(Quick note: My earlier sample messed up the rhyme scheme of the rondel, though the instructions have always been correct. Please make sure your rondels follow this rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA. Happy poeming!)
Happy New Year!
Let’s get 2013 off to a great start with a new WD Poetic Form Challenge. For this challenge, we’re going to write therondel–a fun French poetic form. Click this link to review how to write a rondel.
For poets new to the WD Poetic Form Challenge, here’s how it works:
- Post as many rondels as you wish in the comments until the deadline (below).
- Once the deadline has passed, I’ll go through all the rondels and pick a winner (and usually a Top 10 list).
- The winning rondel is published in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine.
- Please remember to include your name as you wish it to appear in the magazine with your rondel(s).
- Deadline is January 10, 2013.
Any questions can be sent to me at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com, but I will only review rondels included in the comments below.
Good luck!
*****
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*****
Land a Book Deal in 2013!
WHOM
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
Be careful what you say to me,.
My Rosey says to write a knee
as “it,” since it is not a groom
or bride or person, I assume,
or sandwich animal like me.
Be careful what you say to me.
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
Few animals write, I must presume.
We turtles first learned words like “tree”
and many things that we can see.
We learn curious rules. Can you?
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
submitted for my student Quake Tornieri
Wirtten January 4, 2013
Oops, a duplicate. iI turns out I sent it in for her earlier–so happily, it was on time.
The Truth of Dementia
I don’t believe we’ve met before
Your face does not remind
To hold your hand? I’m disinclined
And yet your key fits in my door
You’re not familiar, though you implore
That our hearts were once entwined
Your face does not remind
me, nor does your voice restore
Remembering an old dance floor
A man your height does spring to mind
But the image fades, my mind unwinds
And the tales you tell are all folk lore
I don’t believe we’ve met before
–by Susan Budig
wait…I thought East Coast time was only one hour ahead of me. I’m in MN and right now it’s 10:20 pm….Well, I have to wait a few minutes to avoid “you’re posting to quickly, slow down.”
Susan, this poem flows and speaks honestly of dementia. I’ve seen how terrible it can be.
Good luck!
Unforgotten
by Sara Ramsdell
Let me tell you about my husband,
she began wistfully, sweetly,
her voice that of a mouse, barely
audible, memories fashioned
as windows mirrored, uncurtained,
stark truths of love and loss. Slowly,
she began wistfully, sweetly–
let me tell you about my husband.
A stranger to her now, hardened,
a stark branch, he questioned harshly,
who do you think I am? Then she
answered as her damp eyes glistened,
let me tell you about my husband…
Each line, “let me tell you about my husband”
should be, “let me tell you of my husband” to keep to the 8 syllables. Thanks!
Your rondel is a nice complement to mine directly above yours.
11 EST here on the 10th– not sure why it’s posting as 12.
The Writing
He read the writing on the wall
although the image was not clear.
He lived in doubt but had no fear
of a line drive or the curve ball.
Without fresh gas the car would stall.
From her back seat he could not steer.
He read the writing on the wall
although the image was not clear.
He did not strive to have it all.
He would much rather volunteer.
She revved her engine in first gear
while in her haste he dropped the ball.
He read the writing on the wall.
By Michael Grove
Mismatched
He loved the movie; I, the book.
That’s all you really need to know.
We didn’t read the warnings though—
What chances with our hearts we took.
He claimed he fell with just one look;
I took another day or so.
But all you really need to know:
He loved the movie; I, the book.
But Cupid’s such a clever crook,
We’ve seen before how far he’ll go
two mismatched hearts to overthrow,
then leave them dangling on love’s hook.
He loved the movie; I, the book.
Big grin over here from this one!
I love this, as well as Wedding Interrupted and Fly. You have a good chance of winning this one, Nancy.
Not Jack: A Rondel
I’m dry of words I must admit
To be precise, ideas lack
I search for spirit steps to track
On path, on wing, this mind does flit,
With flop and fling of mimic’s-fit,
Of “hit the road”, though name’s not Jack
To be precise, ideas lack.
I’m dry of words I must admit.
Though stubborn too, and will not sit
aback on stool in quitters shack
To shake and shimmy and turn back
With nothing in my Rondel kit
(Not) Dry of words, I must admit.
Wedding Interrupted
They’d heard whispers about the bride,
nobody dared to tell the groom.
But as he walked into the room,
tension sizzled on the groom’s side.
We weren’t surprised his mother cried.
His father’s face bore shades of gloom.
Nobody dared to tell the groom
they’d heard whispers about the bride.
Walking down the aisle, she tried
to catch his eye across the room,
but everything foreshadowed doom,
and as he took her arm, he sighed.
He’d heard whispers about the bride.
Fly
I have no doubt that I could fly
if I were not afraid to fall.
I’d soar without a care at all
like Icarus across the sky,
without a soul as brave as I,
too high to hear a warning call.
If I were not afraid to fall
I have no doubt that I could fly,
but fear of failure leaves me shy.
I’m stranded here atop this wall
with waxen wings, no help at all.
In gusts of wind, with one good try
I have no doubt that I could fly.
A also find it referenced several places with the ABba/abAB/abbaA rhyme scheme. Here is another one presented both ways.
Painting Rainbows
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
He built a ladder to the sun
although his work was never done.
He had so little time to spare.
With broader strokes without despair
she lives each day enjoying fun.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
He built a ladder to the sun.
They were not utterly aware
of each cold gaze and every stare.
They shared their gifts with everyone
until the darker days were done.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
By Michael Grove
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Painting Rainbows
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
He built a ladder to the sun
although his work was never done.
He had so little time to spare.
With broader strokes without despair
she lives each day enjoying fun.
He built a ladder to the sun.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
They were not utterly aware
of each cold gaze and every stare.
They shared their gifts with everyone
until the darker days were done.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
By Michael Grove
So sorry everyone. How I wound up with aabbA for the last stanza, I’ll never know…
Let’s try this…
Painting Rainbows
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
He built a ladder to the sun
although his work was never done.
He had so little time to spare.
With broader strokes without despair
she lives each day enjoying fun.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
He built a ladder to the sun.
They were not utterly aware.
Until the darker days were done
they shared their gifts with everyone
while left alone just standing there.
She’s painting rainbows everywhere.
By Michael Grove
Robert, when I first checked the prompt, the rules and the rhyme scheme in your example poem differed in the second stanza so I googled rondel to see which was correct. Everywhere I looked, it listed the rhyme scheme as ABba/abAB/abbaA so that is what I used. I hope that is correct.
Like Love Letters in the Sun
Innocence is fading away
like love letters left in the sun,
edges curling up one by one,
black-lettered ink turning to gray.
Young hearts learn early of dismay,
learn how to hide and how to run.
Innocence is fading away
like love letters left in the sun
or a week-old floral bouquet.
Sweet words of praise and classroom fun
are now replaced by fear of gun
and sorrow for friends lost that day.
Innocence is fading away.
Linda Hofke
I found at least 5 references for RONDEL with a rhyme scheme of ABba/abAB/abbaA or ABba/abAB/abbaA(B) but NONE with a rhyme scheme of ABba/abBA/abbaA so I guess I am confused…
A Cold War
The usual tug of war of sheets
Has left the blanket on the floor,
Each wanting just a little more
To warm the toes on frozen feet,
In the middle we seem to meet
To make a bargain, stop the war,
But the blanket ends on the floor,
Again, the tug of war of sheets,
Just when you think the other’s beat,
A cold draft freezes to the core,
Too tired to even up the score,
For now, I must admit defeat
In the usual tug of war of sheets.
Kit Cooley
High-Octane Intake
by B Peters
You’re gobbling up the asphalt feast,
contentedly devouring way
too much, contentious day
forgotten as you’re gorging east
of trouble. Push your two-door beast
to guzzle! In Cabriolet’s
contentedly devouring way
you’re gobbling up the asphalt feast.
With high caloric miles increased,
the distance from your fiancé—
his wasting, cheating power play—
grows fatter. Say goodbye to least!
You’re gobbling up the asphalt feast.
* * *
I’m new here, and already tried posting this poem once. It never went through. I waited an hour or so to see if it would show up, and when it didn’t, I thought I’d try once more. I’ve never posted any message anywhere else either, so I don’t know what to expect. Is there a wait time? Maybe this will be a double post when all is said and done.
Hi, B. Peters,
There haven’t been any problems like that as of late (all my poems and comments have taken on the first try) but just in case, I would always write your poem in a word document and then copy and paste it onto the blog, so that you don’t lose it or have to re-type it all over again.
Welcome to PA and good luck!
Jac
^^
Ah, I now see it took the first time as well. Ignore above. I guess if something like this happens again, refresh your computer (F5) before attempting a 2nd time, to avoid doubles.
Thanks, Jac, for the advice and the welcome. I’ve never joined a blog before, and I guess I had beginner’s anxiety. I refreshed then on second thought rebooted. After that, I reposted, which didn’t take until the next day, along with the first post. Perhaps I met up with a filter, which in turn had to bless me with posting status. Barb
The poem
Yes! I wrote it for my cousin.
YesI I know it is forbidden.
Couldn’t help it; I’ve been bitten
by the love bug quite a dozen
times. I understand I mustn’t
and right now I wish I didn’t.
Yes! I know it is forbidden.
Yes! I wrote it for my cousin
who I thought liked me but doesn’t.
I am sad and quite guilt-ridden.
Hope you keep my secret hidden.
Any more? I swear, I’ll toss ‘em.
Yes! I wrote it for my cousin.
So funny and yet not funny at all. I am not sure if I should laugh or scold
lol. You’ll lean towards funny if you try to say it all in one breath!!!
High-Octane Intake
by B Peters
You’re gobbling up the asphalt feast,
contentedly devouring way
too much, contentious day
forgotten as you’re gorging east
of trouble. Push your two-door beast
to guzzle! In Cabriolet’s
contentedly devouring way
you’re gobbling up the asphalt feast.
With high caloric miles increased,
the distance from your fiancé—
his wasting, cheating power play—
grows fatter. Say goodbye to least!
You’re gobbling up the asphalt feast.
The better part of valor
If I were you, I’d turn around –
you’re crazy to ignore that sign
emblazoned with the bold outline
of a cow with horns. That faint sound
of pounding hoofs should not astound
you – but you better pay it mind,
you’re crazy to ignore that sign!
If I were you, I’d turn around
and run for home before you’re found
like a squirrel chased up a pine
tree, yelling for help! Please don’t whine,
this field could be a killing ground…
If I were you, I’d turn around.
The snow drifts down
like feather lace,
a wild goose case
confounds the town
draping a gown
of ivory grace,
a wild goose case,
the snow drifts down.
Between verb and noun,
between form and space,
between plot and place–
love and renown–
the snow drifts down
If I Were an Origami Artist
“You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.” ~Mark Twain
I make a fold or two, then bend
this square of paper at a crease.
This form of art is a release:
creating helps me comprehend
beginning, middle and the end,
a gentle way of finding peace.
This square of paper at a crease
I make a fold or two, then bend.
A simple act. It can transcend
bright colors, patterns. This small piece
of fiber is more than caprice…
a paper swan’s what I intend.
I make a fold or two, then bend.
###
Nice work.
Yeah, this one is sublime.
Fade Away
I thought my heart would break that day,
when the doctor told us the news –
your marked skin was more than a bruise
that with time had not gone away.
He said the cancerous cells may
have spread, there was no time to lose.
When the doctor told us the news
I thought my heart would break that day.
The dread disease moved in to stay,
few treatment options left to choose.
You begged me feed you pills and booze,
I watched you fade and drift away.
I thought my heart would break that day.
This is so sad.
Winter
by Kate Wells
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
Frost grips morning mists
and winds up oaks that twist
into grey Winter — all foretold
by cottonwood leaves that were turned gold
by forgotten October’s barbed kiss.
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
Frost grips morning mists,
keeps Spring in icy hold:
splinters, cracks heat in its fist
while the birds outside shiver and hiss
and you and I grow old.
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
LOVE this.
Hair Gel Rondel
Frankie, cake that gel in your hair,
Cause a shower of flaking
When you’re sitting in school, baking
From the lack of cool air.
I admit; it gives your mowhawks some flair.
You run it through your strands then shake.
Frankie, cake that gel in your hair,
Cause an avalanche of flakes.
The blue gunk makes the girls stare,
Probably at the mess you’re making.
You’re single, so you’re theirs for the taking.
I find goop all over the bathroom wares;
Remnants of a brother who cakes gel in his hair.
–Heather G.
Where to Leave Footprints
Finding strength to face tomorrow
is knowing where to leave footprints.
Which options will prove worthy stints?
Such insight we’d gladly borrow.
Journeys aren’t meant that easy though,
from before time to ever since.
Is knowing where to leave footprints
finding strength to face tomorrow?
Learn when to pack up the shadows,
for scowls leave a permanent wince.
View sour tarts as if sweet mints,
and embrace joy over sorrow,
finding strength to face tomorrow.
Michele K. Smith
Nice work, Michele.
Mental Yoga
Eyes on your own yoga mat.
Breathe deeply, filling your lungs.
Examine the thought you’ve begun
and label it “envy.” Beyond the mat,
Boss pulls up in a new Cadillac.
In the backseat, his baby son.
Breathe deeply, filling your lungs.
Eyes on your own yoga mat.
Look at those cheeks, perfectly fat,
yawning at the little you’ve done,
showing off his unbroken gums.
You’ve strained muscles, wishing for that…
Eyes on your own yoga mat.
Heather Hronek
Winter by Kate Wells
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
Frost grips morning mists
and winds up oaks that twist
into grey Winter — all foretold
by cottonwood leaves that were turned gold
by forgotten October’s barbed kiss.
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
Frost grips morning mists,
keeps Spring in icy hold:
splinters, cracks heat in its fist
while the birds outside shiver and hiss
and you and I grow old.
Overnight the woodstove goes bone cold.
I like this one very much. The wording is wonderful.
Bonjour Tristesse
Bonjour Tristesse, Melancholy…
Why are you here, and why today?
I really wish you’d go away.
In the doldrums. Not so jolly.
Please don’t tell me it’s my folly.
Visiting long? Don’t overstay.
Why are you here, and why today?
Bonjour Tristesse, Melancholy…
I’m not asking to be molly-
coddled. Just want to see less gray.
Just want some light, but by the way,
this new chapter’s written rawly.
Bonjour Tristesse, Melancholy…
###
My Trust
I gave you my heart, soul and trust,
thinking you loved me more than life,
was honoured to become your wife.
But you ground my love into dust,
when you gave in to carnal lust,
cut me deep with a virtual knife.
Thinking you loved me more than life
I gave you my heart, soul and trust,
as a loving wife surely must.
Even when your affairs were rife
I managed still, in spite of strife,
to keep my pride, but only just.
I gave you my heart, soul and trust.
Sad words but well-written. It flows nicely.
Lambing
It drizzled as the ewe gave birth
That never fails to amaze me
A budding life now breathing free
Its mewling call proclaiming worth
The wet fresh lamb inspired mirth
Oh, miracle: a twin, then three!
That never fails to amaze me
It drizzled as the ewe gave birth
But one breaths not, returns to earth
Its mouth, agape, but soundlessly
This life, it holds no guarantee
Save that fairness—a fickle girth
It drizzled as the ewe gave birth
–Susan Budig
breathes
sad
Nice work. Good luck, Susan.
Why the giraffe has such a long neck
(after a Spanish poem that I read when I was younger)
“This is why I have a long neck.”
A girl was told by a giraffe.
The latter quite nervously laughed
as she started on a long trek
to a time that just for a sec
seemed to tear her sad heart in half.
A girl was told by a giraffe:
“This is why I have a long neck.”
I hope you don’t cry… What the heck!
A date stood me up; it was rough.
I looked out the window; ‘twas tough.
My neck stretched from here to Quebec.
“This is why I have a long neck.”
I like how the byline fits the rhyme scheme. : )
You made me look up byline. Thanks! =-)
Inspiration
If you just stare at a blank page
you won’t find much inspiration
for your work. Such concentration
on what’s missing is the first stage
of madness. Get out, go rummage
through piles, steal a conversation –
you won’t find much inspiration
if you just stare at a blank page.
Forget about acting your age,
take off without explanation,
give your spirit a vacation.
A notebook can become a cage
If you just stare at a blank page.
Andrew Kreider
Yes, excellent!
To Pray Is To…
To pray is to sip God’s splendor
To shine His light in darkest hours
To boldly bathe in grace showers
To bask in His love so tender
To know Him as the defender
To rely on divine powers
To shine His light in darkest hours
To pray is to sip God’s splendor
To bring what’s smashed to the mender
To triumph over what devours
To walk in faith which empowers
To His purpose to surrender
To pray is to sip God’s splendor
–Connie L. Peters
Very nice, Connie.
SONGSTRESS
She sings the songs of other days,
when life was bright and love was whole;
she sings as though it were her goal
to make of blues a hymn of praise.
Her melodies recall the ways
of lilies laughing on a knoll,
when life was bright and love was whole.
She sings the songs of other days,
when lovers, lost in life’s great plays,
were wont to revel in the role
of helpmeet to the other’s soul.
And so, with grace that might amaze,
she sings the songs of other days.
William Preston
(hope to get this rhyme scheme straight, one of these days)
to make of blues a hymn of praise…her melodies recall the ways of lilies laughing on a knoll…
I love your wording, William.
BLIZZARD
The snow is falling hard and fast
while winds are forming turgid drifts;
the two of them are winter’s gifts
when autumn takes its leave at last.
They mold a smooth, unbroken cast.
The snow and winds work on, in shifts:
while winds are forming turgid drifts,
the snow is falling hard and fast
and hoary hillocks, broad and vast,
are made to rest on hieroglyphs
within the trees. Until it lifts,
the land must wait, amazed, aghast.
The snow is falling, hard and fast.
by William Presston
Oh, another good one, William. I really like your style of writing. Is there some place I can read more of your work? I don’t see a blog link on your name.
Linda Hofke
I Resolve
I resolve to seek Your face more
To read the Bible and to pray
To thank You for blessings each day
To give more freely to the poor
To count on You for what’s in store
Walk by faith as You lead the way
To read the Bible and to pray
I resolve to seek Your face more
Like a gosling on a pond’s shore
Pursuing mom goose, come what may
In her path, determined to stay
Loving You is what I’m here for
I resolve to seek Your face more
–Connie L. Peters
Two Wide-Eyed Kids
Two wide-eyed kids once ran about.
Oh, where could they have run off to?
Like ghosts, they’re often flitting through.
I can just hear them laugh and shout.
Playing together, acting out
fiction stories and sometimes true.
Oh, where could they have run off to?
Two wide-eyed kids once ran about.
I miss those little ones, no doubt.
I can’t believe how fast they grew.
So busy with life, time just flew.
I visit them the photo route.
Two wide-eyed kids once ran about.
–Connie L. Peters
Writer’s Block
Blank Page beckons like new, blown snow,
calling me from inner mindness,
but I suffer from snow blindness,
stumble, stagger; no way to go.
With frozen fingers, lips and toes
I sit here stuck in my resignedness.
Calling me from inner mindness,
Blank Page beckons like new, blown snow.
I take a step, but vertigo
has me running back – I’m spineless.
But I don’t like this left behindness.
I have to speak, to write, to grow.
Blank Page beckons like new, blown snow.
by Sally Valentine
I know that feeling.
For Goodwill
Her closet’s an uncanny world
of the passé, outmoded, old
and throw-away – a hint of mold
or dust. A rosebud shawl unfurled,
and here’s an evening bag all pearled
for party. If the truth be told,
her closet’s an uncanny world
of the passé. Outmoded, old –
this fox-head stole, its lost eyes merled,
still staring – might this fox be sold
now on eBay? The fox-paws cold.
In her youth, how the vixen skirled.
Her closet’s an uncanny world.
Robert’s going to be hard pressed to pull out only ten with the competition so steep; yours is another contender.
FOR GOODWILL
Her closet is a whole new world.
It’s so passé, outmoded, old
and throw-away – a hint of mold
or dust. This rosebud shawl unfurled,
and here’s an evening bag all pearled
for party. If the truth be told,
her closet is a whole new world,
it’s so passé, outmoded, old.
This fox-head stole – might it be sold
on eBay? How the vixen skirled
in her short youth. Those lost eyes merled,
still staring, and the fox-paws curled.
Her closet is a whole new world.
Without The Veil
They vowed for better and for worse.
They’d never turn and walk away.
They balanced work along with play
pressing fast forward not reverse.
They turned the page, pondered a verse
with freshness of each dawning day.
They’d never turn and walk away.
They vowed for better and for worse.
Without the veil they would immerse
themselves into a grand display
of vibrant colors with no gray.
Love sailed across the universe.
They vowed for better and for worse.
by Michael Grove
I like this one. To me, I see this as a poem dedicated to those who, throughout time, have been denied the rites of marriage.
Without The Veil (using the ABba/abAB/abbaA rhyme scheme.)
They vowed for better and for worse.
They’d never turn and walk away.
They balanced work along with play
pressing fast forward not reverse.
They turned the page, pondered a verse
with freshness of each dawning day.
They vowed for better and for worse.
They’d never turn and walk away.
Without the veil they would immerse
themselves into a grand display
of vibrant colors with no gray.
Love sailed across the universe.
They vowed for better and for worse.
by Michael Grove
Strum
That smooth guitar can make me hum
the blues in motion’s potion spilled.
My heart and head at once are filled
with music’s balm, essence of strum.
It’s not like me to beg a crumb
of sound unbound until it’s stilled.
The blues in motion’s potion spilled;
that smooth guitar can make me hum.
I guess life is at last the sum
of everything we’ve birthed and killed,
surviving hurts to prove we’re healed,
knowing the depths that love can plumb.
That smooth guitar can make me hum.
BLIZZARD
The snow is falling hard and fast
while winds are forming turgid drifts;
the two of them are winter’s gifts
when autumn takes its leave at last.
They form a smooth, unbroken cast.
The snow and winds work on, in shifts:
the snow is falling hard and fast
while winds are forming turgid drifts
of hoary hillocks, broad and vast,
that sometimes lead to hieroglyphs
within the trees. Until it lifts,
the land must wait, amazed, aghast.
The snow is falling, hard and fast.
by William Preston
(previous submission did not conform to form)
I like your entry. But the form for the second verse is abBA. The first and second lines of the poem are not simply repeated at the end of the second stanza; they are reversed.
actually I think the second stanza is supposed to be abAB. All the info I found online had it this way. Taylor also has her poems structured this way. And gosh, I hope it is abAB because that is the way I wrote mine. Hopefully, Robert can check on it and verify for everyone.
BLIZZARD
The snow is falling hard and fast
while winds are forming turgid drifts;
the two of them are winter’s gifts
when autumn takes its leave at last.
The snow and winds work on, in shifts,
to make a smooth, unbroken cast;
the snow is falling hard and fast
while winds are forming turgid drifts
of hoary hillocks, broad and vast,
that sometimes lead to hieroglyphs
within the trees. Until it lifts,
the land must wait, amazed, aghast.
The snow is falling, hard and fast.
by William Preston
If I Speak of Love
Shonte’ Sanders
If I speak of love, will you run?
If I kiss you, what happens then
What of friendship if our hearts win?
Look at us, look what we’ve become—
carriers of secrets, mind sprung
Must we abandon the notion?
If I kiss you, what happens then
If I speak of love, will you run
Look what you’ve done. I’ve come undone.
In need of distance, can’t pretend
I’ll carry this title, “just friends”
just right. If I omit caution,
if I speak of love, will you run?
A Gathering of Women
When women gather one by two
to help neighbors in pain and need,
thoughts join with thoughts and deeds with deeds.
What wondrous untold good they do.
They trust their minds, and if a few
feel useless, someone intercedes
to help neighbors in pain and need
when women gather one by two.
They give attention where it’s due;
with care and stealth, they sew love’s seeds
and listen for the heart that pleads.
What wondrous untold good they do,
when women gather one by two.
Nice poem and nice thoughts, Jane
Uneven Ground
Sometimes we walk uneven ground
but seek the well-worn paths we know
through woods and pastures, past a row
of pear trees, tracking pulse’s pound.
Across a twisty life, we’re bound
to shun treacherous highs and lows
and seek the well-worn paths we know.
Sometimes we walk uneven ground.
What makes a simple thought profound?
Some slight of light, some caw of crow?
Some wisp of wind parts weeds to show
where we might stumble and fall down.
Sometimes we walk uneven ground.
I like this one, Jane.
Distance
My neighbors live light years away
next door. They’re a flash passing car;
they’re an engine that roars. They are
plugged into cell phones night and day.
They work and play hard for they stay
always in motion, sleep a scar
next door. They’re a flash passing car.
My neighbors live light years away.
I love my boring life and pray
for time to think, to charm a star,
for slow true friendships where no mar
of speed can feed heart’s disarray.
My neighbors live light years away.
Do we have the same neighbors?
Square Box, Round Hole
Chose one: sometimes, always, never
Use number two pencil when taking this test.
Fill in the answer that fits best.
Don’t over-think or be clever.
Answer every one, however.
Fill in one box, ignore the rest.
Use number two pencil when taking this test.
Chose one: sometimes, always, never.
I believe this test is a silly endeavor,
Answers don’t fit. I’m not impressed.
I’m not manic, and I’m not depressed.
I have no mood disorder whatsoever.
Chose one: sometimes, always, never.
Margaret Fieland
Resolution
Resolved: I will try harder to
stick to goals I’ve set for this year.
Become some country’s new Premier.
Compose an étude for kazoo.
Dye all my pets in shades of blue.
Try to swing on a chandelier.
Stick to goals I’ve set for this year?
Resolved: I will try harder to
learn to be an auctioneer
and try to not sound insincere.
And then – to space. The new frontier.
Well, that’s the stuff I plan to do.
Resolved: I will try harder to…
###
Self-Help Book
I cleaned my desk, which was a mess
I can’t believe what I then found:
a manuscript under a mound
of junk, old bills and (I confess)
a coffee cup, but I digress.
I must admit this did confound.
I can’t believe what I then found.
I cleaned my desk, which was a mess
and then this book, I did address.
I uttered not a single sound.
I parsed old words. Just so profound,
on organizing. Who could guess!
I cleaned my desk, which was a mess.
###
When We Were Friends
The times we shared when we were friends;
the times we had were so much fun,
It’s tough to think that they are done,
but surely everything must end.
I miss you now, I can’t pretend.
It was almost like we were one.
The times we had were so much fun;
the times we shared when we were friends.
We always seemed to make amends,
sure as the brightly shining sun,
I moved away, though you were stunned.
My memories I do defend,
The times we shared when we were friends.
Rondel
by Kris Bigalk
The choir sings a sixteen note chord,
so bright it stings the eyes and throat,
more colors than the eye can note,
but the ear can hold a flash, roared.
Music remembers the white scored
window, late frost’s iridescent coat
so bright it stings the eyes and throat.
The choir sings a sixteen note chord,
evokes the French lilac blooms, hoared,
tiny blued fists in a glass coat
dusting dazzle sparkles, a mote,
a rainbow solidified, poured.
The choir sings a sixteen-note chord.
January 1
The old has passed! The new is here!
A year’s birthing has come once more.
Decide to close the past’s black door.
Just breathe the air of a fresh year.
Mistakes are left with dried up tears.
Old bruises are no longer sore.
A year’s birthing has come once more.
The old has passed! The new is here!
Potential like the sky is clear.
Look to the birds and see them soar.
Don’t hide from others anymore.
Carpe diem—your chance appears!
The old has passed! The new is here!
Once upon a time, I was young
once upon a time…long ago
The kids, they laugh; their time will come
to be among faded photos
Carefree, with a forever song
But it wasn’t so, now we know
Once upon a time, we were young
once upon a time…long ago
The fast grow slow; their shoes are hung
and it all progresses just so
this strange cycle of getting old
We look back, and the days are gone
Once upon a time, we were young
Fiscal Cliff Rondel by Danielle Huffman-Hanni
We peer down our fiscal cliff. Deep
As the Marianas trench.
Has anybody got a wrench
For this mess? Fix it! Tired, we weep.
Tension builds, waiting for news to seep.
We search high, low for a winch.
As the Marianas trench.
We peer down our fiscal cliff, deep.
Our government crowds a jeep.
Fiscal solvency a tempting wench.
Hesitation, however, oh hence!
We teeter southwards in the jeep.
We peer down our fiscal cliff, deep.
The Party’s Started
“The party’s started,” this I say,
When the household begins to rise.
“Time to get up,” the phrase implies.
“Like it or not, let’s start the day!”
A bit sarcastic is my way,
Knowing our life tends to surprise.
When the household begins to rise,
“The party’s started,” this I say.
Let there be laughter, come what may,
Though sleep’s sand still rests in our eyes.
There will be music, if we’re wise,
Eating, dancing, singing and play.
“The party’s started,” this I say.
Here’s an entry I’m sending in for one of my students.
WHOM
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
Be careful what you say to me.
My Rosey says to write a knee
as “it,” since it is not a groom
or bride or person, I assume,
or sandwich animal like me.
Be careful what you say to me.
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
Few animals write, I must presume.
We turtles first learned words like “tree”
and many things that we can see.
We learn curious rules. Can you?
This tortoise teaches saying “whom.”
—Quake Tornieri
ON AIR
Such a fine morning for a run-away.
The sun’s above Stone Mountain, rising free
with news from eastern ridges I can’t see,
and just a hint of breeze at break of day.
Fencebreaker Creek is dancing silver-gray
to folk-song from the lands of snow and scree:
such a fine morning for a run-away.
The sun’s above Stone Mountain, rising free
from last night’s storm. My pup is on-belay
of leash till I unclip her. Bel-esprit
of wind from every compass-point and tree-
top lookout: raven, woodpecker and jay.
Such a fine morning for a run-away!
Seventy Years After Winning the Spelling Bee
(threads of mucus strung between thick lips)
(bedsheet stained with dark orange pee)
Dad, were you sleeping? It’s me.
Here’s apple juice, have just a sip.
This new booklet has some good tips
on hospice care. They’re asking me
(bedsheet stained with dark orange pee)
(threads of mucus strung between thick lips)
Whether your bathtub has hand grips.
For when you go home. It would be
hard, stepping in. You walk with me.
But to the tub? That’s a long trip.
(threads of mucus strung between thick lips)
This was fun! i haven’t done much of poetry forms and i like the challenge!
I REMEMBER.
When I miss you I remember
sandwiches from the coffee shop,
fingers cold I let mine drop
in the park in late December.
Noses, cheeks glow, bright red embers
laughing, giggling, we couldn’t stop
When I miss you I remember
sandwiches from the coffee shop.
Gone the sun of past September
gone the freedom of my flip-flops
comes the chill as temperature drops.
Warmth I felt in that December
when I miss you, I remember.
julia elder
This is for my GrandBrits in England–the cold there is something for my California blood to get used to!
Nightfall
At day’s end comes darkness and nightfall
while I seek the comfort of dreams
my collection of colorful scenes
ethereal visions recalled.
Memories of day when I gave all
at rest give me serenity
while I seek the comfort of dreams
at day’s end comes darkness and nightfall.
Echoes of universe tell all
when life is more than what it seems
in my skin I feel small
at day’s end comes darkness and nightfall.
The Unknown
By Madeline Barr
There are things that give me a fright.
Countless unforeseeable things.
No one knows what the future brings,
and the past we cannot rewrite.
No, everything is not alright.
I give up. Too tired to fight
countless unforeseeable things.
There are things that give me a fright.
Sometimes I am awake all night,
worried for what tomorrow brings.
Imploring for heavenly wings
to make a celestial flight.
There are things that give me a fright.
Hold Tight
Sometimes you need be made of steel.
Gather emotions, tie with string.
Exude confidence, do not wring
your hands, when you see her, conceal
anguish felt at what is revealed
in her frail face, arms like bird wings.
Gather emotions, tie with string.
Sometime you need be made of steel.
Hold her hand; assure her you’re real.
Does she recall she liked to sing,
though you found it embarrassing
as teen? Odd, things to which you cling.
Sometimes you need be made of steel.
by Sara McNulty
Awake
I lie awake for you to come
but instead find the rising sun.
A knock, a feeling I turn to run
without you here empty lonesome.
I do pray your soul will find some
peace, and pain you will know of none.
But instead find the rising sun
I lie awake for you to come.
You are my light my soul my one.
Hope to walk once more in the sun
hand in hand, no fear we have won.
Hold a place for me until I succumb
I lie awake for you to come.
Stacey Norbury
The Unknown
By Madeline Barr
There are things that give me a fright.
Countless unforeseeable things.
No one knows what the future brings,
and the past we cannot rewrite.
No, everything is not alright.
I give up. Too tired to fight
countless unforeseeable things.
There are things that give me a fright.
Sometimes I am awake all night,
worried for what tomorrow brings.
Imploring for heavenly wings
to make a celestial flight.
There are things that give me a fright.
SONGSTRESS
She sings the songs of other days,
when life was bright and love was whole;
she sings as though it were her goal
to make of blues a hymn of praise.
Her melodies recall the ways
of lilies laughing on a knoll;
she sings the songs of other days,
when life was bright and love was whole
and lovers, lost in life’s great plays,
were wont to revel in the role
of helpmeet to the other’s soul.
And so, with grace that might amaze,
she sings the songs of other days.
by William J. Preston
Five Years Gone
Five years gone in a womb of waste.
Cord blood rancid, I’m starving slow.
Labor pains loot the minstrel’s case
for anesthesia for my bones.
Till Caesar rent the ripe / rot place,
contracted small as I could go.
Five years gone in a womb of waste.
Cord blood rancid, I’m starving slow.
Today, I wear a stranger’s face
that bears no mark of what I know
or what I’ve seen, and I don’t go
where my caul is kept – sacred space.
Five years gone in a womb of waste.
by Kelli Simpson
The Cold, Hard Ground
It lies beneath the quilt of white,
frozen below my walking feet,
slumbering but hard as concrete…
waiting for the sun’s warming light
to thaw the glue of winter’s bite
and do away with grasping sleet
frozen below my walking feet,
it lies beneath the quilt of white
waiting for Spring to grow in might,
ready for sprouting life to greet,
toe-tickling grass, ah, so sweet.
I know it’s there, just sitting tight,
it lies beneath the quilt of white.
by Michelle R.K. Hed
Nice, Mik.
Well Actually
When she was only two years old
she liked to start her statements thus,
“Well actually” let’s not discuss
the toy is mine, you have been told.
She was quite strong and very bold
and if needed could make a fuss.
She liked to start her statements thus
when she was only two years old.
It was very hard not to fold,
she was so cute, our tyrant puss.
We held our laughter between us
but she was the one, well controlled,
when she was only two years old.
by Michelle R.K. Hed
SONGSTRESS
She sings the songs of other days,
when life was bright and love was whole;
she sings as though it were her goal
to make of blues a hymn of praise.
Her melodies recall the ways
of lilies laughing on a knoll;
she sings the songs of other days,
when life was bright and love was whole
and lovers, lost in life’s great plays,
were wont to revel in the role
of helpmeet to the other’s soul.
And so, with grace that might amaze,
she sings the songs of other days.
by William Preston
Follow the Sun
Guided by the rays of the Sun
Chase your dreams underneath the Moon
Life maybe will end too soon
So now or never go have some fun
When those lucky days are gone
Bring them back with a tune
Guided by the rays of the Sun
Chase your dreams underneath the Moon
Your life might be on the run
But your heart still has room
For love and happiness to bloom
There is so much left to be done
Guided by the rays of the Sun
I forgot to add my name to my rondel.
It’s All A Game
Our days pass by like dominoes
one tumbling into tother one.
Who knows when it twas first begun -
the overreach and undertows.
Each stands alone, or it seems so
until it all becomes undone.
One tumbling into tother one
our days pass by like dominoes.
Where have we been? Where do we go?
Our days designed from sun to sun,
some uphill climb, some downhill run.
What does it mean? I think I know.
Our days pass by like dominoes.
By Sally Valentine
It’s All A Game
Our days pass by like dominoes
one tumbling into tother one.
Who knows when it twas first begun -
the overreach and undertows.
Each stands alone, or it seems so
until it all becomes undone.
One tumbling into tother one,
our days pass by like dominoes.
Where have we been? Where do we go?
Our days designed from sun to sun,
some uphill climb, some downhill run.
What does it mean? I think I know.
Our days pass by like dominoes.
I just wonder where my cat went.
We found she was gone at meal-time.
(To her to miss meals was a crime
yet, we missed her hungry lament.)
No hair we found, or sign or scent.
We called and searched the ally grime.
We found she was gone at meal-time.
I just wonder where my cat went.
And, at last, eight days later, rent,
scarred nose, hungry, fur-begrimed,
No sign of where she’d spent her dime.
To Narnia? To Time-Lord lent?
I just wonder where my cat went.
Diana Terrill Clark
I’m using anagramatic rhyme in this: the a words and b words comprise anagrams of one another.
“Spring in pictures”
My father’s lens is poised to steal
a timeless glance at the lost pears.
Like winter, his black camera reaps
all the orchard’s summertime tales.
The smell of his scrapbooks is stale,
but the photos inside can spare
a timeless glance at the lost pears
my father’s lens is poised to steal.
The nectar smell, the songs of teals,
a pop gun and a whittled spear:
yesterday’s snaps candidly parse
the yearly fruiting that at least
my father’s lens is poised to steal.
Francis in January
Saint Francis had it right, you know
in letting go what he held dear
to find that God is always near
in loving acts – as his words show:
“Where charity and wisdom go
live neither ignorance nor fear.”
In letting go what he held dear
Saint Francis had it right, you know.
What struggle and reward to grow
in simple gifts. Yet it’s my clear
resolve to bathe in grace this year
by letting love set me aglow.
Saint Francis had it right, you know.
Andrew Kreider
Gypsy Queen
The Gypsy Queen, she dances strong.
She twirls and twists in the moon‘s light;
And with her leaps she does take flight,
As she entertains the throng.
Curls bounce and float, so thick and long.
Although her heart feels quite contrite,
She can’t resist the pulsing song,
Thus, she dances through the night.
The queen feels like she can’t belong,
She can’t give up without a fight;
Her body moves with all its might,
She will never admit she’s wrong.
The Gypsy Queen, she dances strong.
DOG TIME AND SPACE
The old dog grumbles, sniffs the changing air
and curls up in a corner, waits his place –
and finds a puppy occupies that space
of worlds revolving days and years. So where
do has-beens summon up the stare-down-stare,
the once-swift moves? He used to be the ace.
The old dog grumbles, sniffs the changing air
and curls up, in a corner; waits his place.
He’s trusty. But she’s fancy-flight, she’s flare
and pirouette. She’s whiz and steeplechase.
Remember when the old dog had such grace?
He seeks his corner, she’s already there.
The old dog grumbles, sniffs the changing air.
Les Misérondel
I dreamed a dream I’d write this song,
but using this poetic form
the barricade’s now my new norm
since red and black won’t play along.
So one day more? It can’t be wrong.
A little rain is not a storm.
but using this poetic form
I dreamed a dream I’d write this song.
And still I dream I’ll rush headlong
at syllables so uniform,
but can they keep me safe and warm?
I’ll join in the parade. That’s strong.
I dreamed a dream I’d write this song.
###
Canine Kitchen Cleanup
My dog lurks, hopeful, by my feet:..
Will a slight bite drop to the floor?
He’ll gulp it down and wait for more,
each tiny tidbit a great big treat.
I open the fridge, grab some meat,
a largish piece, a biggish chore.
Will a slight bite drop to the floor?
My dog lurks , hopeful, by my feet.
My dog’s always eager to eat.
He’ll scarf the scraps I drop before
I notice they’ve dropped to the floor.
He’ll be delighted if I’m messy, not neat.
My dog lurks , hopeful, by my feet.
Margaret Fieland
No Male Tale
Though no man lived to tell the tale,
one dark and moonless, chilly night,
two masked strangers began to fight
upon a wooded, lonely dale.
They pounded down a rocky trail.
The yeoman fled before the knight.
one dark and moonless, chilly night,
though no man lived to tell the tale.
The knight tripped on a piece of shale.
Her quarry bounded out of sight.
Her curses flowed, most impolite.
she stumbled after, doomed to fail,
one dark and moonless, chilly night.
Margaret Fieland
Final Questions
By David De Jong
January 1, 2013
What did you do with gifts I gave
What did you do with Christ my Son
This will be asked of everyone
While their body lies in the grave
Skeptics laugh, persecution brave
Spread the hope of the Saving One
What did you do with Christ my Son
What did you do with the gifts I gave
Did you share or everything save
Squandered, wasted or hoard in vain
Their purpose grown with every rain
Were they hidden deep in a cave
What did you do with the gifts I gave
Camels
Question: does the Dromedary
worry that she’s got just one hump?
In camel-speak, is she a frump?
So…are more humps necessary?
Bactrians might answer, “Very!”
But does the dromedary grump,
worry that she’s got just one hump?
Question: does the dromedary
fret? Does she act quite contrary?
Or does she think one hump can trump
the bactrians’ plump two-bump clump?
I posit she won’t even query/
question, does the dromedary.
###
Sorry – I copied and pasted an earlier version of the above poem. Here’s the correct version:
Camels
Question: does the Dromedary
worry that she’s got just one hump?
In camel-speak, is she a frump?
Humps…are more humps necessary?
Bactrians might answer, “Very!”
But does the Dromedary grump,
worry that she’s got just one hump?
Question: does the Dromedary
fret? Does she act quite contrary?
Or does she think one hump can trump
the Bactrians’ plump two-bump clump?
I think she will not even query/
question, does the Dromedary.
###
And, Happy New Year! To everyone!
Fireworks
I watched the nighttime sky go bright
with purples, crimsons, greens and blues.
Someone somewhere had lit a fuse
which caused remembrance to invite
tygers. (A poem I’d recite.)
The colors burst on music cues
with purples, crimsons, greens and blues.
I watched the nighttime sky go bright
and with a speed that’s close to light
I said, “I think I’ve found my muse
in stripes and fur and lots of hues.
And at that moment, all seemed right.
I watched the nighttime sky go bright.
###
Private Concert
With earbuds in, I am a song.
My song is loud and full of bass.
I close my eyes, and breathing space
becomes the place where I belong.
My mood dictates: I can be strong
(when none can hear my tuneless grace.)
My song is loud and full of bass.
With earbuds in, I am a song.
I do not think it’s ever wrong
to find an air and then embrace
the notes, as if you’re giving chase,
secluded from the bustling throng.
With earbuds in, I am a song.
###
Your silly poems always make me laugh, but here you’ve let your other side shine. This is wonderful, R.J. I like it a lot.
Follow the Sun
Guided by the rays of the Sun
Chase your dreams underneath the Moon
Life maybe will end too soon
So now or never go have some fun
When those lucky days are gone
Bring them back with a tune
Guided by the rays of the Sun
Chase your dreams underneath the Moon
Your life might be on the run
But your heart still has room
For love and happiness to bloom
There is so much left to be done
Guided by the rays of the Sun
LIVE-OAK
This ridge where oaks root into stone
has seen such changes over time.
The brushy hills we used to climb
are bulldozed for those homes that own
the river-view. Now, gardens sown
with elves and bells for winds to chime –
this ridge where oaks root into stone
has seen such changes over time.
I find back-paths when I’m alone,
through brush and stunted trees that mime
a living forest; leaves that rhyme
with loss. It’s only here on-loan,
this ridge where oaks root into stone.
The hand will hold a fountain pen
To craft poetic alchemy
Jump from the modern balcony
May your wording gently soften
Don’t leap to death very often
Play it against a symphony
To craft poetic alchemy
The hand will hold a fountain pen
The freshest words we will Christen
In honor of our ancenstry
We’ll strike a deal with devilry
With poems we’ll boldly chasten
The hand will hold a fountain pen
Poetic Handy Cup
Local poet is what I said.
Loco poet is what he heard.
Each time I mispronounce a word,
I can feel my cheeks turning red.
Embarrassment is what I dread.
Words escape me like frightened birds.
Loco poet is what he heard.
Local poet is what I said.
Poetry is my daily bread.
My latin heart is undeterred.
Pronunciation = dream deferred?
I won’t give up until I’m dead…
Local poet is what I said.
Happy New Year, everyone! ^^
Gypsy Queen by Melynda Winiarski
The Gypsy Queen, she dances strong.
She twirls and twists in the moon‘s light;
And with her leaps she does take flight,
As she entertains the throng.
Curls bounce and float, so thick and long.
Although her heart feels quite contrite,
She can’t resist the pulsing song,
Thus, she dances through the night.
The queen feels like she can’t belong,
She can’t give up without a fight;
Her body moves with all its might,
She will never admit she’s wrong.
The Gypsy Queen, she dances strong.
Hey, Jac. Maybe you are actually a loco local poet.
LOL. You might be actually correct! ^^