Cinquain Poetry

Iron - Cinquain

Iron

Rusting but strong

The chains that bind we two

Fetters forged in love’s hot fire

Quenched?

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

Paranoia - Cinquain

Madness

Paranoia

All in your mind, he said.

The evil doctor stalking me.

His bill!

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

The Dead - Cinquain

Walking

The sunlit path

I think of other days

And those who walk now in darkness

The dead

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

The Feeding Hand - Cinquain

Bite it

The feeding hand

Bone deep. Don’t let go.

For tamed men are all doomed.

Be free!

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

Tick Tick Tick!

Tick, tick, tick, tick the clock on the wall ticks away,

While I laugh at the office joker, the boss, and slap his back.

Through the endless seconds, minutes and hours of each working day.

Although he is vindictive and a boring bastard. I seem to have the knack,

Of keeping him happy at work and his wife in the sack!

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

Revenge - Cinquain

Revenge.

Old cold hatred.

Still boils under my skin.

I wait, expose your jugular.

OH YESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

Revenge - Quintain

You think me weak, an office rug you walk on.

But I am strong, I have strengths that elude you.

I have time and patience and before we’re done,

I‘ll repay your visciousness and all you’re due,

Tenfold with interest and then you’ll be through!



An empty threat from a bitter fool, so say you.

But the game of your doom is out of your hand,

Check mate in three moves, and nothing to do.

Hung in your own rope, just as I planned.

"What clearing your desk? Here, I’ll give you a hand!”



Reveange is a feast that tastes best, served cold,

So unless you read minds of those who you meet.

You’d do well to console the enemies of old,

And be a friend to all and each man in the street

Or you may find yourself, one day, at their feet!

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

Lip Server - Cinquain

Network.

My lip-server.

Broadband. Her full nightmare.

Let the lies flow to the words end

Un-heard.

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio

In Truth - Cinquain

In truth,

Our love is dead.

We still play out our parts

And chant out our roles as lovers.

“Your cue!”

View rbpoetry's Full Portfolio