I decided to write a poem that’s different than my usual syllable-based stuff. This is a ballade (not to be confused with a “ballad”). The rhyme scheme is A-B-A-B-B-C-A-B-A-B-C for the first 3 stanzas and A-B-A-B-C for the last stanza (the envoi). The theme may be considered political to some. The beauty of poetry is that it could mean anything to anyone.

 

Paravanes in my Veins

 

They’ve turned on their own flesh and blood.

They see us as obstructions, and—worse still—commodities.

For larger trolling lanes, they’d fancy a flood.

How they fear society’s oddities.

They fear they will be brought to their knees.

Because we’re resigned that this toil will not again be sown.

We will cleanse ourselves of the mud.

Then we’ll win back control over the keys,

Polish off all of the crud.

Open windows, let in a breeze.

And all because of an interesting loan.

 

Right now, we are like a flowering bud.

We are hoping for pollenating bees.

But stalks are also shaken by a thud.

It wouldn’t be in their interest to displease,

Since a shaken flower may make you sneeze.

Emotion moves fast with the internet and telephone.

Kind people don’t want to shed blood.

Killing, though, is a miserable man’s expertise.

Land lovers would hate to have a flood.

Depression drives men to be divers of the sea.

And all because of an interesting loan.

 

There is a stirring in the blood:

A thickness, a social disease.

There is a crying out for a flood:

An oppressive denial, a wage freeze.

It’s a raw sensation pregnant with unease.

The throne of power will be overthrown.

In the rain, they will be dragged through the mud.

We will come after their board of trustees.

They might try to nip it in the bud.

That would surely stir the hive of bees.

And all because of an interesting loan.

 

The elite, exiled. An outpouring of blood.

The greedy, gutted. A shrill wheeze.

The orchestrators, ostracized. A flood.

Their wealth, knowledge, and resources, those are what we’ll seize.

And all because of an interesting loan.