Tag Archives: Rondeau

In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

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In Flanders fields the poppies blow
 Between the crosses, row on row,
      That mark our place; and in the sky
      The larks, still bravely singing, fly
  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
       Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
          In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
   To you from failing hands we throw
       The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
       If ye break faith with us who die
    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.

For Those Seeking Immortality [Rondeau Triolet]

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2 
To stretch a life beyond the time of trees
be ready for a glacial shift of pace.
There'll be no undulation of the seas.
To stretch a life beyond the time of trees,
the tradeoff is what's quick will pass unseen.
So, what say you, Kings of infinite space?
To stretch a life beyond the time of trees
be ready for a glacial shift of pace.

Line of Lost Souls [Rondeau Triolet]

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I'm queued into a file of lost psyches.
It winds through time but lacks a hint of space,
and something heads the line that's unappeased
I'm queued into a file of lost psyches.
A greedy devourer remains displeased
despite the endless line and racing pace.
I'm queued into a file of lost psyches,
it winds through time but lacks a hint of space.

POEM: The Mazy Days of Plague-time [PoMo Day 27 – Rondeau Quatrain]

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With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are dull and purposeless.
My stops and starts are glum and purposeless.
With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.

Earth 's circled sun since last I was unfazed,
but I can't say what has encircled us.
With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are sour and purposeless.

My life before seems like a febrile craze.
How goes the flow of time? It's merciless,
but leaves slim chunks of time for nervousness -- 
too staccato a rhythm for a true malaise. 

With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are grim and purposeless.
My stops and starts are dim and purposeless.
With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.

POEM: Sleep [PoMo Day 8 – Rondeau Tercet]

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In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep,
and know that I'll be cursed in dreams.
I'll drift upon Stygian streams
at speeds between trickle and creep,
listening for some distant screams.

In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep,
and know that I'll be cursed in dreams
trapped down below the castle keep,
until the King should come to deem
me worthy of some healing dreams.

In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep,
and know that I'll be cursed with dreams,
drifting upon Stygian streams.

POEM: Visiting Dystopia [Triolet]

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I opened up a book to a strange land.
A storied portal let me travel through,
and I looked down an unknown city’s strand.
I’d opened up a book to a strange land.
Here, ironically, all great books were banned
to keep the locals home and quite subdued.
I opened up a book to a strange land;
a storied portal let me travel through.

POEM: Black Skies [Rondeau Quatrain]

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I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.

And from the distance I felt dread.
The dark wouldn’t yield to my reproach.
I saw those black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.

The ebon clouds began to spread.
Into my mind they did encroach,
and on my bliss began to poach
until something monstrous was bred.

I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.

POEM: A Voiceless Birdie Told Me

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Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.

This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —

like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.

Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.

POEM: Saved by the Breath [a Rondeau]

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My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
about who catches and who’s caught
and what is scarier than Death.

A toothless youth whacked-out on Meth —
all roads to hope come but to naught.
My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
of men who went the way, Macbeth —
costly made, and yet cheaply bought —
iron-forged, but ambition wrought —
a shapeless agony of Death.

My mind curls up into a Breath.

POEM: The Summoned [a Rondeau]

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The temple bell clangs long and loud.
It calls them all from far and near.
How’ll they come remains so unclear.
Could be in ones — could be in crowds.
They’d straggle in with their heads bowed —
feigning piety to hide their fear.

That temple bell clangs long and loud
to call them all from far and near.

Some seem so proud, but most are cowed,
their darting eyes first peek, then peer.
They hope to find the one that’s dear
before the Scout picks what he’s allowed.

That temple bell clanged long and loud.