Category: quatrains,

Canti Moralise

I tell you. It took me 1000 trial runs to come up with a genuine pop song. Not that this needed to be genre specific by the way. But as it turned out the song ‘It’s A Good Thing’ in the strophie style is genre specific. That genre is the old French Provincal style of the Canti Moralise.

A strophie is a system of passes. Like over, across, and athwart the manner of a subjective term. The affirmation of the 3 passes in this Provincally drawn condition I have l laid out with 3 quatrains(4 lines) rhyming them as I will. Also at times using a repeat of 3 lines Leveeing the weight with a 4th line acting as a cadence, unrhymed, and usually borrowing from the auld tradition like the words “In the morning” or “This old way”.

The quatrains in that they may be arranged with this repetitions and a cadence, as well as in couplets, extended with a backbeat, and further by unrhyming the 1st and 3rd lines. This perfectly comes into line with taking up the couplet again now though in the Homeric style. The modality of Church music meets with this cmmprehension at its 1st prerogative.

A respect for the theory of a set aspect in keeping clear of the clutter of assuming in one’s possessions that we are more than simply ourselves has need counter with the same sentiment but at this it is in regards to the spirit.

Not that we would indulge the daemon with largesse or dream of too much of a good thing.

Unreasonable as it may seem the quandary of difficult experience has to rest on the aptitude of its sufferers. These to make good on the endevour. Asking for reserve in any more want of the presses as a makeshift horde of contentments.

To give time to the remove of those obstacles to the succinct matter of viably giving expression to the quality of movement upon earth of those good natured beings accepting of consensus values in the revolutions of persons, thoughts, and matters. Simply in the sample song of that which can be seen as united and worthy of moments held aver.

By the sea. By the mass. By the representative host. By the considerate child.

Before I Write

Before I write of second sight or about a sixth sense gained from painting a wooden fence.

I shall sing a song heavenward. It will be long but not absurd. It’s not wrong and yet it’s every word. Is virile and strong, hawklike a bird.

Be there time to concur hereabouts. On matters that are just and for now. If seldom without understanding this will leave you wondering how.

The lonesome cowboy at finding a broken childs’ toy would not just kick it into gear. No he would desire to better his situation. Ya dig, like knowing the real Pink and Floyd.

I used to cuss and really fuss in what I chose to write. Now I would that what I laid down was peaceful, and topical, and bright.

More of my second sight and early sixth sense. Climb a fence, meet a dog. Get mauled, for blood on a towel. Stitches on a jaw, a cheekbone, over my eye, and behind my ear. 47 to 63 stitches in all.

Should I write like a fight? Always running away until I fast. And come into your musing arms to last. To address what are grave derigors of anger and might.

It is there I go and curse with a mourning words thirst. It is not to grab up handfuls of Sun in the club and bring error to some flipped out edge. Going down for the worse.

She’s a girl and you are a boy. But do not let your acceptable love forever cloy. Those amorphous regions of loss and argument and a high helot for a roy.

When the belated want of our speaking tries us with garrots and gins as such our lot. Like tigers in the spotlight their logic has a goose to whisk us out of shape into some twisted helix got. The nether light burns bright at this conflux of our utter midnight.

Carolina sounds like ‘Oh Sweet Lord’ when the bird flies and gives rebirth to her lost chord.

Quick heartbeats connect lines of blood. Holes in the knees of my blue jeans and some mud. What will I have to do around the next corner when I catch up to my buds.