Tag Archives: quatrain

Four Lines

While in my yard standing alone
the unused furniture spills rust
on concrete that wants to adjust
to the shift of underground stones.

The shifting of underground stones
is what cracks solid foundations
tilts geometric relations
and sets up vibrations in bones.

Bone vibrations quickly set up
a quake in a once rigid spine
submerging the ear with the whine
of coffee trembling in a cup.

While coffee in a cup trembles
the hand shakes almost the same beat
keeping time with uncertain feet
a feat poetry resembles.

Poetry resembles the feat
oft referred to as herding cats
but I think a belfry with bats
is the idiom to repeat.

Four Lines

With the task undertook all’s square
in the world of rhyming quatrains
and why I am here to complain
that four lines each day is not fair.

That four lines each day is not fair
has naught to do with this project
for I’m the one with the concept
to write for a year on a dare.

To dare to write for a full year
three hundred sixty five verses
seemed a mild task with few curses
not too hard a project to fear.

A project I fear not too hard
and I can toss any four lines
in very few minutes most times
while standing alone in my yard.

Four Lines

It’s too bleak the art of good verse
for amateurs to read their work
where critics come to smile and smirk
as poets go from worse to worse.

As poets go from worse to worse
heart-break’s agony spread too thick
lonely souls yearning to be kissed
by a dark enlightening curse.

A dark enlightening curse gives
a verse writer subject matter
to let sad sobbing words splatter
fat tears over a poem’s ribs.

Fat tears onto a poem’s ribs
masks the delicate march of feet
leads the tempo towards defeat
and hangs the rhyme before it lives.

To hang the rhyme before it lives
corrupts the will to sparsely write
verse that brings the brink of hot light
to cast shadows on loves and sins.

To cast shadows on sins and loves
could be the reason for fine art
and short quatrains could be the start
to finding what poetry does.

Finding what poetry can do
is a lifetime of sorting words
stumbling through lists of nouns and verbs
counting fingers till lines are true.

Lines are true when counting fingers
keep conning over the same place
moving purposefully in space
to right a foot that still lingers.

Lingering still on the right foot
this three six five project is now
tied to its prescribed daily rate
all square with the task undertook.


Four Lines

A poem caged rather than free
sits behind bars made of meter
chained with rhyme by the word seeker
who wants lines to march perfectly.

Who wants lines to perfectly march
like armies work to starch their men
in ranks and files they do condemn
them to a foolish heedless charge.

A foolish heedless charge by men
may be more natural than words
shoved together in four-line herds
by some poet’s sharp cruel pen.

Some poet’s sharp and cruel pen
is out there and wandering loose
waiting to ruin someone’s youth
with rhyme and meter once again.

Rhyme and meter once again speak
to me and I gladly listen
still knowing poetry’s fearsome
reputation for self-deceit.

Reputation for self-deceit
is what bad poetry begets
while one’s fondest hopes and regrets
wallow around and through conceit.

Wallowing through and round conceit
while pouring verses from the heart
will be the end before the start
as the art of good verse is bleak.