Long Quintains Poems
Long Quintains Poems. Below are the most popular long Quintains by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quintains poems by poem length and keyword.
A young man leads his girlfriend to a tree
one sultry summer eve as night is looming.
the branches of the old oak form a canopy
under which he leans in for a kiss, assuming
his new love also feels their romance blooming.
The pretty girl is innocent and shy,
but from the boy’s sweet kiss she feels that he
might be her one true love; more kisses make a sigh
escape her lips. Her inhibitions flee,
and touching him arouses her curiosity.
Aglow, they feel a passion all-consuming,
undressing one another as fingers fly.
The curious moon, with incandescence blooming,
peeks down from a star-bedazzled sky.
Young love with moon above shall never die.
Written 10/17/12 for Francine Robert's
Romance me with English Quintains Poetry Contest
and now for A true love -poem #2 - Poetry Contest of poet destroyer A
Football, for long a game of kicks,
To viewers oft of bare fists, bricks,
At times a show of gun,
At others filled with fun,
But now more of kickbacks it reeks.
It’s time FIFA gets yellow card
To warn: be fair and be on guard,
Let their flow some fresh breath,
Else, there’d be ‘sudden death’,
For you, your wards the same standard.
Should the warning prove not enough,
The game will get rough, make you puff,
Let cards yellow to red
Act as life kit for Fed,
When reason fails to rhyme, act tough.
__________________________________
Happenings | 13.05.2015, revised January 2024| Quintain
Poet’s Note: This poem was penned following a scandal involving kickbacks of millions of dollars by football’s FIFA officials which was only a tip of the iceberg, it looks as if some warning cards were needed like never before—for officials more than for the players. Here are three quintains, not with ababb rhyme scheme, but takes a limerick format.
"TWO SYLLABLES WENT MISSING TODAY"
Last seen with commas, running away.
The poet seems distressed and frantic
said it might be a Clerihew's antic.
Or wait, he cried, could be even worse--
hiding away in a single verse!
Or, wooed by Quintains (Sicilian)
or, in refrains (one of a million).
~What's so bad if two you happen to lose
when you have more of them to choose~
Ah, my good man, you don't understand.
They're precious as gold in a poet's hand.
Like apricot hues in ebbing sun,
and crimson's kiss to a day that's done,
they help words weave together like lace,
without them, our lines may lose their pace.
Whatever--at least they have been found--
hid in some sonnet, or was it a round?
Oh good, I can use them right away!
This might have saved my "Rondeau in Gray."
Now, if I only I could find one more,
slightly used, at the second-hand store...
October 1, 2022
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?
A swarm of whispers kisses my face
Like tender blossoms, a full view;
In morning’s bid, I find thrilled embrace
Through good-bye romps as sunrise debuts
On fragrant petals carousing dew.
My eyes follow his parting tracks on wings
As day rouses wisps of garlands’ crowns,
Clusters of buds wheeze a mild buzzing
To invite play, bouquets tap on ground
Their hemlines sway, waltzing all around.
When hours cling of delight, time endures
And I breathe him as buds fondle my hands,
But purple descends to weave sleep’s lure;
Sadly, florets close as night expands
Till he arrives, with roses on strands.
For Francine Roberts'Contest
Romance Me with English Quintains
by nette onclaud
2 nov 2012
The call
sent shivers up my spine
and raised the hairs upon my neck ~
frozen, pondered on what the heck
its owner liked to dine.
A twig
shouted its betrayal,
bending, snapping under pressure,
made my terror that much fresher,
awaiting my assail.
Shadows
passing across the moon
identified her in the night,
a fearful, magnificent sight;
I near gave way to swoon.
The rush
of blood still in my head,
fearing to take another look,
I shut the pages of my book,
turned off the light for bed.
----------
An Argonelles, quintains of 2/6/8/8/6 with a rhyme scheme of abccb. PS needs a generic Quintain, IMHO.
In youth, I wrote many poems of rhyme,
quatrains flowing freely on the lines.
Here and there a couplet would unwind
and on occasion quintains undefined.
As time progressed, I tried my hand
at Japanese Haiku and tanka you
but mine were plain and bland.
Soon enough came some monologues,
they are always in my head,
brandishing wild, love lustful poetry
with blank verse and ballad narratives unsaid.
Nowadays though, I think I may have settled in
with a grandiose display of my version of free verse.
But as age and loss requires and incurs
elegies and eulogies and epitaphs, the worse.
Still on occasion, a line plays out to idylls,
some kyrielles and odes.
Few limericks survive, as learned outside of school
but writing feelings, love, emotion
often lets me play both the lover and the fool.
A pastoral or deep poetic prose may still find
and shape in sonnets may reveal a deeper mind.
Hidden somewhere is a multitude of Vaasokhts
but not a single verse of love revealed
leaving many on the sidelines unknown
awaiting other compilation remaining to be shown.
Thank you to the PoetrySoup community,
for being really good friends to me...
Thank you for for comments and collaborations,
And for posting awesome poems for all to read!
Ya'know, every word has the power
to change the course of history...
And PoetrySoupers do it best,
Amicably, gleefully and cheerfully!
Poems, contests, articles and blogs
all intertwine this nest,
Where poeteers engage themselves,
Making PoetrySoup the best!
So now... PoetrySoup is the place,
To come and contemplate.
On all things good and bad in life,
With balance on harmony and strife.
But to this end,
It's a place for friends...
That juggle magical words,
For synergy to be heard.
Diamantes, kimos, sonnets,
Free verse and haikus.
Tankas, quintains, acroustics,
And even clerihews.
So if you don't already have a ladle...
Creativity is your horse, PoetrySoup is your saddle!
Thursday, November 4, 2021
three quintains
Husband made an announcement yesterday at five.
"I'm NOT going to Disney next week on Spring Break.
Back problems do not mix with that long twelve-hour drive,
walking theme parks for four days - another mistake."
My tail is draggin'; I can't fire up this dragon.
Oldest son is delighted, because his girlfriend
is invited to take my place, etcetera.
Younger son will miss me, and I cannot defend
my choice; for six months this has been HIS great hurrah.
Four tails are waggin'; they have fired up their dragon.
Our daughter and hubby are likewise thrilled indeed
that I'm staying home - for that relieves them of care.
Five rabbits, two dogs and a bearded dragon need
more attention than simply a "wing and a pray'r".
I'm not braggin'; but for that, I'll fire up this dragon.
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~