[A villanelle is a six-stanza form (originally French) in which the first five stanzas are three lines (tercets) with an A-B-A rhyme scheme, and the sixth is of four lines (a quatrain) with an A-B-A-A rhyme scheme.]
a vast grassland spans my field of vision
bison languidly trample the dry grass
azure sky seen in perfect precision
are these the fields the Greeks hailed Elysian?
but while it’s vast I feel it has no mass
perhaps, it’s just hi-def television?
I find my mind is wild in ambition
and ignores the window frame and the glass,
pretending all that is, I envision
but I know I see with imprecision
a glance sees no more than in science class
though vivid, it’s as false as a gryphon
but beauty beats logic to submission
I become one with wind-tousled tall grass
dazed, I’ve lost all mental inhibitions
why would nature thrill in exhibition?
baring beach to beach across each landmass
it’s not to employ more aestheticians
but to drown out distrusting suspicions
Bridge between high-tech and no tech
Also, city of garrisons, gardens, and grandparents
Native of none and yet Namma Bengaluru
Growing bamboo-like with dense patches of people
Artistically eclectic: Kuchipudi dancers to cringe comedians
Lal Bagh calls to keep the title “city of gardens”
Obliging in ways rarely seen above ten million
Rust red and old stone buildings; the city’s grey hair
Everything is possible here
[Ghazal is a poetic form of Arab origin consisting of between 5 and 15 couplets. Traditionally, it is metered (how many feet per line varies from poem to poem, but shouldn’t within a couplet,) and has a rhyme scheme of AA-BA-CA-DA-etc. A common theme word or phrase across couplets is also tradition, and it often forms the rhyme. Loss and separation are among the most common themes.]
In the airport, I think I’ll find a way
to be “he who stayed” as I go away.
“Left” and “stayed” aren’t just matters of locale.
Some who stay, long ago drifted away.
Some retreat within their seats, I speak true.
Body here; mind a million miles away.
Unwalking undead, this kind of zombie.
So, the living must become runaways.
They’ll say I’m playing games of semantics,
but games are done, now I must go away.
let us now pray
for short people with no one
to reach the top shelf
sitting on a rooftop
awakened by the sounds
seeking faces forgotten,
holds the millions
[Since it’s National Poetry Month (NaPoMo,) I’m trying to do a different form each day. So far: limericks, a sonnet, and haiku. If you know of any obscure forms, I’d be glad to hear of them, because I don’t think I know 30 flavors of poetry, presently — relatively short form, of course, I don’t have the time or skill to do an epic narrative in a day. (Though micro-narrative will certainly be a thing.)]
a tantrum caught on the face, but not thrown
a barrier unseen, like a mime’s “box”
a sprouting plant sprung from a seed unsown
and time shown on broken, not working, clocks
passing the test using knowledge unknown
farmer plows no field with an oxless ox
interest free loans and the silent moan
sale on magic, mineral-deficient rocks
train bound for nowhere at nought miles-an-hour
entropy decrease, the Second Law is dashed
try solving world peace with all-purpose flour
car jumps from a telephone pole uncrashed
i’ve seen all these, and oh so many more,
but i’m not some self-aggrandizing poet-whore
I once tried an act of repositioning
to escape a fellow, uninteresting.
Back then, I did offend,
Too late, I have a mend,
Nowadays it’s just called “social distancing.”
There once lived a procurator named Pilate.
If not for but one thing you’d say, “What?”
But his legend, it stands,
because he washed his hands,
So take a hint and be more like Pontius Pilate!
There once was a globetrotting virus.
I can’t say it was meant to inspire us.
But this poem, I wrote.
It ends on a high note,
Bit-coin works for St. Peter or Osiris.
stored in a mind of a million muttering voices
where simple skeletons are stored in an elaborate closet,
and no wise eyes can peer into the depths & recesses
scent, color, and glory
when rhododendrons bloom
for two weeks
the valley flowers,
its spell cast
rings the base of a tree