Tell me Pretty maiden Where have you been hiding Lost to me all these many years Now found
Now found And full of hope I am able again To live in bright expectation Of joy
Of joy Of coupled love Rekindling lost passion Rebirth for my expiring soul Time heals
Time heals The wounds of hurt Complete again with you Able again to face my world In peace
In peace We start again The slate now wiped clean The past dissolved in history Hope lives
This poem has been composed in response to Abigail Gronway’s (‘Dark Side Of The Moon’) CPC Challenge published 12/4/19. I quote: . . .
The Crown Cinquain
Like the Cinq-Cinquain that we studied last week, the Crown Cinquain, or Cinquain Chain, is also made up of a series of exactly five Crapsey Cinquains. So what’s the difference? I’m glad you asked. The distinguishing feature of the Crown Cinquain appears in the two-syllable lines at the beginning and end of each stanza, as they are used to link one stanza to another. This process is called a forming link, a chain, or a corona (hence crown). To be more specific, the last line of each cinquain is repeated as the first line of the next cinquain. There is one other slight difference. In the Cinq-Cinquain, the stanza breaks are optional; but in the Crown Cinquain, they are required.
So here in summary, is the Crown Cinquain:
a series of 5 [entire] Crapsey Cinquains, 25 lines total syllabic count: 2-8-6-4-2 in each stanza written with breaks between stanzas rhyme is optional last line of the previous cinquain repeated as first line of the next cinquain
How unreal Insensate Would this life be Without words Sterile Without the sounds to sing my feelings The joy of Tongue Touched by language Threaded through thought Expressed In silken sound Tempered by the vernacular Enriched by our true poets
Sounds of the lover’s Throbbing pleasure Silken sounds Of the singer of songs Soulful sensuous That’s what it’s all about, Alfie.
Living life Loses meaning Is unreal Without The thrall of words In trusted tomes Found fables and The lust for legend Joy discovered In mildewed texts Throbbing with Sound Sense And feeling
Beware The hiss of the serpent Of the boiling kettle Of the onlooker’s disdain
All is sibilance
Yet nothing compares in joy With the hiss of the incoming tide
Its cadence encroaching High on the pebble-dashed shore Murmuring over the beach’s shingle Pleasuring as it strokes Onward Ignoring resistance Recoiling to gather strength Each renewed thrust Each swish-pause-hush cycle Striving for optimum reach
The flow and ebb of its breath Committed to that eternal Sibilant echo Which brings peace To the pulse of my heart