Concatenator’s Flummox










Multi-syllabic and I have

had a lifelong affair, kissing

un’s before and e-d-l-y’s

at ends of meaty descriptors

laid out on a conversation’s

silken sheets at the Language Ritz

Must I surrender syllables

in exchange for meter’s power?


Title words alone fill up six

syllables! Puzzling how to spin 

a rhyming story held within

intersecting ideas picked

that’ll spell balance to a mix

emoting through copla mayor.

Amphibrachic tetrameter

not even in my bag of tricks!


Form commands beats two, five and eight

sound stressed.  They all feel stressed to me

churning a word’s cheese into brie

tasting of some metallic grate

imprisoning salivate

that mighta woulda coulda told

a surprise, exciting and bold

but instead followed meter-gate.


A tri-series of faux copla mayor verses.  

© Lori Fleming, 2014


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