This is a Spanish form of five eight syllable (Iambic Tetrameter) lines. The rhyming scheme can vary in presentation ie a.a.b.b.a, a.b.b.a.a. etc but only two consecutive lines may have the same rhyme scheme.




I come to stand upon the shore
the way I’ve done some times before.
At night I’ll sit upon the sand,
and write my verse with pen in hand
beneath the moon and stars galore.

And in the misted sky I take
a glimpse at glints upon the lake,
these stolen moments that we dare
upon this blanket where we share
the passion of the love we make.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014






You go about collecting clues,
assuming one plus one makes two,
but sometimes they add up to four
and since you neglect to explore
this possibility you do
not ever learn the truth. Instead,
you just believe what’s in your head,
because you say the pieces fit.
I can no longer look at it
that way because my heart has bled
from that line of thinking. Recall
long ago days when as a small
child you carefully attached
two puzzle pieces you thought matched.
The two fit snug and all in all
looked good but, in the end, weren’t right.
Remember those times and you might
be more careful what you believe.
It is easy to misconceive;
thing are not always black and white.
(C) Copyright Linda Hofke – 2014



156 thoughts on “INFORM POETS – QUINTELLA

    • well, I must admit that mine isn’t exactly iambic tetrameter. I have a few spots that are “off”.

      I can’t wait to see your poem.

  1. Walt and Linda, kudos for such wonderful examples!

    Day Dreams

    Bucolic lanes and gravel roads
    are the nostalgic kind of modes
    gently curving through the hollows
    that my heart lovingly follows
    as scenes of childish play reloads.

    Fished for hornyheads in the Roan
    raced our Huffy’s with hair windblown
    climbed the cherry tree to read books
    saw “Water Babies” by the brook…
    Ahhh, how has time so quickly flown?

  2. Beautiful everyone!! I have to take these days away from my writing to Spring clean (and I have a new puppy), so I am not sure which prompts I will be able to write to this week. I have enjoyed reading, tho … HI ERIN, Welcome Back!! 🙂 !!


    She sought him out in dead of night.
    He left her side before the light
    while she in dreaming tossed and turned
    and saw her heart in fires burned,
    arose to find him gone from sight.

    How is it love can grow so small,
    before one’s eyes take on a pall?
    No matter how one tries, she fails
    to keep the winds of love at sail
    If soaring love is meant to fall.


  4. Saturday I helped brush out a herd of alpacas. Brushing, blocking them from spitting and avoiding the kicks was like a dance. So I told my friend I’d write a poem about it.

    The Alpaca Dance

    Your partners are all set to prance.
    Long legs, big eyes, thick fur. And hums.
    You’ll brush them now from neck to bums.
    If you’re willing to take the chance.
    Let’s all do the alpaca dance.

    So listen here, I’ll teach the stance.
    Right arm blocks head, avoid the spit.
    Left brushes high and low a bit.
    Watch out, they’ll look at you askance.
    Let’s all do the alpaca dance.

    I’ll warn you now in great advance.
    To kick at you, it’s spiteful goal.
    Push bum and scoot around the pole.
    Brush fast while it holds still perchance.
    Let’s all do the alpaca dance.

    The fiber grows your friend’s finance.
    Remove the sticks, the hay, the burrs.
    Then time to shear. The cries! The whirs!
    They look like deer now, at first glance.
    Let’s all do the alpaca dance.

    I’ll tell you now, it’s not romance.
    Watch where you step, it’s all not hay.
    Yes, you have earned your meal today.
    Now, watch them run in the expanse.
    Let’s all do the alpaca dance.

  5. Miles of Smiles

    Time’s not been a friend as of late
    Sleep time has been my only break
    Road miles pile heading here and there
    Hours spent doing windshield stares
    Gotta slow down, for goodness sake

    Upbeat attitude all the while
    Purpose defined for every mile
    Sometimes business, sometimes pleasure
    Sometimes too much fun to measure
    Worth it all when I see them smile

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

    And that’s why I’ve been missing.

  6. I like this form, even if it does require me to dance with rhyme again. Ah, I might as well face facts–I’ll have to hold hands with that aspect and just get over it. 🙂

    Terrific examples, Walt and Linda. And a meter that tastes more natural than iambic. I’ll see what I can come up with today between chores and appointments.

    Everyone is doing great so far.

  7. Unamused

    I pondered words which I might write,
    that would but spark the pilot light
    of my slow muse. Calliope!
    No epic poem? Naught for me?
    O where’s my flame? C’mon…ignite!

    I have a form that seems a fit
    for your intelligence and wit.
    But sing, you won’t. Frustrated? Si!
    Quintella’s far too bourgeoisie?
    It’s still ‘poetic form’ – legit.

    All right. I’ll pen this, sans assist
    since hubris is where you exist.
    An attitude-y muse is not
    what I signed up for. Thanks for squat.
    I’ll hold my pen in my clenched fist

    and poem on. You satisfied?
    I thought you’d be my writing guide.
    What’s that? You claim you held my pen?
    Co-wrote this poem? Friends again?
    I’ll ponder words…and then decide.


  8. Here is my attempt- ( not sure about the lambic tetrameter part)

    A Special Song
    The sunny, blue, green chanting, wings
    Togetherness, in sassy rings
    I walk with it, and take it in
    The streaming in this, feeling wind
    A special song, may I too bring

    A special song, may I too bring
    And carry it, beyond these zings
    To zap you, in a swirl of rhyme
    So you can peel its precious chime
    That drifts through clouds, connecting things

  9. Backlog

    Papers piled high in disarray
    Folders, files, in the inbox lay
    An empty outbox calmly waits
    No matter how long it may take
    To work and send files that-a-way

    Desk time beckons; things must be done
    Time lines coming; under the gun
    Organize papers, files and such
    How did I get behind so much
    This week ain’t gonna be much fun

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  10. We

    Can’t believe it’s twenty-five years
    Since the day we both said, “I do”
    Every day my love grows for you
    Even now it grows more, my dear
    And I pray you’ll always be here

    It was God that made you for me
    To complete the void in my life
    I am blessed that you are my wife
    And I vow forever to be
    A piece of the puzzle called “We”

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  11. What an abundance of good poetry. I’ve been wanting to write about those who run toward an accident scene instead of away. . .this feels a bit forced but it’s sincere

    I run from gunshots ev’ry time
    A fire shoots sparks, and I draw back
    Those few who answer the attack
    Go to not from that scary clime
    From all deserve respect sublime

    Darlene Franklin ©2014

  12. Pingback: Tiny Tribute to a Gray Day | Metaphors and Smiles

  13. Tiny Tribute to a Gray Day

    They waited sadly for the sun
    some glum and grim are left undone.
    Rain fall will not hold poems at bay,
    words spill transform a day that’s gray –
    thunder becomes wonder begun.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    Lil’ note on the side:

    To tell you the truth – this is the first time I’ve really tried, (and by really tried I mean, I worked very diligently to finally “almost” concept feet-meters-stressed and unstressed lines). For some reason this is such a difficult thing for me…still not sure I totally nailed it! 😉 There were lots and lots of lines before I finally got to the stanza you see here…

  14. The Adventurous Hat

    You raced far down a street to seek
    my tan suede hat from which I peeked
    with just a fringe of hair that showed
    from underneath a brim that bowed.
    Until a gust of wind did streak

    beneath the hat, and off it sailed.
    You were determined to prevail,
    so chased that hat, and grabbed the edge.
    Just then it touched down on a ledge.
    I watched you skid – oh no, a nail!

  15. Great responses to this form. Here’s mine from a night I can’t seem to sleep.
    Last on Mars

    Two moons glare thru my sleeping port;
    they rob me of my sleep, contort
    my dreams of home. I’ve turned and tossed
    all hope upon red sands, long lost
    on dunes that winds of loss distort.

    But, sleep? Why sleep? I’ll die awake,
    not let those mean moons watch me take
    my cold demise while bleary-eyed,
    on freeze-dried landscape where five died,
    my brave companions. For their sake

    I’ve lived this long. The rations went
    and then alone, companions spent,
    I knew two moons in ochre skies.
    Each orbit eagerly they rise
    to see if I give sleep consent.

    No…I will die awake, to see,
    (when they next ride their perigee)
    their downcast faces, frowns and moans,
    and hear them weep for my dry bones.
    The dust I’ll be will miss them. But– will they–miss me?

    © 2014, Damon Dean

    • Your sleepless muse is wonderful and your use of form brought such rhytmn. I enjoyed these especially:

      “I knew two moons in ochre skies.
      Each orbit eagerly they rise”

      and “my dry bones”

      Nicely done, Damon!! 🙂

      • Hannah said exactly what I was thinking so I am just going to echo it.

        Your sleepless muse is wonderful and your use of form brought such rhytmn. I enjoyed these especially:

        “I knew two moons in ochre skies.
        Each orbit eagerly they rise”

        and “my dry bones”

        Nicely done, Damon!! 🙂

    • Oh, good one, Damon. I was watching the movie Mission to Mars throughout the reading of this poem. One of my favorite movies. Well done indeed. I like how you think!

      • Thanks, Claudsy…a single bothersome too-bright moon outside my window on a sleepless night was my inspiration. It thought, “Well, it could be worse…it could be two moons.” Then, the poem came about.


    Oh, summer mourns in her last days.
    “You graveyard flowers, all be praised!
    You give delight to those who stop
    to say a prayer at gravestone rock.
    Do bask beneath the sun’s last rays!”

    As seasons meant to come and go,
    we mortals unlike flowers know
    we leave behind what good we’ve done
    when seasons end and we succumb
    to lie and rest where daisies grow.


  17. I spent last week nursing our sick black lab back to health, this week getting us ready for vacation and preparing for next week’s arrival of my 60’s. As I get ready to say farewell to my 50’s, I was tempted to adopt Queen’s “Another One Bites The Dust” as my anthem; instead, I think I’m better suited to their “Don’t Stop Me Now”.


    I think about the lessons learned,
    what I did well, what crashed and burned.
    For all I’ve gained, there’s much I’ve lost,
    but I can’t dwell upon the cost
    when lasting dividends were earned.

    We thrive beneath the glowing sun,
    yet darkness comes to ev’ry one.
    It’s in the way we choose to live,
    how we hold back or freely give,
    what we embrace or what we shun.

    Reflection is an aging thing,
    selecting songs our hearts will sing.
    I hope the music I will play
    keeps negativity at bay,
    with upbeat notes that soar and swing.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  18. I have spent this year under the shadow of my 60s as well (as this is my 60th year of life until my birthday proclaims I have lived it)–in August for me–and a difficult milestone. The poem reflects a universal truths. I hope the same things for myself.


    It rained like cats and dogs one day.
    I ought to know, for in the spray
    I found a poodle in a puddle,
    a sloppy thing too wet to cuddle
    and I like collies, anyway.

    I took her to the dog compound
    and what do you suppose I found?
    The rain had washed away the cages
    and left the keepers spitting rages,
    and that is why the dogs abound.

    I kept the poodle after all
    to have some short to go with tall;
    she’s addle-brained but that is moot,
    she’s sweet, she’s loving, and she’s cute,
    especially when raindrops fall.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  20. Answered

    Once again I pull the drapes aside
    A dark and empty sky, the stars still hide
    I step outside, a giant surge of heat
    Presses against my body, I retreat
    Back to the kitchen as the crickets cried.

    Heat lightning flashes, zig-zags across the sky
    Mother nature shows us how to lie
    No roll of thunders echoes with a sound
    Of pattering rain drops- no relief is found
    I strain my ears to hear that shuddering cry.

    Next morning I awaken to a sweetest smell
    Of rain-kissed garden, how quietly it fell
    Through those sodden clouds while I, asleep
    Dreamed of a world renewed by moisture deep
    And woke to find all come to pass, no need
    For blazing words or rhymes to tell..


    I dreamt of beauty, then I wept,
    for all was as it was, except
    the moon had lost its golden tone,
    leaving a soulless sun alone
    to nurture life where love had crept

    when she first smiled and lit my days
    with laughter, for her funny ways
    made trumpets of the morning glories
    and poems of her tallest stories;
    such promise lingered in her gaze.

    When she was here, I knew no fear;
    each cloud was clear; the far was near.
    But all of that is history
    and what is left is mystery:
    that love is queer; its price is dear.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

    • Oh my. You have gone above and beyond with this one, William. Internal rhyme to help drive the end words. Really? You’re setting bars way to high for this old kid, my friend. But it was beautiful and gripping for me. Well done.

  22. Here’s another one. . . I won’t tell you what I was aiming for, hopefully it will speak for itself. 🙂

    Imago Dei

    In hands You made I feel the rain
    My eyes search far across the plain
    A single whiff smells stormy night
    Go, taste the drops before they gain
    Ears hear the roll of thunder’s fright

    Darlene Franklin ©2014

  23. Yeah, the poem works (I hope) but doesn’t communicate what I had in mind. 😦 practice makes better.

  24. Pingback: Musing On Me | Words With Sooze

  25. Yep, I made it back. I had to swim really hard, but I made it. Here’s my only entry for this little challenge. Not perfect by half, but thought through with hands clenched. 🙂

    Kentucky Morning

    Moist air fills lungs on summer’s morn,
    Making misty trails e’er forlorn
    Amid pastures green and dew wet,
    While birdsong greets yearlings yet
    To know man’s weight or starter’s horn.

    Hazy sky’s fingers of pale gold
    Seek out morning dew’s sparkling drops,
    And waits as pungent grass scent stops
    One’s thoughts to breathe deep of hills rolled
    In Heaven’s blue-green land all tolled.

  26. Oh, Claudsy, how I love the senses-filled picture that speaks to Kentucky. My father’s family has strong ties to Kentucky, but I know so little about it.

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