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Villanelle Son Poems | Villanelle Poems About Son

These Villanelle Son poems are examples of Villanelle poems about Son. These are the best examples of Villanelle Son poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Villanelle |

A Loving Son

They always said, “Please bother us no more” when Tommy sang, and Mom would stick her head inside his room. “We need to shut your door!” And once he loudly sobbed because he tore his toy plane, but all his father said was, “I cannot be bothered any more.” Another time he fell and felt so sore, but Mother quickly wiped the spot that bled, said, “Go to sleep. I’m going to shut the door.” He learned to neither ask them questions nor expect attention, for he felt great dread of hearing their “Please bother us no more.” One day a young man thought, “What’s living for? No more tears do I have left to shed. . . I’d better not forget to shut the door.” They heard the shot and ran and saw the gore. Their loving son lay silenced on his bed. The note read, “I will bother you no more. Mom and Dad, I remembered to shut the door.” Date first posted: 7/26/12 HM in the "It shouldn't hurt to be a child" Poetry Contest *The simple abuse of neglect, probably the most prevalent of all child abuse.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012



Details | Villanelle |

A Play

I’ve worked the scenes over and over again in my head.
I was born a child to a mother, to a father.
I give you generic names because it defines the dead.

At the altar, a bind of vows was read.
You had a previous life, you were a sister and you - a brother.
I’ve worked the scenes over and over again in my head.

You gave up your youth to care for a family instead.
No one taught you, yet you were expected to be a mother.
I give you generic names because it defines the dead.

As a father you did your best; drinking vodka was how you fled.
No one taught you, yet you were expected to be a father.
I’ve worked the scenes over and over again in my head.

You taught me to kneel and to be thankful for “my daily bread.”
I never was without food but warmth seemed to be a bother.
I give you generic names because it defines the dead.

A play, a poem of this life has left things unsaid.
Father, mother, sister, brother, child – we all seemed like the other.
I’ve worked the scenes over and over again in my head.
I give you generic names because it defines the dead.











Copyright © JP Armstrong | Year Posted 2017

Details | Villanelle |

My Growing Son

Every night, my son prefers to watch late night movies.
But early in the morning, he does n’t like to go to school,
He complains he has a headache and his body feels heavies,

When I suggested him to go to bed and don’t mix gravies,
I want to watch football don’t disturb me dad, he replies,
Every night, my son prefers to watch late night movies.

Early in the morning, when he is late finds trouser navies,
He blames against my daughter why she asks to get up early,
He complains he has headache and body feels heavies.

He always fights with girls and cries he deserves babies,
And he beats them and claims why do they disturb him?
Every night, my son prefers to watch late night movies.

He plays games and don’t want to share his hobbies,
Always watches his muscles and prefers to watch wrestling,
He complains he has headache and body feels heavies.

He also feels nervous when girls arranged lobbies,
Why did you complain against him he clarifies?
Every night, my son prefers to watch late night movies.
He complains he has headache and body feels heavies.

Copyright © Daljit Khankhana | Year Posted 2006

Details | Villanelle |

Winter in Rittenhouse

The park is nothing but a mass grave
for the plant kingdom when unravels the night. 
Winter's spectral feet whisper like a knave.

The flowers they did not save.
A cloud barrier and  light.
The park is a mass grave.

Every bough exposed, prepared to slave
many months carrying clumps of white.
Winter's footsteps whisper like a knave.

Mother's light diminishes like a hollow ocean wave
grass letting go of green sight.
The park is a mass grave. 

An old eucalyptus looked upon the ground and forgave
the clouds who stole the sun and bound him in blight.
Winter's gait whispers like a knave.

Light charged with icicle breath and the sky steeped in iron, let's be brave
before gravity's chants begins and the ground turns. The truth will bite. 
The park is a mass grave and winter's stride whispered like a knave.

Copyright © Noah Dugan | Year Posted 2017