Short Rondel Poems
Short Rondel Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Rondel by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Rondel by length and keyword.
Guide me home...
I feel so lost
So alone
No matter the cost
Guide me home...
*wrote for Brain Strands contest "A Rondel"
Farewell
must go now...
best not to dwell,
when we utter love's last
farewell
An example posted as a guideline to my latest contest 'A RONDEL'
eagles
encircle
snow-capped mountains
in search of other
eagles
Tribute To
The Bald Eagle
Also Entry For
Brian Strand's
A Rondel Contest
Joy’s Hope
Sorrow
exhumes grief.
binds ecstasy…
embrace hope; overcome
sorrow.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 25, 2010
Inspired by Poetry Soup member contest, "A RONDEL "
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
I sit.
Outside your window.
Mournful.
Despondent.
Heart has broken in twain.
I feel nothing but pain.
I scream your name.
Silence.
Dawn appears.
Rosy fingers stretch across-
The dew laden grass.
Yet still.
Outside your window.
I sit.
The silence
And the antiseptic air .
The sound of pain
In that dreaded chair .
Your jaw now dead
With a tongue to choke .
"RIGHT ! , you're next Seán " .
The voice that broke
The silence .
Inspired for Brian's rondel contest .
Form:
I tried a mono rhyme,
but ended up with mumps;
I tried a nursery rhyme,
but mother goose got bumps.
Just when you cinqku got it,
you choka big one down.
Your ode is not so epic;
that rondel won’t come ‘round.
I tanka guy I met here,
Encouraged verse d’light.
Haikudos on your placement;
What I Believe’s just right.
Literature
is the creation of words:
funny, sad, dramatic, tragic or satirical...
so adored by writers,
to appease their exploding passion through
literature!
Literature
is verse or prose...
seen by different eyes;
its works outlast us:
excellence is the essence in
literature!
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
(Rondel).
Microfibre jocks survive,
After humanity is gone,.
Plastics shall linger on,
Even when no humans alive.....
Bombs above do dive,
Was our peace almighty gone?
Microfibre jocks survive,
After humanity is gone......
Plastics bags, nappies thrive,
People do dying swan,
Created that first cyclotron,
Humans do hostile jive,
MIcrofibre jocks survive.
Every day is getting longer,
find your natural remedy;
Bathe in sunshine and the sea,
run with spontaneous thunder;
A flush is dragging you under,
leading you to serenity;
Every day is getting longer,
find your natural remedy;
Intensity has gone darker,
it happens almost too slowly;
Always returning faithfully,
poetic sunrays grow stronger;
Every day is getting longer.
But I’ll refrain, she said to me.
I have my doubts, will wait and see.
She’s broken silence in the past;
her gossiping is unsurpassed,
the queen of gab in royal reign,
but I’ll refrain.
See, I’m not one to talk about,
to cast aspersions, or bring doubt,
or I might be inclined to say
her tongue is loose and it won’t stay,
but I’ll refrain.
—————
A Short Rondel: aabbcC ddeeC
I crave the quiet not the dark,
filled with such a heavy feeling;
The silence so overwhelming
always obliterates that spark;
This ship you can’t disembark,
even as your mind’s left reeling;
I crave the quiet not the dark,
filled with such a heavy feeling;
On my psyche it’s left it’s mark,
vital blood begins congealing;
As I stare up at the ceiling,
I crave the quiet not the dark.
Look at where your behavior led,
to the candles in my bedroom;
Close enough to smell my perfume;
Come, tear into this silken thread;
You may use the nickname instead,
I tend to call it a playroom;
Look at where your behavior led,
to the candles in my bedroom;
Wax dripping where it’s intended,
your glow on me turns to a plume;
Ready to give in and assume,
look at where your behavior led.
The flip side of a stinging bee,
an exquiste honey jar spell.
A North Florida storm befell
her city like fierce fantasy.
Tender morsels sensitively
took control of a wishing well.
An exquiste honey jar spell,
the flip side of a stinging bee.
Covered all over so sweetly,
birdsong now unable to yell.
Urban magic hits personal,
it cannot land delicately.
The flip side of a stinging bee.
Riding on life’s carousel
Seasons and years spin by
Round and round the horses fly
We’re dizzy under it’s spell.
Repeating patterns we know so well
Never asking why
Riding on life’s carousel
Seasons and years spin by.
The time will come to bid farewell
Those who stay on will say, “good-bye”
“Time to get off”, the midway man’s cry,
Do we dismount in heaven or hell?
Riding on life’s carousel.
Tapestry of Mist
But was it an illusion
through the tapestry of mist?
…an imagination's twist?
…a feathered filled delusion?
Perhaps, t’was the admission
tired of living to exist,
but was it an illusion
through the tapestry of mist?
An angel apparition
softly smiling love’s assist…
telling her to coexist
with love, His strong tradition.
But was it an illusion
through the tapestry of mist?
Janet L Vick
Rondel form
I set fire to your memories,
releasing any passing thought.
Inside this net nothing is caught,
I’m done with that rerun series.
Please don’t utilize theories,
you amplified all I was taught.
I set fire to your memories,
releasing any passing thought.
Making riddles out of queries
any answer was all for naught.
Did you surmise I was distraught?
With a flick my lighter hurries,
I set fire to your memories.
Some call it coffee and a walk.
For me? It’s silent seclusion.
The time I refuel with passion
relishing there’s no need to talk.
My mind drifts off to a deadlock
that action forced to illusion.
Some call it coffee and a walk,
For me? It’s silent seclusion.
A phone full of so much ad-hoc
it runs through me, a delusion.
Left inspired by such profusion,
I can only write with a gawk.
Some call it coffee and a walk.
To think that I could set a spell
and have a little chat,
that out might pop a sweet rondel
like rabbits from a hat
whose origins no bard could tell -
can you imagine that?
But what might mystify me more:
to call that work my own.
Would you not have to silence shame
or are such thoughts unknown?
The tech is cool, that much is true;
sometimes my mind is blown,
but characters are often lost
once typed into a phone.
Inside the secret treasure box
venin sits atop an old curse.
Potent to keep the tidings terse,
a result not meant to flummox.
Thin powder on glistening rocks,
the plot twist in an ancient verse.
Inside the secret treasure box
venin sits atop an old curse.
Cold shivers linger on the docks,
as if this virus could get worse.
Do not let bad juju disperse.
With a key that energy locks
inside the secret treasure box.
Grateful for my blistered anger
propelled by a tolerance break;
Awe can put an end to slander
when it’s about all you can take;
Most of the time I curb dander,
often it’s gone with a handshake;
Grateful for my blistered anger
propelled by a tolerance break;
Mashed up processes meander
leaking out into fists that shake;
Some may be slow on the uptake
trying me was the first mistake;
Grateful for my blistered anger.
Lyric poets, lovers of fine rhyme;
balladeers who weave with lines a tale;
satirists and bards of the sublime,
and troubadours who sing a light rondel.
Will my muse appear to me and show it?
That place I long to be, where they all dwell. . .
and I'm with them because I am a poet.
(LInda-Marie, I know how you love doing spur of the moment stuff. haha. You are IT. You
have to end your poem with those words, "I am a poet.")
Darling let us go out and play,
brisk air is sweet and welcoming.
Oh, my dear little feuille-morte
your deluge is so endearing.
Don’t dilute what the eyes betray,
those colors are ever changing.
Darling let us go out and play,
brisk air is sweet and welcoming.
I would love to whisk you away,
the woods are extremely healing.
My feuille-morte it’s breathtaking.
Let us dance among the decay,
darling let us go out and play.
In just one year ‘Star Wars’ will turn fifty,
yet it wears this inviolable crown.
A motion picture of such high renown,
George Lucas gifted us his galaxy.
I can say with absolute certainty
I’ll be at its opening day downtown.
In just one year
we can see it how it was meant to be.
Han shot first is how it really went down,
no need to discuss the scene’s runaround.
Back on the big screen causing a frenzy
in just one year.
Each woman will become a Muse,
proudly cheering her sisters on.
When the enemy’s sword is drawn
there is no way you can refuse.
Soft gestures, those ladylike cues
graceful in blue jeans or chiffon.
Each woman will become a Muse
proudly cheering her sisters on.
Whether whole or wearing a bruise
her inner strength is never gone.
She can be vibrant or withdrawn.
It doesn’t matter which you choose,
each woman will become a Muse.