Quatern: Pete's Punishment

I failed my birthday word count challenge, and Pete wrote:

My "punishment" for you is to write a poem of at least six lines and no more than 40 lines that describes the feeling of coming >this< close to a stretch goal but falling just short at the deadline.

Neither Pete or Janey was as harsh on me as McK is going to be, so I'm still in an okay place with my lack of word count. Perhaps I will rewrite the poem after I've received the sharp end of the Koala Klaws.

I chose to write a poem in the pattern of a Quatern, which, according to Shadow Poetry,

is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle
and the Retourne. It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four. A quatern has eight syllables per line. It does not have to be iambic or follow a set rhyme scheme.

line 1
line 2
line 3
line 4

line 5
line 6 (line 1)
line 7
line 8

line 9
line 10
line 11 (line 1)
line 12

line 13
line 14
line 15
line 16 (line 1)

Example #1:

True Love, Redefined

One day she hopes true love to find,
One soul, one mind, two hearts entwined;
Somewhere out there’s the perfect guy,
For Youth has set her standards high.

He must be rich, handsome, refined,
One day she hopes true love to find;
Yet no one seems to measure up
And disappointment fills her cup.

The years go by, her nights grow long,
Her aging voice sings sorrow’s song.
One day she hopes true love to find,
Her definition redefined;

Simply a plain and faithful friend
To see her to life’s journey’s end;
For though her face with age be lined,
One day she hopes true love to find.

Copyright © 2003 Linda Newman

Example #2:

The Master's Feet

Those who sat at the Master’s feet,
Brothers who fished in waters deep,
Threw down their nets and followed Him,
Forsaking all to fish for men.

The crowds pressed ‘round to hear Him speak,
Those who sat at the Master’s feet,
Those who he said would be a light,
For others lost in dark of night.

In the upper room hands were rung,
When told a traitor was among,
Those who sat at the Master’s feet,
With emblems of Himself to eat.

The Master’s mother held her breath,
When savage men cried for his death,
And vainly struggled to defeat,
Those who sat at the Master’s feet.

Copyright © 2006 James Dupy

Example #3:

Life’s Pulse - The Gypsies’ Song

As dark-haired beauties celebrate
while moving round the fire light,
their slender swirling hips gyrate,
and on they dance, into the night.

The flames dance too, beneath the moon.
As dark-haired beauties celebrate,
their fathers clap or play a tune
the merry clan perpetuate!

Then each young man takes hold a mate
he’s chosen in the ring of fire.
As dark-haired beauties celebrate,
their flashing eyes ignite desire.

The mothers sit and smile.  They know
the music will not soon abate.
Life’s pulse is found by camp fire’s glow
as dark-haired beauties celebrate. 

Copyright © 2006 Andrea Dietrich

All right, so I know you've been waiting with bated breath. Without further ado (or cliches), here is my original poem.

Wild Words

The words themselves run high and wild,
seeking to be corralled and tamed.
This adverb is a willful child;
that noun’s impatient to be named.

By sunrise we must reach our home.
The words themselves run high and wild.
A question mark is bound to roam.
The “being” verbs have formed a pile.

Even the sun is not beguiled
as she dips closer to her bed.
The words themselves run high and wild,
resist the stories in my head.

Despite the claws, the whips, the threat,
my heart is calm, frustration’s mild.
I watch the beauty as I let
the words themselves run high and wild.