The Triolet Trail

B.D. Eyeslie

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A bleeding, one-eyed boy squints through his gauze.
Lights in the hospital ward burn brightly.
At the bedside, nurses and doctors pause:
a bleeding, one-eyed boy squints through his gauze.
Not to remember the boy's many flaws,
his mother never took his threats lightly.
A bleeding, one-eyed boy squints through his gauze.
Lights in the hospital ward burn brightly.
 

RyanLKing

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Lights in the hospital ward burn brightly.
Into all the hours of the night and day,
Doctors don’t take their jobs lightly,
Lights in the hospital ward burn brightly.
Nurses are diligent daily and nightly,
The gravity of their jobs heavily weigh,
Lights in the hospital ward burn brightly.
Into all hours of the night and the day,
 

Perscribo

Pound cake.
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Into all hours of the night and the the day,
a crack in the pane lures out the dark,
deviant rage. With wine, I allay
into all hours. Of the night and the day
(both blinding visions gone astray),
the black is what ignites my spark
into all hours of the night, and the day
--a crack in the pane--lures out the dark.
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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Halloween's coming; it's my daughter's birthday. I probably won't include this in her card.

A crack in the pane lures out the dark,
smoked silhouettes of suffering souls.
What could have been harmless did so spark
a crack. In the pane lures out the dark,
brilliant reflection of Satan's mark:
Six-sixty-six hung over the hole;
a crack in the pane lures out the dark,
smoked silhouettes of suffering souls.
 
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CDSinex

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The prompt made me think of the Japanese festival of Obon (sounds like oh-bone). This Wiki link explains it well. Here’s a link to Bon dancing. I lived it a (relatively) remote village far from a temple, but sitting outside in the evening you could hear the drums and flutes in the distance. I was impossible to resist going.

One other thing. The Japanese rice wine, sake, is pronounced sa-ke. (The ke sounds like the ‘ca’ in cake.


Smoked silhouettes of suffering souls,
amid simple flutes and beating drums,
the scent of incense and glowing coals –
smoked silhouettes. Of suffering souls
we offer sake in hand-thrown bowls
knowing well our own time will come.
Smoked silhouettes of suffering souls,
amid simple flutes, and beating drums.
 
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RyanLKing

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Amid simple flutes, and beating drums.
I feel my soul being set completely free.
Wait. What am I doing? Are those hums?
Amid simple flutes, and beating drums.
I take the evening as the evening comes.
Beneath the moonlight and the oak tree.
Amid simple flutes, and beating drums.
I feel my soul being set completely free.
 

CDSinex

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Oops, wrong rhyme scheme.

I feel my soul being set completely free.
Now a butterfly emerges
from this cocoon. That was once me;
I feel my soul. Being set completely free
unfettered by all memory
unblinded as light converges.
I feel my soul being set completely free—
now a butterfly emerges.


I feel my soul being set completely free.
Now a butterfly emerges
from this cocoon. That was once me;
I feel my soul. Being set completely free
unfettered by all memory
unblinded, so now I can see.
I feel my soul being set completely free—
now a butterfly emerges.
 
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poetinahat

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Now a butterfly emerges;
the left wing shivers, then ignites
from the candle she traverses.
Now a butterfly emerges.
Living and new death converge as
a flash is dimmed to ashes. Night.
Now a butterfly emerges.
The left wing shivers, then ignites.
 
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kborsden

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The left wing shivers, then ignites
the plight of a soulless heathen.
A bright hue quivers, trapped inside
the left wing – shivers, then ignites,
explodes into slivers of light
and a myriad mirrored reasons.
The left wing shivers, then ignites
the plight of a soulless heathen.
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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The Plight of a Soulless Heathen:
the tale of a bat out of hell.
This cold gray corpse won't be reading
The Plight of a Soulless Heathen.
The bite from the devil's demon
gave birth to this vampire as well
the plight of a soulless heathen,
the tale of a bat out of hell.
 

kborsden

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The tale of a bat out of hell
in Swansea (Wales, of all places)
is not like the locals would tell
the tale of a bat out of hell –
and you could say that's just as well
because no journalist chases
the tale of a bat out of hell
in Swansea, Wales, of all places.
 
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poetinahat

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In Swansea, Wales - of all places -
I punched a hole in a man's hat
like in old films with pale faces.
In Swansea, Wales. Of all places
to play a jack to their aces -
to bluff big, when sense cries, 'Stand pat!' -
in Swansea, Wales, of all places,
I punched a hole in a man's hat.
 
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RyanLKing

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Thank you poetinahat! I enjoyed this one immensely.

I punched a hole in a man's hat.
I thought it better than his face.
I snatched it up from where he sat.
I punched a hole in a man's hat.
I stomped that damn bowler flat.
I did so with little show of grace.
I punched a hole in a man's hat.
I thought it better than his face.
 

JohnL

Hmmmm...
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I thought it better than his face
but uglier than his sweater --
and though on my own, out of place
I thought it better. Then his face
soured; I left. Alone, on the chaise
another return to sender
I thought. It’s better than his face:
but uglier than his sweater.
 
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kborsden

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Bit clunky:

Butt-uglier than his sweater?
No way, not a chance in hell.
His shoes were slightly better,
but uglier than his sweater
is pretty hard to get – er,
until you wear one as well –
but uglier than his sweater?
No way! Not a chance in hell.
 

CDSinex

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No way! Not a chance in hell.
We tried that once before. You know
last time it didn't turn out well—
no way. Not a chance in hell
we need a second time to tell
us we were wrong again, and so,
no way, not a chance in hell.
We tried that once before, you know.
 

kborsden

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We tried that once before, you know...
it could be. It's rather funny
to think of the baggage we towed...
we tried that once before, you know.
Perhaps I'll try in my bio
to recall any other scheme
we tried that once. Before you know
it could be?
it's rather funny.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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It could be it's rather funny;
I've laughed at misfortune before.
Her lovely locks doused with honey;
it could be it's rather funny.
Laughing till my eyes turned runny,
am I an insensitive bore?
It could be. It's rather funny;
I've laughed at misfortune before.
 

kborsden

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I've laughed at misfortune before,
but some feel it's not such a giggle
when it's their own shit on the floor.
I've laughed at misfortune before --
so much I've been shown the door,
but always with a jig or a wiggle.
I've laughed at misfortune before,
but some feel it's not such a giggle.
 
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Perscribo

Pound cake.
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But some feel. It's not such a giggle
to be peeled and mocked. Between each layer,
he reveals my words as mere squiggle,
but some feel they're not. Such a giggle,
like an eel, will slither and wriggle
new lines to fore. A few laud this brayer,
but some feel it's not such a giggle
to be peeled and mocked between each layer.
 
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poetinahat

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To be peeled and mocked between each layer,
waves of soft shivers like bending grainstalks,
the barb-pricked skin stings, a wretched prayer
to be peeled and mocked. Between each layer
of curses, curling silences heal where
knife-icicles melt, remnants of jokes
to be peeled and mocked between each layer,
waves of soft shivers like bending grainstalks.
 

kborsden

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Waves of soft shivers like bending grain-stalks,
enslaved by quivering flesh with their motions
and undulating tides are thoughts – in caulked
waves of soft shivers. Like bending grain-stalks,
they prickle, delivering their purpose in chalk
scrawled across a blackboard – seemingly notions:
waves of soft shivers like bending grain; stalks
enslaved by quivering flesh with their motions.
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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I don't usually do zombies; I was coerced.

Enslaved by quivering flesh with their motions,
the zombies, though dead, stood straight and alert.
Their movement gave hint to waves of the oceans
enslaved by quivering flesh. With their motions
their brittle skin split (please send them some lotion—
number forty-five—maybe just a squirt).
Enslaved by quivering flesh with their motions,
the zombies, though dead, stood straight and alert.
 
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RyanLKing

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Fun but it didn't quite turn out as well as I hoped.

The zombies, though dead, stood straight and alert.
For the lingering scent of untainted flesh was near,
Rotting corpses roaming about fresh from grave dirt,
The zombies, though dead, stood straight and alert.
They aren’t getting my brains for entree and dessert!
Shotgun’s loaded with slugs that’ll take down a deer.
The zombies, though dead, stood straight and alert.
For the lingering scent of untainted flesh was near,
 

A. Hamilton

here for a minute...catch me?
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For the lingering scent of untainted flesh was near
The slivered moon could not cut through the chill
The creatures were still, with breath caught in fear
For the lingering scent of untainted flesh was near
When through the fog a snarl and a leer
Confounded even the strongest of will
For the lingering scent of untainted flesh was near
The slivered moon could not cut through the chill