Constant time poems are fun to write.
The key is getting the timing right.
It's best when you think in constant time,
Not focusing on the length of the line.
A four-count works the best for me;
Eight syllables works perfectly.
The emphasis: iambic beat
No skips for me, just nice and neat.
You tap it out, it flows like rote
Each syllable is half a note
Shorter lines? Pauses tweaked;
The longer the line, the faster you speak.
Seven is a better fit?
Half note delay; wait for it.
If nine is preferred, is what you need
Drop into quarters to get your speed.
And when you write a limerick,
Here is another little trick:
Lines 1, 2, and 5: the standard count
Lines 3 and 4: half that amount
So now that you're tapping at your desk,
The image here: picturesque.
See, Tippecanoe and Tyler too
Fit perfectly, so now we're through!
SEHGUH ASIL
Both of us were very well fed by a flame
Each gaze made right what once seemed so wrong
You gave me a gift and I was never the same
It was the gift of lyrics, music and song
But finally I have a freshly found fact, indeed
Information you may not know
It is a fact my fate has decreed
As you stroll with unawareness in tow
It’s about words as they relate to music and notes
Specifically the songs you bestowed upon me
A dozen fine tunes with a flute that floats
While waves of wonder flowed upon me
The lady lilts lyrics that are razor sharp
As the syncopation slices my flesh and soul
I pray to a piccolo while my heart hears the harp
And when she voices vibrato I’m pacified whether for a half-note or whole
So I merely care to point something out
About the intricacy of what a man like me learns
Each song is a scene that demands I should pout
and sadly the song now conveys why our flame no longer burns
© 2013 copyright PHREEPOETREE…..~free cee!~
Within the hype of hop-head hitter's fear
Are bitter crystal lies of siren night.
The sight of city sounds will surface near
As frantic raging rhythms rise in flight.
And songs we play in honor of the horn,
Blue-blended notes and half-note incompletes,
Diffuse the blues to jazz where love is born,
Creating genius bound for easy streets.
The scintillated syncopated sound -
Dramatic Diogenic dreams so vast;
A vibrant vision vital and profound,
Improvisation purity, at last.
Another brother for the gutter dead -
Transcendent saxophone--your habit fed.
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