Since the rubric seems to be shifting a little, here's an old and, so it turned out, unprophetic, one of mine. It doesn't fit the original brief, but there's definitely homonyms involved.
A million, billion trumpets At first he had only heard the sound of a single trumpet that blew as he entered a room. Not some plastic trumpet playing cheap, wobbly notes, and certainly not a trumpet in the scatological sense, no, the very best kind of trumpet, the kind that presaged the presence of a king, or a trumpet made of gold and blown in fanfare by an angel trumpeting the arrival of the Lord. But when he’d looked for a trumpet, he couldn’t find one; the room was empty, with no trumpet- blower in sight. Could it be that he was hearing trumpets as others heard voices? Might this be the first wild trumpet- call of madness? And yet, even if it were, the trumpeting had felt good, and it had seemed so fitting to be trumpeted into a room. So he was pleased when later the trumpeting recurred. He quickly grew accustomed to being trumpeted, and soon it was as if he had always heard the blast of a trumpet heralding his entries and exits, and before long the solo trumpet became two, then three, then a whole platoon of trumpets proclaimed his every action. Now there were trumpets to herald his first movements of morning, there were trumpets to undress to in the evening, and even when he trumpeted in the scatological sense, there was a crescendo of trumpets to celebrate his achievement. He learned from the trumpets that everything he did was laudable, praiseworthy, trumpetable, something he had long suspected even before the trumpets had arrived to confirm it. Such was the volume of the trumpets that sometimes when others spoke all he heard was trumpets, and even his own thoughts were replaced by the sound of trumpets; yet he saw no real disadvantage in this – often the trumpets made more sense to him, and besides when the trumpets erupted within he felt invincible: as long he had those trumpets blowing, whatever the adversity, he felt sure he could trump it. Elevation to high office only strengthened this feeling, and trumpets began to blow continuously in an unending fanfare of trumpetry: every breath, every word, every thought, triumphantly trumpeted. Now he knew there was no challenge, no enemy he couldn’t trump. It occurred to him he was the best leader ever. Yes! sang the trumpets. It looked a bit like a trumpet. A big red button-shaped trumpet. Shall we, my trumpets? he asked. You the man! blasted the trumpets. He pushed the big red trumpet to an orgasmic explosion of trumpets. |
My favorite patch of monorhyme in any poem comes at the end of Lewis Carroll's "The Aged Aged Man." The final stanza has 12 rhymes in a row beginning with "I weep . . . " And somehow the 12 lines of monorhyme don't stop you from hearing the weight/gate rhyme that brackets the 12 lines:
And now, if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know— Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo— That summer evening long ago A-sitting on a gate. |
Matt,
I heard trumpets all night! This sorta reminds me of a goofy joke my father liked to say (it was funny to a toddler): I bought a wooden whistle, but it wouldn't whistle, so then I bought a steel whistle, but it still wouldn't whistle, then I bought a tin whistle, and now I tin whistle. |
|
Yikes!!! What a linguistic furbelow. I want to include a Bigalow.
|
Maybe influenced by the heading “Sitting on a corn flake” by Jim Moonan over on Art Museum.
Little Things Sat on a bee slept on a pea it tickled me Choked on dog hair shaved Rover thought it fair Splashed by a puddle and bit an eggshell I could still yodel Chewing meat gristle and stung by a thistle I happily whistle Learning my lover eloped to Dover I cried, Where’s Rover? |
Sorry, 'twas a hiccup?
|
All times are GMT -5. The time now is 10:23 AM. |
Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.7.4
Copyright ©2000 - 2024, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.