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Original Cinquain Poems by Walterrean Salley


The American-Cinquain-Poetic Style

The American-Cinquain style was created by a woman named Adelaide Crapsey. The Cinquain is a short poem, composed of five lines, usually unrhymed. As a rule, each line consists of a certain number of syllables. The pattern is: 2-4-6-8-2. The first line has two syllables. The second line has four syllables. The third line has six. The fourth line has eight. And the fifth line, like the first, has two syllables. It is a favorite poetic style, and widely used.

A year after her death, Adelaide Crapsey’s book, titled ‘Verses‘ was published, which included twenty-eight cinquains. And she always titled her cinquains.  Through structure and strong imagery, she intimated a clear picture with mood and feeling.  The following is an example of her cinquain style.  The title is ‘November’s Night.’

With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.





Change in the air.
Leaves beginning to turn—
Starting to paint a new landscape
The fall.


A Wintry Image

Reminds me of
The old woodstove with its
Brick chimney and smoke billowing



 Acacia Umbrella


Of acacia

Tree.  Like an umbrella

It stands.  Exotic, lovely and





Weeping Willow

Long lived.


Inspired many poets

Will accentuate any scene

With grace.




Keep Trying

‘Tis hard

Seeing through  a

Window of pain, skew  by

Reduced visibility.  Keep





A Marvel 

Light rays. 

Dewdrops.  And bird

Songs.  Dawn cracks the morning

Skies, and June seventeen is born.







Chimes.  The body

Cries Sleep.  Sleep!  Sleep!  But the

Heart’s wide awake.  Insomnia.


© 2014 walterrean Salley





Seasonal Change

The sun.

And rustling leaves. 

Trees, whispering to the

Sky—messages borne on wings of

The wind.




Thankful Thoughts

The joy
Of Thanksgiving
Warms the heart like nothing
Else.  Sincere gratitude is right

A kind
Testament of
Truth in understanding the 
Essences and significance of
The Day.




When Night Comes

The night
Of life, it comes
To all—young and old. And
With it come angst, uncertainty
And fear.



Japanese-Red Maple

The Japanese
Maple tree, in haze of
Beauty, lends aura.  Nature is




Calla Lily Cinquain

Lovely profile.
A princess of the wild,
She is everyone's favorite




Life's Demands

Of life can be
So overwhelming that
One gets lost in the shuffle of
It all.                        




Season of the Crocus

Wake up
Little crocus,
Down on the meadows floor,
And bask in the sunlight that you

With unfolding
Blooms, stunning in color.
The Season’s upon you little





Lights.  Bows.
Christmas tree, and
The smell of fresh-cut pine.
Carols, and hymns, and kind spirits
All 'round.




Thread of Truth

Truth is
Of a golden
Cord that does not fray, and 
Which cannot be broken. Truth stands




Songs Are…

Songs are
A balm for the
Soul. Each has a message
For the weary listener in his
Lone plight.




Jacqueline Du Pre

She was

A prodigy

Maker of beautiful

Music.  Violinist with sad





The Heart

Bear no weight for the heart
That has found its rightful place in
This life.




For Love’s sake

Let love
Be for love’s sake
And naught else. Not riches
Not fame or hidden agendas.
But love.




A Fall Profile

Stretched across the
Field... cast by the backdrop

Of a glowing evening sun 'gainst
Clear skies.




Stolen Heart

Love the
Spring.  But fall has
Stolen my heart with its
Deep and mysteriously bold




Walk with Me

Come faith.
Walk with me through
The treacherous valleys,
Where paths are less favorable
To trod.




A Fall Profile

Stretched across the
Field—cast by the glowing 
Backdrop of the evening sun 'gainst
Clear skies.




The Sun Will Return

A slooooow
Soaking rain with
Gray skies and dismal look.
Much like some things we endure. But
Look up.

The rain
Will go away.
The cold will subside.  And

The sun will return. Things will be
All right.




A Night Of Sleep

Sleep calls my name.
Tired and weary, I lie
Down, and yield to the comfort that
It brings.                        




Eva Cassidy—Songbird

Soon gone—
The golden voice
That rose on the wings of its
Time, and soared with the winds of a
New day.



Winter Reflections

Winter reminds
Of the woodstove with its
Brick chimney.  The smoke billowing