I say, can you?
“You can,” says Uncle Sam.
“I don’t have an uncle,
named sam
I am,” I say.
Can you?
You can,
and you do,
go off with boots
on the ground,
stand your ground,
get ground
into the grind
of a half-written rhyme.
Uncle Sam wants you,
who me?
We’ll see.
We will?
We will time our rhymes
to meet symmetrically.
Uncle Bob begs
you to join.
You know Uncle
Bobbing Head.
You agree to meet.
You can’t help
yourself.
You’re a yo-yo,
attached to a
round robin,
writing
in refrains.
Refrain from such nonsense
as calling the uncles
or stepping on ants,
and saying
your ain’ts and cain’ts.
What is something blue; the bride will tuck away her someday
in her til-death-do-they-part bouquet-distillation.
—by poet
Light up the darkness with star sound.
honey moon, round,
brilliantly blue -
preemptive view.
Sound of the sky, lights up bride’s gown;
blessings flow down.
Black rose, of groom,
forever bloom
in a silver-moonshine bouquet.
It’s bride’s someday
and her groom’s plight -
round-robin rite.
To end the day
play a quick chess
blitz as to enjoy.
Round robin game
with three friends
ending at twelve.
Life seem so
simple, yet enjoy
as friendship game.
Retiring to bed
oh, what a day
under Your sun.
Such an array of complex verse,
orchestrated by a few crazy poets;
Catastrophe of emotions
instigate more than a few masterpieces;
Engage to inspire that’s the goal,
tighten a skill release a breath of words;
Yank along a heartbeat and write,
over and over again;
Feathers and ink join in a light
succumbing to a prompt or a soft purr;
Eloquently they swirl it all together,
catastrophe of emotions;
Rare phrases revitalized
each with a brand new twist,
tantalizing other poets to
learn what this group is all about;
You present a poem to earn a spot,
perhaps twenty lines, perhaps not;
Unequivocally your work,
unequivocally your soul;
Unconventional ways to think
result in classically avant garde;
Rambunctious just like kittens,
feisty when excited about something;
Encouraging the group to stretch
constantly from their norm;
Together a poetic tour de force;
Pulling a group into a round robin,
out of nowhere they find a home;
Everyone welcome just bring a pen,
take a try at a masterclass;
Society of secretly puuurrfect poets.
*Image of Winnie-the-Pooh Spoon Race by the sponsor.
AUDIO: by Ka'au Crater Boys singing 'House at Pooh Corner' popularized by Kenny Loggins
Christopher Round-Robin
Christopher Robin, whose name bears o'er song,
strained mid per sideline crowd of the racetrack,
praising those three most skilled entrants along,
Piglet, Tigger, plus Pooh Bear hears soundtrack.
Strained mid per sideline crowd of the racetrack,
ah, the well-versed Rabbit and his small friends,
Piglet, Tigger, plus Pooh Bear hears soundtrack,
Owl talks and sees while y'all listen, sight lends.
Ah, the well-versed Rabbit and his small friends,
praising those three most skilled entrants along,
Owl talks and sees while y'all listen, sight lends,
Christopher Robin, whose name bears o'er song.
*Photo #4
2021 August 01
*2nd Place*
Pantoum Rhyme 1
~~Eve Roper: Judged 2021 August 13
BE MERRY
be merry, not blue.
blow your nose, no boo hoos,
dot your eyes.
i’ve provided an embroidered,
lacy handkerchief —
the old-fashioned kind,
that pulls up your bootstraps,
tickles your fancy,
almost too pretty, kind,
leaves no red streaks
creates smiles, not weak
and the square is perfumed
with a childhood scent
that twinkles your eyes.
gregarious giggles
cause your shoulders to shake,
put a kick in your step
as you decorate and bake.
the sweet little cloth
wipes the surliest frowns,
stirs up
cordial sentiments —
hug from mom, pat from dad
a round-robin of Winter friends,
a cup of hot cocoa,
the thrill of a visit
from reindeer and St. Nick.
be merry and bright
through the darkest of nights
be the candle that shines
in the window. its fog
fizzles into a magic act,
replaced by a happy gait.
be merry, wear a cherry
on top of your head, be
not faint —
have the gumption
to lead the sugar foray.
keep your square
and encourage
each cheek
of its kissable quality
its unshakable victory —
a marvelous merry awaits!
12/14/2020
As answers deceive
The questions stand
And dancers leave
To track the sand
Round robin conspiracy
Threatening us all
The letters all lower case
Their finality tall
Butting my head
Inside of the line
“When does it end Father,
Maybe this time”
The black and the white of it
The tall and the short
The poisons the same
One knife for a fork
New action will free
What inaction restrains
To once again, once again
Once again drain
So back to the future
Back to the past
Choose not your weapon
You’ve had your last laugh
The wind’s in the vestibule
New breath in the hymn
Your darkness reveals
What the light needs to win
With seven unsavory
And eight left to roast
The turkey unstuffed
Leaving room for the ghost
So ride away, ride away
Ride away all
The damage inflicted
This hammer a maul
The blood’s in the alleyway
Life beckons on
Death has been slaughtered
—as begins the new song
(Rosemont Pennsylvania: August, 2014)
The answers deceive
The questions stand
The dancers leave
To track the sand
Round robin conspiracy
Threatens us all
The letters all lower case
The finality TALL
Butting my head
Inside of the line
Where does it end, Father
Maybe this time
The black and the white of it
The tall and the short
The poisons the same
One knife in the pork
New action may draw
What inaction restrains
What once again, once again
Once again drains
So back to the future
Back to the past
Choose not your weapon
You’ve had your last laugh
The wind’s in the vestibule
New breath in the hymn
Your darkness commands
What the light needs to win
The seven unsavory
The eight still to roast
The turkey unstuffed
Leaving room for the ghost
So ride away, ride away
Ride away all
The damage inflicted
This hammer a mall
The blood’s in the alleyway
Life beckons on
Death has been slaughtered
—as begins the new song
(Rosemont Pennsylvania: August, 2014)
sweet music swing
gypsy bells cheer
berry wines swoon
lulls aloft wings
warm’d honey cache
slow’d lyric beats
plays fork’d tunes
sweet music swing
skirt, tango, twirl
ruddy flame aglow
tests muddy water
swims under brows
slakes river lusts
brews vivid scent
‘round robin crest
skirt, tango, twirl
12/18/2017
Rhoda Tripp’s Fem Bogstaver Contest
For once let me just be
High in the sky
With the air beneath my wings
Allow me to experience and see
All the beauty the world has to offer
Take me higher than ever before
Be the wind below me
My saving grace
I long to stretch my wings
Fly away with me and be free
High up above in clear blue skies
Spreading my feathers in a cool sea breeze
I shan’t fear, because you are with me
I’ll dash above turquoise and white breaking waves
Over fields of marigolds, daisies and Bokbaaivygies
I’ll put my arms around you, hold so tight to thee
We’ll see far into new horizons
Round Robin we’ll fly in between clouds
We’ll be happy and glee
In a world without any sadness and tears
Without any reservations or fears
Come away with me
Let us reach for the stars
And search for the rainbow
Let’s fly away and flee
To a beautiful, idyllic world
A paradise only we know about
Just you and me
We can get lost in time
Take flight, let’s hold on tight
Limerick : Once a Roundsman signed a round robin
Once a Roundsman signed a round robin
To keep his men from a certain inn
Men called to tell his wife :
At inn he danced to fife
So the wife played high fife with the men*.
• Pronounced as in England : « min ».
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
early bird special
red robins melcholy
beneath window sill
afternoon delight
a butterfly fluttering
amidst garden floor
the evening deluxe
sun bids the day well ado
hooting escalates
midnight oasis
aqua velvet kisses - and
one dozen roses
They form their own collective society in the sky.
In the distance between one tooth and another
brushing past the dentally doctored,
or subtly manipulated by our own sugar desires.
Succeeded by the lowest common denominator,
in bitterest weather seeking solace and cover.
They walk moon shined arm in arm in the breeze.
Gripping their hats with their elbows and toes
flirting in absent mindedness or certainty,
still mopping their brow with a damp cloth.
Surpassed by objects of hollow indignation,
buying substitute tickets for surrogate shows.
They laugh uncontrollably and cry with vigor
at the face in the mirror that reflects what they need.
Throwing bread not yet stale to fat pigeons,
pouring wine not yet vintage that will always taste bad.
Assuming that assurance is insurance - one step down,
mistaking conviction for courage if they could be believed.
They hop, skip then trip into flames of ice,
meandering helplessly on a round robin whim.
Charging batteries with assault of recollection,
or gently thrusting paper into a broken washing machine.
Hopefully set free by the churn of the blender,
fragments to keep us all together in atonal hymn.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.