mustard
He heeds no attention to the punk lurker
That tip toes behind him twirling a scalpel
Latching onto the storm drain, he clamors – ‘mother!’
Silence. And when that fails, itching with paranoia he bellows ‘brother!’
All the while, the lurker approaches and leans to the ground
Silently placing the scalpel at the base of his overcoat

On the North corner of the square lies a grand church, it’s façade baroque
There lies a monk in a loosely wrapped robe
He leans to the curb, wafts, then inhales a stroke of coke
The passersby gasp, they are mortified
They claim they have been hocussed
For the grand church and its clergy are the town’s locus
With nothing but a mere pause, the monk reaches for his flask
Filled with bromine if he may, he takes a swig at last

And near the South part of the square, emerges the queen
Trumpets, trombones, steeds, fanfare no doubt
All around her, armed forces gloat and create a magnificent screen
Yet the poor queen’s subjects never even bob their heads
And adjacent stands a shirker, quite clever
He aims to provoke launching a jagged pebble with a quick pull of his lever
It threads the armed forces and severs her eye
‘Ayyyeee!’ shrieks the queen, ‘it’s broke!’

The steeds disband across the square and chaos ensues
The glassy brunette trips, her banknote and beret launched towards the sky
The drunk worker’s eyes glaze over as his schillings are swiped by the lurker
The monk grabs his flask and pulls his robe free
It collapses into the mud and he latches onto a nearby steed
The queen wrangles for her crown, but it’s lost in the midst
The queen tumbles to the pavement, what a bland afternoon
And off in the distance, Big Ben chimes three – that must mean that it’s time for high tea?

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