Tightest
Lightest
Highest
Whitest
She swerved in the tightest, lightest squeak,
While skiing the highest, whitest peak

Clever
Ever
Never
Sever
She’s voted most clever, ever seen
To stay thin she never, severs lean.

Bigger
Chigger
Trigger
Digger
Suffering a bigger, chigger itch
He scratched with a trigger, digger switch.

Finger
Slinger
Singer
Linger
She sung the finger, slinger song
While making the singer, linger long

Straightest
Greatest
Latest
Quaintest
She esteemed the greatest, straightest guy
But ignored his latest, quaintest sigh

I found the tyburn poem difficult for anything other than frolicking in light humor. This is not to say that I have not produced my share of finger painting nonsense in limerick, doggerel, nursery rhymes and jingles. More importantly, as an exercise, the tyburn puts a premium on every word. Perhaps you can do better than I. If so, send me your best efforts and I’ll consider using them in a future article.

For some back tracking to scratch around in triolet poems. Geneva Poynter, in jest, writes a clever, partly conforming triolet. As mentioned in the July column the triolet is an eight line poem with repeated lines 1, 4 and 7, and lines 2 and 8. Expressed in rhyme schemes they are: ABaAabAB with capital letters for repeated lines. Thanks, Geneva, for this amusing poem. It affirms my statement above about frolicking in frivolity.

Now here I sit and try to think
What to write for a Triolet
Since James threw out the challenge true.
Could write of weather in a wink
Or all the dishes in the sink,
But I sit trying to be sure
To write a poem while there's still ink
To please a man I have not met.

—Geneva Poynter

Now, for some substance, let us review a poem that speaks to the heart about wasted time. Too often I waste time—forgive me Lord, for it’s a gift from our Creator. Conversely, look at a gifted poet’s exhortation, by the Reverend W. C. Parkey.

How To Lose A Day

I lost it in the morning, while I kept closed my eyes
I meant to start out early, before the sun would rise
It felt so good to lie awhile, and think my secret dreams
My future plans of action, and all my get-rich schemes

Like fairy tales of childhood, with giants, elves, and fairies
Where the prince rescues the princess, and to his castle carries
When the morning sun had risen, and was high up in the sky
I rose up from my reverie and said, “How time will fly!”

I lost it at the keyboard, where I stopped to check my mail.
To see if some lost friend had written with a tantalizing tale.
I meant to only take a look, at the headlines of the day
Till later on I realized, how time had slipped away.

You do not need a master, when you’re captured for awhile
You become a virtual servant to some mesmerizing wile
God made man upright, with the best of all intentions
But man has complicated things, with the making of inventions

I lost it through the day light, as I lingered here and there
A book to read, a call to make, but not much time for prayer
Our lives are all so limited, like the time card in a clock
But time just keeps on going, it never seems to stop.

Whenever we procrastinate, we dibble and we dabble
We stop to work a puzzle, or play a game of Scrabble
It is not hard to figure just where our time has flown
If it’s always spent in leisure or just talking on the phone

I lost it till the evening, when the lights were dim and low
When the shadows crept into my room, I had no time to show
I could only look behind me, and see the hill I’d climbed.
And plan to start tomorrow, to buy up all my time!

© W. C. Parkey, July 2, 2008

The fifth stanza addresses our letting stuff crowd out prayer time. This hits me, and perhaps others. Thank You Rev. Parkey for the admonishment wrapped in a lovely poem—we needed it.

In closing, let us consider this. Before you write your poetry, while doing the planning for its content and style, it behooves us all to stop awhile and ask God to bring to mind worthwhile subject matter, topics and focus. Go with God and be blessed.

  James E Tate
jetate@sbcglobal.net