Best Villanelle Poems
I've never heard the sound of snow
nor dawning's oboes crooning light,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
and chimings of the flurries grow
as alabastrine wings take flight.
I've never heard the sound of snow
when cello strings caress the bow
of morning at its burnished height,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
a salmon cirrus cameo,
diaphanous and opalite.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
piano in the afterglow
of sunshine's brittle fahrenheit,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
ebullient through the chorals' flow
across the operatic white.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow.
My garden is such a colourful sight,
with pretty roses and scented sweet peas.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!
Beautiful butterflies gently alight
on flowers dancing on the summer breeze.
My garden is such a colourful sight
Sweet night scented stocks abloom at midnight
their aroma is always sure to please.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!
Carnations in purple, scarlet and white
are visited by busy bumble bees.
My garden is such a colourful sight
A haven for birds I watch them in flight
they alight on peach blossom from the trees.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!
Pretty pansies smile in clay pots so bright
I love beautiful flowers such as these.
My garden is such a colourful sight
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!
I race for summer's setting sun
as crimson bleed the alder leaves
and still I run. And still I run.
My rival, time, is yet undone.
Past pyramids of flaxen sheaves
I race for summer's setting sun
across the low unbroken run.
Each cow out in the pasture grieves
and still I run. And still I run.
In late September’s crisp blazon
my heart to fragile hope now cleaves.
I race for summer's setting sun.
With slaughter of the calves begun
I fled beneath the killing eaves
and still I run. And still I run.
Our time on earth is under gun.
My burning chest now breathless heaves.
I race for summer's setting sun
and still I run. And still I run.
10/24/17
(A Villanelle)
The winter’s dismal path is long and gray,
a never-ending march of cheerless dark
with skies whose colors bleach in dull array
where forest scene gives one a true display
and leafless limbs provide a raptors' park.
The winter’s dismal path is long and gray,
and through the open grove a new ballet
of life and death beneath the brittle bark
and skies whose colors bleach in dull array.
A wind unites with rain while leaves decay;
each limb begins to dance a graceful arc
in winter’s dismal path so long and gray
till snow appears and hides the hunter's prey.
New scenes occur of softer landscape mark,
tame skies whose colors bleach in dull array.
Resplendent white now blankets to allay
our thirst for beauty with a lustrous lark.
The winter's dismal path is long and gray,
with skies whose colors bleach in dull array.
An innocence we used to know
As morning dourly turns to night
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
A cell phone yearning for hello
With hopes of answer growing slight
An innocence we used to know
Within a stampede’s torrid flow
Bifocals lost in jostled fright
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
A playbill from three days ago
Once read with wonder and delight
An innocence we used to know
Pillars raised in commerce glow
Now broken pencils thrown in spite
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
So many hearts in fervent throes
So many souls in heaven’s sight
An innocence we used to know
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
Chopped - Poetry Contest
Including:
Playbill dated 08 Sep 2001
Cell Phone
Broken Pencil
Bifocals
-23 Oct 2014-
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.”
*The simple abuse of neglect, probably the most prevalent of all child abuse.
Nourished by garland skies of scarlet blue
And velvet grass in golden green festoon
September wed us; one heart, made of two
Days of turquoise kisses, too much, too few
Cloud castles filled our eyes, too long, too soon
Nourished by garland skies of scarlet blue
As courting butterflies demurely flew
In circles, touching a sunset lagoon
September wed us; one heart, made of two
Oaks framed in ancient splendor crafted new
Leaves burst in layered passion of maroon
Nourished by garland skies of scarlet blue
Once summer romance burned off, what is true
Love's music swayed our souls, set to its tune
September wed us; one heart, made of two
I held one ivory rose, clinging dew
Made lovelier under her sapphire moon
Nourished by garland skies of scarlet blue
September wed us; one heart, made of two.
I remember when the stars sang for me
Sweet sounds echoing through the night,
When I was young and, oh, so carefree.
It was not as though I possessed a pedigree,
Or had the special gifts of a magical spright
I remember when the stars sang for me.
Summer nights I would camp under a tree
And read by the beam of an old flashlight,
When I was young and, oh, so carefree.
Sometimes I felt like an unwanted refugee,
Then, I’d pretend I was totally out of sight
I remember when the stars sang for me.
On warm nights no other place I’d rather be
Something about the night sky would excite,
When I was young and, oh, so carefree.
To be alone, by myself, made me feel free
Almost nothing else brought me utter delight
When I was young and, oh, so carefree,
I remember when the stars sang for me.
SEVENTH PLACE WINNER
July 27, 2022
Submitted to: "2022 Poetry Marathon No. 10" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
written February 26, 2022
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Forgive me for loving you, even though you never asked,
a secret kept like a pebble in my shoe, now smarting.
If heart dares to belong, it's just a weakness from my past.
Make scars worth the fight, put back the pin from grenade you grasped,
moment of truth arrives, met with two lips bruised and parting.
Forgive me for loving you, even though you never asked.
I thought I walked the streets alone, wearing a grotesque mask.
You were inside me all along, sweet message imparting.,
if heart dares to belong, it's just a weakness from my past.
How I've missed your awaited touch, and hoping it would last,
our sun grant'd pardons galore, for love's kindled restarting.
Forgive me for loving you, even though you never asked.
I didn't say why I came back, you never took me to task.
tho' written in an inkling, the tear your eye was guarding..
if heart dares to belong, it's just a weakness from my past.
You never miss something until it goes and die is cast.
Your present regifted, from a long ago departing.
Forgive me for loving you, even though you never asked.
If heart dares to belong, it's just a weakness from my past.
26 December 2020
Chocolate Fountain Abuse- for the lover
How easily I forget I'm allergic to chocolate
I want to dip the exquisite kosher in a Spanish brandy
Sweet, sweet, cavity tarnish boxes of chocolate
At a store window; a dried up chocolate fantasy goblet
A taste of spoiled milk, nothing dandy with this candy
How easily I forgot I was allergic to chocolate
Snickers Bar, melting under the spotlight for-profit
Not edible, waging unassertive words like a pansy
Sweet, sweet, cavity tarnish boxes of chocolate
Chocolate pop, a candy bar coming out of the closet
There was not much bandy, about this candy
It's easy to forgot I'm allergic to chocolate
Stubby nuts, stomachache, bucket of vomit
Butterflies, flipping when I hear a faucet of cocoa candy
Sweet, sweet, cavity tarnish boxes of chocolate
Enrobed with small nuts, it dwells under the pocket
Caramel and peanuts American walnut vigilante
How easily I forgot I was allergic to chocolate
Sweet, sweet, cavity tarnish boxes of chocolate
~?~
7/10/14
Opening line from "Highway Five Love Poem" by Ruth L. Schwartz
This is a love poem for all the tomatoes
I squished to make our Date-Night spaghetti.
Our love, like the pasta, was shiny. So the story goes.
We sit at our table, between us a rose
Red as the marinara I chose. (He let me).
This is a love poem for all our tomatoes.
We watch the steam, which the mouth quickly blows
Away (like the wind and those petals the day he met me).
Our love, like the pasta, was sticky. So the story goes.
We sip our red wine. Chianti, it has a good nose.
(In the morning, do you think he will regret me?)
This is a love poem. For all our tomatoes
Are gone, just as the wine hides grapes squished by toes
in authentic California vineyards. (You get me?)
Our love, like the pasta, was steamy. So the story goes.
We finish our meal with gestures the other knows.
(I wonder if he'll someday forget me.)
This isn't a love poem for all our tomatoes.
Our love, like our pasta, was al dente. So our story goes.
Death be not proud but humble with strife
Old man flicks ashes, has one last choke
‘Tis nothing to fear, just the nature of life
Many passed before him, cut off like a knife
They fester in his memory with this his final smoke
Death be not proud but humble with strife
In youth there were ladies, his courtships were rife
But never a vow, no promises he spoke
‘Tis nothing to fear, just the nature of life
He lived wild and free, never seeking a wife
Much wealth he acquired, never to be broke
Death be not proud but humble with strife
He failed to see beyond the edge of gold’s knife
Shared nothing, loved no one, found no comforting cloak
‘Tis nothing to fear, just the nature of life
Tonight he wishes that he should have changed his life
He snuffs his candle, knows he’ll not feel heaven’s stroke
Death be not proud but humble with strife
‘Tis nothing to fear, just the nature of life
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Enraptured by musical sounds of the wild,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
For children of nature, we happen to be,
Made open and free as an innocent child…
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Enthralled with the wonder of earth’s majesty,
Abandoned with nature where God’s love has smiled,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
Our worldly, dark troubles will magically flee,
Erasing the sorrowful memories filed…
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Tranquility flows everywhere peacefully
With nature's deep fragrance, sweet-scented and mild,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
Absorbing the essence of Earth's modesty,
With stillness and beauty of nature compiled,
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
a rhyme for the spring equinox...
the hills are growing green beneath the snow
white horses, shake the winter from your manes
the spring has come, the wild wind told me so
cold ice be gone, and warm sweet water flow
come, crocuses, and flower on the plains
the hills are growing green beneath the snow
grey gulls fly high, and clouds of blossom blow
come, laughing crows, and dance within the rains
the spring has come, the wild wind told me so
soon summer, and so many seeds to sow
come, sun, spill down the furrows of the lanes
the hills are growing green beneath the snow
bright gorse ablaze, and alder tops aglow
come blood, and flood the burrows of the veins
the spring has come, the wild wind told me so
dark night be gone, long days of light to go
come love, with all your mysteries and pains
the hills are growing green beneath the snow
and spring has come, the wild wind told me so
© Gail Foster 17th March 2018
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
Or saunter or scamper in their favored time
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Blank paper on desk, pen on finger and thumb
The poet sits poised to inscribe thoughts sublime
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
With verve you foresaw untapped depths you would plumb
But zeal slowly fades in a mute pantomime
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Yet do not despair or resign as would some
The cycle of seasons is their paradigm
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
Enjoy the down time: visit friends, share some rum
Read poets you love while awaiting your rhyme
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Then, glorious day! Muses sing, dance, and hum
Fresh words fall like snowflakes, cathedral bells chime
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
The poems will come when they come, when they come
written 22 Jan 2020