Zymurgy defined, is the area of applied science related to fermentation. It deals with the biochemical processes involved in fermentation, through yeast. Unless you are a home brew aficionado, you’re probably thinking… What does this have to do with the price of Haiku in Japan?

But for the purpose of the Zymurgy form, we will deal with this fact… ZYMURGY is the very last word in the dictionary. So we will concern ourselves with the “Last Word” of each first and last line of every stanza.

The last word of your title becomes the first word of the first line of your poem.

The last word of  the first line will dictate the number of lines in that stanza. Use that word as an Acrostic in that stanza, with the last word of the last line becoming the first word of your next stanza, stringing your thoughts together.

Follow the color coding in Walt’s poem to better understand the form.

There is no rhyme scheme, but you can make it rhyme.

There is no syllable count, but you can experiment with one if you wish.

Let your muse be the yeast that gets a rise out of you and see what you can brew up.

The “Zymurgy Form” was devised by Walt Wojtanik. That’s my last word on this form.



It is not about me – not mine to be.
Believe me, any goodness you see
Evident in me, is not my own goodness.

Goodness is God-given,
Endowed by my Creator –
Not of my own making.

Making this clear:
Love and sacrifice
Awarding us eternal
Right-standing with God.

God, let us see
Sin’s demise –
Enlightenment through Your

Copyright © – Marie Elena Good – 2012



Poets are held in high esteem,
each dreaming to be well-read,
seeming to write
to their hearts content
earnestly, touching emotions
effortlessly when the muse strikes them.
Muse makes the words go around.

Around other poets they fawn,
feeling their own efforts fall flat
although they are most
worthy of the same praise.
No poets is looked down upon.

Upon closer scrutiny, poems
penned in the simplest of forms,
openly express what the poet’s heart sees.
Every word, every veiled rhyme,
meets the approval of other purveyors of poetry.
Some wish they “had written that“.

That is why their work is held in high regard.
Reading their works is an honor,
every word touching a chord, and
gaining for the poet, great respect.
After the words are written, poets
return to their page to begin anew.
Doing what they do best in the honor of poets.

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012


  1. To write one accrostic is a painful exercise – to write more enters the realms of torture!

    You two clever clogs put me to shame!

    BTW I get error 404 (not found) messages regularly on your posts when I click on the URL in your emails. And WordPress is on a mammoth go slow today into the bargain.

    • You’re so sweet, Viv!

      The two most recent errors from you e-mail happened because rogue posts were “published” before we were ready. Doggone things have a mind of their own sometimes. 😉

      Walt, this form is amazing, and your piece flows so beautifully!!

      All: give it a whirl. When I saw the form, I immediately “knew” I would not be able to wrap my head around it and come up with anything that made any sense whatsoever. It took a while, but it’s actually fun to use!

      Marie Elena

      • Marie Elena, when I saw the post, I too, first thought that I would not be able to come up with anything. But once I got started, it became really fun and I was disappointed when my poem reached its end. I also like what you came up with – your poem is very spiritual and it is written in an elegant tone. Walt, thank you for this lovely idea and also for your lovely poem!

  2. I wanted something different; that no one else was working with. I’ve written a few poems ABOUT zymurgy, so this idea just sprouted from that. There is no final word on poetry, but using the “last word” seemed to string the whole form together. From my finding, the ACROSTIC seems to rival the SESTINA as the most vilified form. I never understood why. But Marie, you’ve handled it quite well, using the short lines (and even one word lines) to pull it off. It does seem fun and challenging, but isn’t that what makes us better poets?

  3. ‘Reading their works is an honor,’ ! Yes, Walt and Marie. I feel honored today to have ever been ‘introduced’/divinely led:) to meet such inspiring and encouraging poets as you two and SO many others here. Marie, my jaw dropped farther and farther as I read your lines, then tears of gratefulness as I so identify with your beautiful words!; and then Walt, my tearful delight continued as I read your poem!

    This form looks like a fantastically delightful challenge, Can’t wait to return and give it a go! Thank-you and God bless poets!

    • Indeed, Janet. That’s why we established this space. Inspire and encourage are our mission statements. The rest is up to you own poetic talents. And of that, we have an abundance!

  4. “The Muse is Where?”
    (please read as tongue-n-cheek)

    Where is this Muse
    Mr. Walt speaks of?
    Under which rock shall I
    search? Which mountain
    enables veiled muse magic?

    (Magic may be the wrong word.)
    Would that I could champion muse as
    “Old Friend” or “Lover.” Alas, I must
    regard it as a sleight-of-hand trick or
    disappearing cottontail ruse.

    Ruse, it is? Well, then
    to muster muse I must
    hasten to black wand and cape, but
    even then, it fails to appear, so I ask if
    none but I fail to conjure rused poetic honor?

  5. Janice, my belief has always been that inspiration is found wherever you look for it. Open minded and with whatever “eye” you’re of a mind to use. Whether serious or in parody, you can write what you see. See with more than your eyes. See with your heart, poetry tends to reside there. Sometimes it stays hidden and challenges you to coax the muse right out of its sanctuary, but it will come willingly. You own the muse. Sometimes we look so hard “out there” that we overlook that which is right under our nose. You write great things, so I know that “muse” works for you. Stay the course, and your talents will lead you along! That’s enough for my “tirade”. Maybe I’m naive. But I believe in every poet courageous enough to expose that part of themselves to the world.

  6. Oh my…. I really need to think about this form for a while, but I also agree that it will be a fun challenge. Thanks M & W! :)!!

    • Ok, I am awake now – late night really is more ‘alive time’ for me. 🙂
      All three (Marie, Walt and jlynn) are delightful reads and wonderful demonstrations of the form (As a visual person, I appreciate the color coding Walt – clearifys nicesly.) Yes, I am amaized at the varied poet-forms available . Please do Keep bringing them to us Walt. Thank You.

  7. Today I Just Want to Love You

    You cannot fathom the ocean
    Or the waves of emotion that surge
    Converge, in startling sheerness
    Equal elements of strength and weakness
    Align, when this heart of mine is
    Next to you, next to you

    You kindle a daring desire
    Darling, how can I define
    Embers that leap into fire
    Stirred simply by your faint half-smile
    I cannot fathom my blessings
    Rich beyond reason or rue
    Everything is nothing without you, without you

    You leave me blissfully breathless
    Beautiful agony
    Rushing, receding, relentless
    Elusive mystery
    Assuring me of life’s fullest purpose
    Today I just want to clasp,
    Have and hold you; no excuses
    Life is precious gasp
    Each day a grace-gift from heaven
    Some things simply cannot wait
    So just let me love you darling, tomorrow may be too late.

    A few days ago I spoke to a mom/wife of a boy in my daughter’s grade. Last night shockingly, suddenly she is a widow. This is what stirred my train of thought.

  8. LIFT UP… (Zymurgy)

    Lift up to the Lord a new song
    springing forth into a life
    overcome with
    notions of
    goodness and love.

    Love enough to flood
    famished hearts with
    life to the point of
    overflowing joy
    offering a
    demonstration of His care.

    Care extending outward
    over, through and
    under those
    tired beings
    wanting to
    acknowledge the
    reality of His
    devine authority, love and power.

    Power beyond our power
    providing to us
    our daily renewed strength
    welling forth to demonstrate the
    end-all of what can grow when one
    releases self to the God given yeast of life.


  9. Hello all! I’m back after a horrible two weeks in which so many new and unexpected things happened to me that I couldn’t get into the peace of mind that I need in order to write poetry. I’m glad that this prompt inspired me to get back on track, though 🙂 The poem below is about unsuccessfully trying to mend the rift caused by an argument between two people.

    A Quiet Sort of Ending

    Ending the silence between us is a task
    that has been tossed into my palms like
    a red-hot coal, fresh off the grate,
    sassing at my skin with a
    kinded sort of fire.

    Fire me up on a pyre of dry leaves,
    lilly-of-the-valley stacked on
    evergreen, is what you did tonight – and listen:
    a limping, stuttering sort of silence, with a
    voice rasping off its r’s and a’s
    easing them past our teeth like tree bark
    swirling out of our throats in thin, jagged strips.

    Strips of words left behind
    belie what little of our conversation has survived
    ending up in the auto-da-fe between us.
    Hurled at the trees, they lie twisted
    in their branches like bent bits of ratty tinsel, hiding
    not their wiry cores, but their scrawny arms of silver foil,
    dulled by small commas of ash sprinkled as far as the eye can see.

    See where we stand now – it is too
    late a night for mending, it is
    impossibly far-fetched to expect me to
    saunter up to the trees and gather all our words,
    take them inside, run them a scented bath,
    ease them into it and mend away the
    nothingness of their echoes in the silence that lies ahead.

  10. Walt, I like this form!
    This poem also goes with Poetic Asides Prompt-trespassing

    Like Adventurous Children

    Children like adventure, to roam and wander.
    W hen we were little we’d venture through hills
    A nd woods and come upon no-trespassing signs
    N ailed to trees or hanging on fences. We weren’t
    D isturbed because many acres were free to
    E xplore. To country kids, creeks, vines, trees and
    R ocks were like playgrounds were to town kids.

    Kids like to go here and there and where
    W onders awaits. For endless hours, we
    H ad fun climbing, swinging, sliding until
    E xhausted. We’d soar in pretend jets and
    R ockets and fight villains, monsters and
    E vil men to protect our part of the woods—

    Woods where we were allowed—always.
    A t times we’d be enticed by the forbidden,
    L ike a decrepit house surrounded by
    W eeds, a hidden monastery or other
    A ssorted private properties. But we knew
    Y ou got in enough trouble even where we were
    S upposed to be. We knew, firsthand, it was so.

    So we stuck to where we were welcome. I
    W ish, in this life, we’d remember to
    E ngage in the opportunities our
    L oving God has for us. At times we stay too
    C lose to the fences, not venturing out.
    O beying His no-trespassing signs, we
    M ight have more fun and adventure
    E xploring all of the wonders He offers.

    • Connie, you described the kind of childhood everyone should have 🙂 The message at the end also touched me in a very personal way. Thank you for this lovely read!

    • Sometimes – we invent (or others do so for us) “No-Trespassing” signs where God did not intend them to be.

      Yes, you Zymurgy discribes a wonderful child-hood.

  11. A Life Poetic

    Poetic life may sound ideal
    Interesting days spent penning words
    Daring to string them like pearls
    Each one more beautiful than the last
    All of them combining to create magic
    Loveliness, line by line limned true

    True as the poet’s notion of right
    Real as the poet deems necessary
    To further poetic integrity without
    Giving up all vestiges of imagination
    Hard-won word-craft and line-play
    True to self is above all else paramount

    Paramount, at the pinnacle, the poet knows
    Knifing through all the bullshit
    Nothing matters so much in the end
    Overall – nothing – as much as the actual work
    Wisdom comes with years of writing
    Sings the life poetic, this the poet knows

  12. I’m back again 🙂 I liked the idea so much that I just had to write another poem. Thank you again, Walt, for your fun idea!

    As the Day Falls Asleep

    Asleep in your arms, my hair splays, patterned by the silent
    sirocco into a seashell’s worth of tangled ringlets
    insinuating themselves fearlessly around the
    loop of your arm creased in two, a most
    elegant waistband, wrought from winsome pearls
    netted together, cell by cell cresting and falling on
    the transitions between each breath.

    Breath by breath, you lulled me across the slippery boundary
    bridging a hungry gorge with sharp fingers, reaching
    out towards the ankles of foolish travelers like ourselves.
    Unknowingly, with an archetypally
    nurturing touch, you guide me through the
    domain of insomnia, your hands clasped about the fore of my
    arms, binding me to you through every
    rift in the planks and sadistic serpentine until both
    you and I set a sure foot aground.

    Dreams are the fabric our story is crafted of,
    oblong shadows peeking out of unlikely corners
    fold themselves around our wrists as our spirits walk on home.

    • Oops … I just noticed that the last verse of the second stanza is missing its final two words – it was supposed to be “you and I set a sure foot aground our dreams.” Sorry!

  13. Falling for Autumn

    Falling leaves and autumn’s chill
    Cause me to breath deep.
    Happy to catch the
    Intense scent of bonfires
    Lingering in the air
    Luring me to make S’mores.

    S’mores, gooey and sticky
    Seem better in the Fall when
    Twilight is falling and
    Insects are few.
    Children and adults
    Keep asking for more
    Yummy treats.

    Treats or tricks will soon arrive
    And I’m not so fond of that.
    Rather wishing the season could
    Revert back to the harvest and
    Ignore the witches and
    Vampires that seem to be

    Everywhere I look I see color
    Cascading around me
    On trees and in fields
    Leaving an imprint
    Of beauty that I will
    Recall in the cold, bare winter.

    © Kelly E. Donadio 2012

  14. My Imagination

    Imagination is where I spend much time.
    Time passes with wings,
    incredibly faster with age,
    motivating me to enjoy my strange thoughts
    every time one happens to come by.

    By dwelling in imagination too long,
    long established habits happen
    over the course of a day.
    Not having to focus on them
    gives me more time to linger in my imagination.

    (I used colors but they do not show up here.)

  15. Walt, I salute you with creating this form, although I had to go a couple of rounds to see what you did. Hope I got it right this time. Cheers!

    Brewed with Father

    Father brewed beer,
    Brown bottles
    Enfolding the amber liquid’s
    Effervescence of yeasty smells that
    Ravaged the fall cool air.

    Air-drunk, a child, I became a foam sipper,
    Savoring the bubbles
    In the bottle neck, as they
    Popped against my tongue
    Pricking the taste buds to
    Engage an idea of what
    Ripe lager can do to imagination, to thought.

    Thought, when I was small, my father brewed
    Dreamed of golden fermented pleasure chilled.

    Chilled at dusk, the bottles were corked–
    Ceramic stoppers
    Overlaid with
    Rubber rings
    Kindred to the process itself,
    Excellence shelved and waiting to be

  16. “Putting out the Fire”

    Real love will burn when left to senseless roam
    o’er fires untended cause the wildest show.
    As raked the burning embers to their home.
    My heart was restless as the fire below.

    Below, the smoldered memories are bane.
    A heart will follow what it least commands;
    no thought for blame will burn lest its insane;
    ‘er long, our love accepts what fate will hand.

    Hand over hand, the hot coals are our host!
    Oh, deep the water, dark, puts out our soul!
    So silent was that black, relentless boast;
    Torched so, the heartless parts cannot be told!

    Told is my story vain…perhaps believed…
    But there cleave cinders burned two lovers leave.

    • ok, now I see what happened to my sonnet, lol. I did not connect
      title, “Fire”, to the first word in first line. Then I totally went beserk; misunderstood HOW first line, last word is NOT included in line count for total count for stanza! That lines in stanza begin as a count only after you enter key word at end of first line.
      So, in order to keep the sonnet form, I would have HAD to have a 3 letter word in each first line of each stanza. WHEW! what fun!

    • Jacqueline, the sonnet is beautiful, even though you didn’t follow the prescribed form this time. I’m going to scroll down to see the way you adapted it to the zymurgy form.

  17. “Putting out the Fire” (my second attempt. Did I get it right this time, Walt?)

    Fire from our love is like the blazing sun;
    Soon overthrown by night was our desire.
    Unknown by each, two stranger hearts are won.
    No; what we felt burned holier than fire.

    Fire danced within the eyes by magic’s far,
    far sway; the maddening, obsessed remain.
    And heart is hypnotized; door left ajar;
    relentless, burns untended to full flame.

    Flame as to hot coals burn as do we, sir?
    Sleeps deep within my mystery of soul?
    In burning silent, black, relentless blur.
    Remorseless for our part will not be told.

    Told as “their blood ran cold” *Pound might believe.
    Mid death of Muse, two dying embers bleed.

    Instructions for writing Poem: Last word in Title (Fire) must be first word in your first line. Last word in line 1 (SUN) becomes acrostic (SUN) for remainder of quatrain.
    Last word on line 4, (FIRE), becomes first word in line 5. Last word in line 5
    (FAR) becomes acrostic. Last word in line 8 (flame) becomes first word in line 9. Last word in line 9 (SIR) becomes acrostic.
    *Reference: Ezra Pound

  18. I hesitate to foist my dreadful zymuwhatsit poem on such a talented group of poets, but for better or worse, here it is:

    I’ve learned a new word: Zymurgy

    Zymurgy explained is an acrostic,
    a puzzle of a most peculiar kind.
    Caught between a
    rock and a hard place
    one is obliged to buckle down
    to write one,
    in dogged determination to prove that I

    Can, maybe, but that doesn’t make a poem.
    Poems should use words of beauty
    of meaning and of joy
    musical and mindful.

    • Viv, I love your plunk and resolution.
      (and get a kick out of your ‘take’ on all these poem-forms).
      Love reading what you write. 🙂

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