The Triolet Trail

[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Music and two empty glasses[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]remind her of what she has lost.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]She finds no love yet surpasses[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]music and two empty glasses.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Easily had by the masses,[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]she cries each night over the cost.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Music and two empty glasses[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]remind her of what she has lost.[/FONT][/FONT]

A worthy endeavor, as memories fade,
of English farm fields in first frost.
Dreams of stone cottages they stayed.
A worthy endeavor, as memories fade.
Of nights by the coal fire he made,
that she gave up. Knowing the cost,
a worthy endeavor, as memories fade
of English farm fields in first frost.

Of English farm fields in first frost,
of idyllic, wretched, visions,
wrought by God. A bloody accost
of English farm fields. In first frost,
hedgerows drip berries where lamb cross;
strangers dream stone wall divisions
of English farm fields in first frost.
Of idyllic, wretched, visions.

of idyllic, wretched visions
old men concoct dark theories
and incubate suspicions
of idyllic, wretched visions

these legends conquer regions
these intermediaries
of idyllic, wretched visions
old men concoct dark theories

[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Old men concoct dark theories.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]In the wake of the new torch: run.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Don’t get stuck in the lurch. Query[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]old men. Concoct dark theories[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]and you’ll make the masses leery.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Will you be the next stapled one[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]old men concoct? Dark theories[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]in the wake of the new torch run.[/FONT][/FONT]

In the wake of the new torch run
at darkness. For a blood red moon
infrequents. Light lies? Or truths shun
in the wake of the new torch. Run.

Rather, constant as a mean sun?
Oh. Dying dreams, as stars, lay strewn
in the wake of the new torch. Run
at darkness for a blood red moon.

At darkness, for a blood red moon,
with an unshuttered lens, she waits.
To capture the light, to commune
with darkness. But a blood red moon
evades constraint. Do not impugn
metal and screws for lagging rates
at darkness. For a blood red moon,
with an unshuttered lens, she waits.

With an unshuttered lens she waits
motionless coveting shadows.
Elusive light grasping negates
with an unshuttered lens. She waits.

Pride supposes the moon debates;
Preserve? No, demise, is a pose
with an unshuttered lens; she waits.
Motionless, coveting shadows.

Motionless, coveting shadows
in the stillness of the night —
among cemetary rows —
motionless. Coveting shadows

cannot feed on blood and marrow
before the early light —
Motionless, coveting shadows
in the stillness of the night.

in the stillness of the night
red is black and so is blue
trust not yellow, fear the white
in the stillness of the night

dark is evil but polite
softly now it calls to you
in the stillness of the night
red is black and so is blue

Red is black and so is blue
on the pages of the news.
But my heart has a different view:
red is black. And so, is blue
meant to follow in this voodoo?
Blue is white, and meant to subdue.
Red is black and so is blue
on the pages of the news.

[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]On the pages of the news[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]slander rages. Burned to black:[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]facts ([/FONT][FONT=&quot]before[/FONT][FONT=&quot] they spin the stew).[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]On the pages of the news[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]feed me softly what I chew.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Help my heart; my own attack[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]on the pages of the news.[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]Slander, rages: burned to black.[/FONT][/FONT]

Slander rages, burns to black
(so says the coroner's report):
slashed her smile from front to back.
Slander rages/burns to black
without remorse, akin to Jack,
cuts the life from Lizzie Short.
Slander rages, burns to black.
(So says the coroner's report.)

So says the coroner's report:
A hopeless case. The patient died.
Expired now. Off life support.
So says the coroner's report:
Democracy has failed. Abort!
Compliments of 45?
So says the coroner's report:
a hopeless case. The patient died.

(I felt a near-rhyme was in order here)

A hopeless case. The patient died.
Wrapped in linen, she was preserved
in the ancient way: mummified.
A hopeless case. The patient died.
Teeth were gnashed and seeing-eyes cried.
Fearless prophets rise from this earth.
A hopeless case. The patient died.
Wrapped in linen, she was preserved.

Wrapped in linen, he was preserved.
Kind of like a pickle in a jar, you know?
Even that was more than he deserved:
wrapped in linen. He was preserved,
and we who gazed upon him were unnerved
even with that tag upon his toe.
Wrapped in linen he was. Preserved.
Kind of like a pickle in a jar, you know?

Kind of like a pickle in a jar, you know
it won’t be long before you break
into some bread; escape the row.
Kind of like a pickle in a jar, you know?

I plant poetry with my dough,
preserve each piece I undertake
(kind of like a pickle). In a jar, you know
it won’t be long before you break.

It won’t be long before you break
the mold-stained spigot. It is cold,
and the blue-ness of your hands shake.

It won’t be! Long before you break -
any way you rig it - it takes
turns to master the warm; grow old.

It won’t be long before you break
the mold, stained spigot. It is cold.

The mold, stained spigot? It is cold
rain falling into the tin pails
while the old man’s clenched fist grabs hold.

The mold, stained spigot; it is cold
resolve that his fingers unfold,
with bony wrists and jagged nails.

The mold stained spigot? It is cold
rain dripping into the tin pails.

Rain dripping into the tin pails
painted with rust & hollow
but for the silver thread of snail
& rain dripping into the tin pails.
Lonesome seeds are scattered like braille
around the pails. Easy food for swallows.
Rain! Dripping into the tin pails
painted with rust & hollow.

Painted with rust and hollow,
say her name; speak it slowly.
Etch a line for him to follow.
Painted with rust and hollow
now (and hard to swallow,
say). Her name: unspoken. Holy.
Painted with rust and hollow.
Say her name. Speak it slowly.

Say her name. Speak it slowly.
Release my heart from pain.
Empty bones below me.
Say her name. Speak it slowly.
Stir her soul to blow free.
Walk my shade of blue rain.
Say her name. Speak it slowly.
Release my heart from pain.

Works nicely with my mother's name. She was French (like the triolet), passed nearly 25 years ago, and has bones in a graveyard in Cleveland:

“Elaine.” Speak it slowly.
Release my heart from pain.
Empty bones below me.
“Elaine.” Speak it slowly.
Stir her soul to blow free.
Walk my shade of blue rain.
“Elaine.” Speak it slowly.
Release my heart from pain.

(I truly detest this one. Too much form. Highly contrived. A fun experiment, though.)

Release my heart from pain.
Surcease this art of rain.
Appease, sweetheart! Be sane.
Release my heart. From pain
to ease, you start again
to tease with smart refrain.
Release my heart from pain.
Surcease this art of rain.

Surcease? This art of rain?
Recourse for what is due
a muse used with disdain;
surcease? This art of rain
despairs; implores to feign
requests dare not come true.
Surcease, this art of rain;
recourse for what is due.