Monet was enamoured of poppies and painted them in the field,
Van Gogh and Cezanne used poppies for still-lifes; their vibrancy appeals.
I could write of fields of poppies gently blowing in the breeze,
But actually they are inclined to make me splutter, sneeze.
Poppies come and poppies go; considered pests by some you know,
But they’ve never eaten orange poppy-seed cake or felt the breezes blow...
‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow’ was written in rondeau style...
To commemorate young soldiers fallen; a paean of death futile.
But John McCrae’s poem was used extensively as propaganda,
In Britain and United States, in Europe and his native Canada.
‘Poppies for young men, death’s bitter trade’ is Sting’s rejoinder,
Heroes and heroines now resort to heroin and why do we pander...
To the absurdity of the Catholic three-ring circus for a new Pope,
Cardinal vultures in bright red finery – junior ‘poppies’ dispensing hope?
But for whom...the children abused? Celibacy hides a sinister legacy,
At least the Borgias were ‘honest’ in their depths of great depravity.
Ex Benedict has genuflected and left the Curia though not in his prime,
Relinquished the inquisition, perhaps his new mission is to play piano ragtime?
Pope sip more absinthe now he’s absent; plenty of poppies there I’m told,
‘Tis no wonder they carry him about in a chair, now emeritus fair and bold!
‘Oh, flower of forgetfulness just an hour away to the moon,’ I hear her moan.
Those sad lyrics detailing her addiction? No! Bipolar was Nina Simone.
My writer’s block persists with further poppycock and as I give out sloppy copies,
I can truly say, in everyway, there’s nothing new about my view of poppies.