The Triquatrain form was created by Robert L. Huntsman.  It is a quatrain (stanza of 4 lines) poem in tri-rhyme (3 separate rhyming sounds per stanza).  See specific rhyming pattern below.  Note that lines 1 and 3 have internal rhyme, whereas lines 2 and 4 do not.

Rhyme Pattern:



. . . and so on.

The groupings in the parenthesis are on one line separated by a comma. This poem can be of any length or subject and does not require perfect meter.

See Shadow Poetry at:


(Disclaimer: I’ve once again turned to an older piece of mine, which I hopefully improved a bit.  When I wrote this originally, I was not aware of the Triquatrain form.  I thought I was just writing in a style I made up. 😉 )

(A story in Triquatrain form)

“I’ve been here since eight! Why are you so late?”
asked Samantha of Anthony Lou.
“I’ll give you a warning – I’ve waited all morning,
and I am not happy with you.

And no lame excuse; I don’t need that abuse –
just so you know in advance.
So tell me dead straight, why are you so late?
Now I’ll sit back and give you a chance.”

Though Anthony’s mind is the devious kind,
he stalled for a moment or two.
“You don’t want to know.  I’m not telling.  Although …,”
and a story then started to brew.

“I was dreaming a dream with a marvelous theme,
when my clock screamed “Get out of that bed!
But, keenly aware that I had time to spare,
I just hit the snooze button instead.”

Samantha was staring – no, actually glaring
straight into her Anthony’s eyes.
“Let me underscore that there better be more,
or else … can you say, pul-ver-ize?”

“So may I go on?” Tony said with a yawn,
unfazed by her angry out pour.
“The next thing I knew, it was eight thirty two,
so I jumped up and ran for the door.

But I found it was stuck. What a stroke of bad luck!
It seemed it had willed to stay shut.
Well, I tried and I tried and I pried and I pried,
but nothing worked – no matter what.

I tried all sorts of tricks, but was still in a fix.
Was I worried? Not even a bit.
For, although in a bind, I knew that my mind
would think something up, lickety-split.”

Samantha just knew that her Anthony Lou
would concoct something wild in his brain.
She knew he’d take nothing and stretch it to something,
to keep it from being mundane.

“Get on with it, Tony, whatever bologna
you’re going to make up to tell.
‘Cause really, this story’s beginning to bore me –
get to it, or I’m gonna yell.”

“Just chill, antsy friend, and I’ll get to the end,
once I’ve fed you the spice-laden center.
A tale of this scale simply begs to regale …
try not to disturb the inventor.”

The look on Sam’s face was meant to abase,
but Anthony quickly defused it.
He had no desire to watch Sam conspire
to promptly compose his obit.

“Remembering Noodle Superior Poodle,
I beckoned her quickly to come.
She answered my call, alert in the hall,
and ready to rescue her chum.

‘Ah, Noodle,’ I said, from my comfortable bed,
‘I desperately need you to help.’
I explained what I needed, and then she proceeded
to yelp her superior yelp.

Due to my poodle’s superior noodle,
I knew she’d come up with a scheme.
So knowing my cause was in capable paws,
I went back to my marvelous dream.

Next, I woke up to the sound of my pup,
sounding nearer than surely she’d be.
And the next thing I knew, I was feeling the eew
of her slobbery tongue, yessiree.

‘Stop licking my chin; show me how you got in,’
I wiped myself off as I said.
She jumped to the floor, disregarding the door,
and went to the window instead.

What I saw with my eyes was a total surprise:
a ladder was neatly in place,
Erected by Noodle Superior Poodle –
I could tell by her proud little face.

Out the window we swung, and we climbed down each rung,
then I ran here with all of my might.”
“So,what do you think,” Tony asked with a wink,
“now that you know the tale of my plight?”

Sam choked back a grin, took a hold of his chin, and said,
“Here’s what I think about you:
The snooze button start is the only true part of your tale,
Mr. Anthony Lou.”

© 2009 Marie Elena Good – revised 2012



It’s about time I start getting busy, if I wait too long I’ll get dizzy.
It’s taken nine months to find my groove
with all these girls and boys, wanting new toys
I feel that it’s time that I make my move.

Check the names twice, this list is nice,
the naughty – I’m sooner forgetting.
I can sense their terror; there’s no room for error
and they’ll be changing their ways soon, I’m betting.

Their logic and reason, when we get to this season
just flies in my face; my profession.
And despite their folly, I’ll still remain jolly
and hope that they all learn a lesson.

For goodness sake, and make no mistake,
I have no fear to show you who’s boss,
in my mind, it’s never too late, change your ways and celebrate.
I’ll be coming ‘round soon. I am Santa Claus!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012


While we’re poeming, consider hopping on over to Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides, where we are encouraged to write an “appointment” poem:


  1. Walt – Santa is back again with a catchy reminder to all of the young at heart. Inspires one to be “good” and tell their ow tale. 🙂

    Marie – wonderful bit of story telling. Holds to the very end to see what crazy stunt Tony will concoct. 🙂

  2. Marie, I haven’t read Walt’s yet. Your triumphant Triquatrain bowled me over. I went from to grin to chuckle to chortle to guffaw to spluttering tea on the keyboard. I loved it, and would love to hear you read it aloud.

    You say no specific metre necessary, but you have created the perfect rhythm for this farrago.

  3. Marie and Walt, how you inspire and impress! WOW, do I have catch-up to play next week when the kids return to school, but oh I can’t wait:) See you soon.

  4. “Morning lullabies”

    Songs of grace that lace the dew—
    a morning lullaby
    to paint upon a sun so quaint
    with just a touch of shy

    she swims in color free in voice
    to wake a sleepy town
    embossed in frosty rays reserved
    for silvered emerald crowns.

    Dapple me in apple reds
    and sing of heated love
    until the moon festoons the night
    in vineyard arch above.

    I swim in moonbeam’s gleaming
    night of painted rivers light
    where wine abounds in silky time
    until the dawn delights.

  5. Blues

    I’ve got new shoes, I have the blues
    school starts soon –
    my heart goes crazy, I don’t want to be lazy
    but I love sleeping ‘til noon.

    I have new pens, I’ll see my friends
    but oh the sun does beckon
    school can be cool, I’m no fool
    there are the weekends I reckon.

    Six days left, I feel bereft
    Summer’s not even done.
    I should be happy, instead of sappy
    I’m going out to enjoy the sun!

    • Nice poem, Michelle! 🙂 I also am getting ready for school. I’m really excited though! I’m going into tenth grade and with any luck will be graduating next year. Unfortunately, our school doesn’t start til September 24th. I’ve still got a while to wait.

    • Michelle, Oh what a fun relating of the end of summer. You are doin’ the stuff that later you will look back on and say…”I remember when..” So, make great memeries. ” 🙂

  6. This is a cool form that I didn’t know, but like you, Marie, I’d done it before. It bears the meter and rhyme of a number of hymns. Maybe that’s why it seems familiar. Anyway, here goes…

    Hummingbird Lessons

    The hummingbirds do not mince words
    around the feeders’ flowers.
    They never lack for sneak attack—
    can fight for hours and hours

    against their kind—no, they’re not blind—
    just territorially mad;
    the food is there, but they don’t care
    and that just makes me sad.

    I give them food, no need for feud;
    they hardly sit and drink it.
    Instead they battle, squeak, and prattle
    like children over a trinket.

    I love their hues, their greens, reds, blues,
    their aerial acrobatics,
    but zooming fuming warfare grooming
    suggests they’re just fanatics

    with wings and beaks; with zeal they seek
    to take the feeders captive,
    to plant some rag of feathered flag—
    they’re not at all adaptive.

    They so remind me of the kind
    of wars humans engage in;
    when sharing might have served the right,
    we manufacture raging.

    In each attack and or fighting back,
    the purpose we defeat,
    destroying gift with foolish rift
    so no one gets to eat.

    There are more like me who love to see
    all creatures small and great
    and realize we’re all unwise
    if we squander food for hate.

  7. To Do List Item Number Ten

    I’m so lazy, I’m going crazy
    I’ve got to get off my duff
    It’s sure is boring, I’d rather be snoring
    I say I’ve had enough

    The to-do list’s growing, the yard needs mowing
    But I just want to play
    The stories need writing, none too exciting
    I’d like to stay in bed all day

    Someone’s calling, I feel like bawling
    I’d like to go on a trip
    To stick to my vocation, I need some motivation
    This day, I’d like to skip

    I’ll stick these words together, though they could sound better
    My hubby’s soon coming home
    What did you do all day, he will probably say
    Well, at least, I wrote a poem.

  8. Silly, sillies!
    we rhyme: next time
    we play another way.

    The backyard fig, having grown big
    as and then bigger than a garden shed
    has become, now, the home:
    the kitchen, music room, and bed
    to the Fig Bird. I have heard
    him, them, or her
    righteously complain, every single time
    I try to gather
    Figgy’s fruit, but in spite of the racket the creatures remain elu-
    sive. That said:
    you have my word, the color of the bird
    is red.

  9. If I

    If I pulled a rabbit, out of habit,
    from a fancy black top hat,
    would you stare, unaware
    of how I managed that?

    If I painted a rainbow of Day-Glo
    colors clear across the sky,
    would you trap it by the snap
    of a camera, and develop a slide show?

    If you saw me ride on the hide
    of an elephant, smiling,
    would you envy me, and want to be
    up on his back, looking beguiling?

    If I said I lived inside my head
    where imagination is rampant,
    would you think me sad, or quite mad,
    with the brains of a strange houseplant?

  10. I love the catinthehatness of this, so rhymey and imaginative, and with questions–my favorite! Here’s to the insideof you head!

  11. Oh, man, it’s too late to post. I mean “inside of your head”. Sorry, English teachers everywhere.

  12. Letter to the Debate

    When history rewinds and actually finds
    what links killing and abortion
    then all kinds of harmful blinds
    will open to immediate reapportion—
    Lady Justice’s scales will not fail
    to show humans are all embryonic,
    just little snails in the heads or tails
    “who wins” game of the demonic.

    Ask “who kills?” then, too, and when
    the blinds open on that answer
    condemn the commanders of mayhem
    as well as the women you aim for.
    What is the debate? Can’t you relate?
    Let go of the absurd hypocrisy
    that killing is great when done for the state
    but not for the well-being of a lady.

    Here is the result of my experiment with writing to Poetry Jam’s “Letters” challenge in the form of Poetic Bloomings’ “IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY – TRIQUATRAIN.” The form is very interesting; it seems to force a light air no matter the topic–and even a sassy attitude. If that is untrue, I’ll learn from you.

    Copyright © 2012 S.L.Chast

  13. I could come up with nothing except rubbish!


    Higgledy piggledy
    hypothetical mathematical

    sweet metrical feet
    make nonsense
    demeaning all meaning
    as irrelevance

    wasting time is a crime
    to deplore
    I erupt, can’t keep this up
    any more

  14. Do I have this right, and I can I also use it for my memoir whatsitthingie? 🙂

    String Bean

    String bean is what they’d scream
    at me across the playground
    I was leaner than most and taller than all
    the kids my age, and I found

    that I was reaching heights far beyond eye-
    level, over the heads of other kids,
    I could be a ringer, a ball springing from my
    fingers, and so basketball is what I did.

    From the back I’d jump and shoot, a slack
    and easy wrist as the ball lobbed
    through the air, but then a whack, a smack,
    my ankle turned, I fell into a sob

    with the full weight of that great fall my
    tendons tore, muscles sore. I stood straight
    four weeks, weak and propped on walking sticks,
    Goodbye to lofty dreams – a softer life my fate.

    • Oh how happy and sad is this farewell to your sport–but I’m sure it was not goodbye to the nickname. It is much better to show your name in action and on the rocks than simply and straight up, don’t you think? That way you introduce us to you! (And I haven’t even done this prompt yet. Names didn’t stick to me, they slid off and away right away.)

      • Susan: Not so sad really; not many grandmothers jump about shooting hoops. Iffy bones and all that. I can still dump a crumpled sheet of paper into a paper bin though! And the nickname hasn’t stuck. I’m still tall but not as lean. 😀

        Henrietta: It was playground-kid stuff. A very long time ago. 🙂

      • Misty does NOT in my mind conjur up a “Grandma” and so you will remain “forever young’ In my mind and imagination. 🙂

  15. Pingback: String Bean « Misky

  16. What a fun form! So enjoyed reading everyone’s offerings that I did not stop to comment – now rusing off to a necessary appointmnet. Back later for individal comments. I have loved them all, and will leave my Little Man to join them.


    Little Man’s my friend, beginning to the end.
    He only reaches nine inches tall,
    But that’s Ok, you see, he’s clever as can be.
    He does not think that he is small.

    According to reports, he likes all the sports,
    Specially if he’s winning,
    And plays with all his might without a bit of fight,
    to go the extra inning.

    Into all sports so, he wants you to know
    There’s joy within the playing,
    But also see, for you and me,
    Within rules we must be staying.

    A tennis ball, for one so tall
    Is good for his hoop shooting,
    (When hoop for he is set at inches thirty three)
    fast round his court he’s scooting.

    His court we do enable, ‘tis size of ping-pong table
    Set down upon ground
    So there’s no acrobat or flying of the mat
    If ball goes out of bound.

    A golf ball can be a hard baseball,
    His diamond a four-square court.
    A tea bag for his home plate is great
    An bold ink-pen his bat by last report.

    A marble is what he uses to golf-putt
    at the local miniature golf shop.
    He wears a purple coat (and tends a bit to gloat)
    Once he starts a game, he’s hard to stop.

    He surfs at the water slides, and hand glides
    From the upper deck rail,
    climbs each fence of rock he finds around the block
    and hopes to someday learn to sail

      • PPP or triple -P. Little Man ( or more proper, LMG = Little Man Guru) is a fellow that is ‘seen’ by only a few, (I know you could see him) and he has experienced a number of adventures and written a number of letters. He has a friend “LPG” – ” Little Person Guru” who also adventures with him. They are a delightful pair. MMT

  17. It’s 2:30 a.m….just helped the neighbor chase in some errant cattle who were strolling our garden and deck, after being chased into our yard by a frantic passer-by who called 911. I watched the gap for a while as the farmer repaired the fence and thus had a chance to absorb the rush of moon-lit blue…

    With hungry haste the moments chased
    Another day to naught
    Across the dell the shadows fell
    Like you against my thought

    The melody of wind-tossed tree
    The rush of blue descending
    Beneath the swoon of harvest moon
    Lauded the daylight’s ending

    The rush of blue in thoughts of you
    And echoes clear; unbidden
    Collaborate to resonate
    In tempests wild and hidden

    I cannot quell the raging swell
    Of moment-melded power
    Nor can I grasp its whispered gasp
    As twilight steals the hour

    Across the shore storm-waters pour
    To dissipate asunder
    Across the heart moments impart
    A rush of wanton wonder

    Beneath my skin somewhere within
    A tender tumult urges
    In rush of blue as thoughts of you
    Across the heart-line surges

  18. Blog-street

    It’s enough to know, in the ebb and flow
    On Time’s blue circle dot
    That you exist within the mist
    Of Somewhere; and my thought

    No sound of feet upon blog-street
    And yet, how sure the touch
    As we are smitten with thought written
    Of life and love and such

    Through word we share delight, despair
    The tear and triumph ocean
    As we embrace through cyber-space
    And bravely-spelled emotion

    It’s enough to know in this moment-flow
    Of meeting-parting measure
    The bond we share through mutual air
    In heart-and-soul-spilled treasure


    Another summer co’d, registered in my no’d.

    I do not feel snappy,

    I rather stay in bed, a cold cloth on my head

    I am feeling rather ……

    There’s loads of things to do, but energy’s gone shoooo.

    While housework seems no option,

    There’s dinner to prepare, (but I really do not care,)

    here’s a soup can you can open.

    The sun in bright, my head is light.

    I see the garden growing

    and I am knowing, my to-do list is growing.

    while produce needs preserving.

    Rather my poetic muse I’ll feed, there are many poems to read,

    but my eyes persist in closing,

    My brain keeps shutting down, no more energy around

    And it’s a great challenge composing….

  20. OK, Sorry, but the breaks between the stanza’s did not ‘take’ in the transmittion. You’ll need to menrally add them 😦 thanks 🙂

Comments are closed.