Category Archives: Poetry

Villanelle: Love’s Declaration

I wish your life was mine to tell,
 To scribe each day with utmost care
 And so I write a Villanelle!

Your eyes a dance of caramel
 That taste delight with every stare
 I wish your life was mine to tell

I pen your laugh, a silver bell
 As bright as song, too soft to tear
 And so I write a Villanelle!

Your voice, once raised, a righteous swell
 Your hands, contrite, a bashful pair
 I wish your life was mine to tell

One day we’ll build a citadel
 Inside our stained glass hearts may lair
 And so I write a Villanelle!

I’ve writ your joy and its impel
 Each line a cup for us to share
 I wished your life was mine to tell
 And so I write a Villanelle!

Villanelle: Love’s Rumination

I fear I might lose you as well
 My ardent light in sinking lair
 And so I write this Villanelle

The brightest stars only foretell
 A blank page death, entropy’s snare
 I fear I might lose you as well.

Your eyes of burning caramel
 I wish to taste with every stare
 And so I write this Villanelle

Your laugh, too short, a dying swell
 Your hand and mine, too rare a pair
 I fear I might lose you as well.

Upon your tears I wish to dwell,
 Those sparkling mirrors to ensnare
 And so I write this Villanelle

Anxiety, love can’t dispel
 But which is ruler, which is heir?
 I fear I might lose you as well
 And so I choose a Villanelle

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We left him in the Wasteland
Under canopy of mammoth bone
And the tepid remains
Of other species overthrown.

He fell, stumbled perhaps,
And faced the flooded grave
Of some dead and fallen star.
In the pool, not even a wave.

We left him there
For we could not see
What paroxysm seized his mind
And refashioned it an endless plea

What antithesis he found in reflection
What evil puzzle of the soul
He would not say
and we cannot know

The glee of his spite
His despair, like a vow
We could not eulogize
For none of us knew how

He was our brother 
By blood and by corps.
Now, a raw unending sough
Crying “I will bear this pain no more”

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I wanted to be a writer
 To tell tales and make fun
 Of the world and all its peril
 But I was the one undone.

I wanted to be a writer
 To prove that I could hum
 A tune of such beauty,
 It could never be unsung.

I wanted to be a writer
 But I never learned to sing.
 And so I sit, miscounting meters, pondering
 Why I wanted to be a writer
 When all I can do is cringe.

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[I was really impressed by Mark Strand’s The Prediction, so I thought I’d try writing a poem of similar theme and meter- enjoy (or not).]

The inevitable flotsam builds blocks in my cranal canals,
erecting an enormous weir, but bunching behind
the wall, that now bubbling barrier,
bright pulpy ideas, and eager sparkling juice
begin to burst through the damaged dam;

out come pouring coalescing creations, greeting
and mixing with their jetsam kin, their forms
gaining defining dimensions, the flow pushing them forward,
the children of the brain evolving into comprehension, appendages growing out of them,
detailing a nowhere universe, I am discerning them now
and am seen seeing them, and seeing this they are running away,
unto a page they splash and land, splash and might flounder.

No related posts.