WD Poetic Form Challenge: Roundelay

Time for another WD Poetic Form Challenge–this time for the roundelay!

Find the rules for writing roundelays here. A good, old school French poetic form packed with plenty of rhymes and refrains (plenty of rhymes and refrains).

So start writing them and sharing here on the blog (this specific post) for a chance to be published in Writer’s Digest magazine–as part of the Poetic Asides column. (Note: You have to log in to the site to post comments/poems; creating an account is free.)

Here’s how the challenge works:

  • Challenge is free. No entry fee.
  • The winner (and sometimes a runner-up or two) will be featured in a future edition of Writer’s Digest magazine as part of the Poetic Asides column.
  • Deadline 11:59 p.m. (Atlanta, GA time) on October 31, 2017.
  • Poets can enter as many roundelays as they wish. The more “work” you make for me the better, but remember: I’m judging on quality, not quantity.
  • All poems should be previously unpublished. If you have a specific question about your specific situation, just send me an e-mail at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com. Or just write a new roundelay. They’re fun to write; I promise.
  • I will only consider poems shared in the comments below. It gets too confusing for me to check other posts, go to other blogs, etc.
  • Speaking of posting, if this is your first time, your comment may not appear immediately. However, it should appear within a day (or 3–if shared on the weekend). So just hang tight, and it should appear eventually. If not, send me an e-mail at the address above.
  • Please include your name as you would like it to appear in print. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to use your user/screen name, which might be something like HaikuPrincess007 or MrLineBreaker. WD has a healthy circulation, so make it easy for me to get your byline correct.
  • Finally–and most importantly–be sure to have fun!

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Order the new Poet’s Market!

The new 2018 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer, includes hundreds of poetry markets, including listings for poetry publications, publishers, contests, and more! With names, contact information, and submission tips, poets can find the right markets for their poetry and achieve more publication success than ever before.

In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.

Click to continue.

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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community, which means he maintains this blog, edits a couple Market Books (Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market), writes a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine, leads online education, speaks around the country on publishing and poetry, and a lot of other fun writing-related stuff. He’s also the author of the poetry collection Solving the World’s Problems.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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35 thoughts on “WD Poetic Form Challenge: Roundelay

  1. Jane Shlensky

    Memory Keeper

    In the attic, in the basement, in a pocket, in a wall,
    wedged in tight beneath the mattress, in a chest beneath the stair,
    in a knot hole of the old oak, in a closet’s narrow stall,
    in a shoe box, in a desk drawer, in a box of table ware,
    in a locket, in a pillbox, in a basket thin and tall
    is that something that needs keeping by a somebody who cares.

    In a knot hole of the old oak, in a closet’s narrow stall,
    in a shoe box, in a desk drawer, in a box of table ware,
    faded photographs and letters, bits of poems we recall,
    in an envelope a ribbon tied around a lock of hair,
    in a locket, in a pillbox, in a basket thin and tall
    is that something that needs keeping by a somebody who cares.

    Faded photographs and letters, bits of poems we recall,
    in an envelope a ribbon tied around a lock of hair;
    there are trophies and certificates, a tattered bit of shawl,
    but the memories have shifted since we last visited there
    in a locket, in a pillbox, in a basket thin and tall
    all those somethings that need keeping by a somebody who cares.

    There are trophies and certificates, a tattered bit of shawl,
    but the memories have shifted since we last visited there
    in the attic, in the basement, in a pocket, in a wall,
    wedged in tight beneath the mattress, in a chest beneath the stair,
    in a locket, in a pillbox, in a basket thin and tall
    are those somethings that need keeping by a somebody who cares.

  2. Jane Shlensky

    Home Cooking

    Home smells of cloves and lemon zest,
    of cinnamon and orange slice,
    of sugared berries in a nest
    of pastry, sweet tea over ice.
    This kitchen only serves the best
    of what we know as paradise.

    She stands among the pans, a nest
    of pots simmering, cakes to ice.
    Fat loaves of bread rise to attest:
    what’s kneaded is no sacrifice.
    This kitchen only serves the best
    of what we know as paradise.

    We sample, calling it a test—
    our appetites, no sacrifice.
    All comfort food, both cursed and blest,
    we covet like the finest spice.
    This kitchen only serves the best
    of what we know as paradise.

    We bicker, knowing we are blest.
    We joke and watch her ply each spice.
    Home smells of cloves and lemon zest,
    of cinnamon and orange slice.
    Our Mama’s kitchen serves the best
    of what we know as paradise.

  3. Jane Shlensky

    Hiding Places

    When the world seems to be sleeping,
    dreams come ringing like a bell.
    Wild ephemera are leaping,
    and reality seems frail.
    There are secrets we are keeping;
    There are stories we can’t tell

    When conclusions come from leaping,
    thin and quaking, logic frail,
    some forgotten facts come creeping,
    shrieking with a night bird’s wail
    for the secrets we are keeping,
    for the stories we can’t tell.

    Plots and memories are creeping
    past our graveyards with a wail,
    buried incidents still seeping
    at the bottom of thought’s well.
    Those are secrets we are keeping;
    those are stories we can’t tell.

    Truth and fiction swirling, seeping
    flow until we know quite well
    when the world seems to be sleeping,
    dreams toll visions like a bell,
    with the secrets we are keeping,
    with the stories we won’t tell.

  4. Asha1000

    THE MULTIPLICATION OF FEAR

    The goal is, till light, to endure,
    for day will come, without disguise.
    Tectonic plates slip on grand tours;
    hurricanes spin around clear eyes.
    There are those who search for a cure;
    others kill, as fear multiplies.

    Tectonic plates slip on grand tours;
    hurricanes spin around clear eyes.
    Little children, the piper lures,
    to the mountaintop, deaf to cries.
    There are those who search for a cure;
    others kill, as fear multiplies.

    Little children, the piper lures,
    to the mountaintop, deaf to cries.
    Volcanoes will erupt for sure,
    as our earth buckles and sighs.
    There are those who search for a cure;
    others kill, as fear multiplies.

    Volcanoes will erupt for sure,
    as our earth buckles and sighs.
    Life is snuffed out, even the pure,
    by guns, knives, all the damning lies.
    There are those who search for a cure;
    others kill, as fear multiplies.

    – Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

  5. Asha1000

    SEASON OF PAIN

    Homes blown to scrap by hurricane.
    No more food, as if forced to fast.
    The eye’s wide path, a one-way lane
    of wreckage, like in a bomb blast.
    Now, in the world, there’s so much pain.
    Or had I been blind in the past?

    The eye’s wide path, a one-way lane
    of wreckage, like in a bomb blast.
    Grey tarmac painted with bloodstains
    where the concert fans had amassed.
    Now, in the world, there’s so much pain.
    Or had I been blind in the past?

    Grey tarmac painted with bloodstains
    where the concert fans had amassed.
    The earth popped open like champagne –
    people died. We were left aghast.
    Now, in the world, there’s so much pain.
    Or had I been blind in the past?

    The earth popped open like champagne –
    people died. We were left aghast,
    unable to fight the blocked plane,
    stupefied by frightful newscasts.
    Now, in the world, there’s so much pain.
    Or had I been blind in the past?

    – Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

  6. JRSimmang

    REMAINING DAYS

    How dark the ghosts of winter,
    how stark the blights of time.
    How quickly doth the deadwood splinter,
    how slow to death sublime.
    Whence her Time, once the nimble sprinter,
    now cries for its two shiny dimes.

    How quickly doth the deadwood splinter,
    how slow to death sublime,
    how bloodred desire’d bent her
    breathing heart to endless rhyme.
    Whence her Time, once the nimble sprinter,
    now slavers for its shiny dimes.

    How bloodred desire’d bent her
    breathing heart to endless rhyme
    no’ne could’ve seen how it’d sent her
    straightaway mise en abyme.
    Whence her Time, once the nimble sprinter,
    now beseeches its two shiny dimes.

    No’ne could’ve seen how it’d sent her
    straightaway mise en abyme,
    save the dark ghosts of winter,
    save the stark blights of time.
    Whence her Time, once a nimble sprinter,
    now demands its two shiny dimes.

    -JR Simmang

  7. Jane Shlensky

    Change

    When spirit rattles like the wind
    within the frame of humankind,
    a swirling whirling to ascend
    engages body, heart and mind
    to work toward a better end,
    to walk whatever path we find.

    A swirling need to rise, ascend,
    engages body heart and mind
    when we are humbled, forced to bend,
    when we are voiceless, mute and blind
    to work toward a better end
    to walk whatever path we find.

    When we are humbled, forced to bend,
    when we are voiceless, mute and blind,
    a sacred emptiness can lend
    us hope and grace as if designed
    to work toward a better end,
    to walk whatever path we find.

    And paths abound, each one can lend
    a way of life, as if designed
    when spirit rattles like the wind
    within the frame of human kind—
    to work toward a common end
    to walk whatever path we find.

  8. Jane Shlensky

    Seasonal Migration

    The path that leads to Sugar Creek
    is hard to find once leaves come down.
    In autumn, hollowed echoes speak
    in concert with a million sounds
    borne on the wind, like birds that seek
    another home that can’t be found.

    December’s icy blasts bespeak
    a warning—heavy haunting sounds
    that hardly quell the season’s peak
    as tourists come out from their towns
    borne on the wind, like birds that seek
    a winter home that can’t be found.

    They bring the kids to take a peek
    at winter wonderlands their towns
    don’t have, ice patterns grown antique
    as bridal lace on frozen ground.
    Borne on the wind, like birds, they seek
    another home that can’t be found.

    Come spring, in snow melt, folks antique
    or search for sights like common ground—
    the path that leads to Sugar Creek
    (so hard to find once leaves come down).
    Borne on the wind, new birds now seek
    another home that can’t be found.

  9. lsteadly

    Summer’s Lament

    When summer’s final breezes brush
    against the mountain’s breast,
    finches, geese and monarchs rush
    to make their way southwest.
    Light falters now before the hush
    of winter’s snowy crest.

    Finches, geese and monarchs rush
    to make their way southwest.
    On lifted wings through winds they push-
    I mourn each barren nest.
    Light falters now before the hush
    of winter’s snowy crest.

    On lifted wings through winds they push-
    I mourn each barren nest.
    Too long I must endure the crush
    and cold ‘til spring’s songfest.
    Light falters now before the hush
    of winter’s snowy crest.

    Too long I must endure the crush
    and cold ‘til spring’s songfest.
    Then skies will blur with evening’s blush
    and obliterate my protest.
    Light falters now before the hush
    of winter’s snowy crest.

    -Lisa L Stead

  10. Tracy Davidson

    Earth

    Our world is a wonderful place…
    alas, we take it to the brink.
    Its teeming life, its beauty, grace,
    could all be gone before we blink.
    We are but a small speck in space,
    not as important as we think.

    Its teeming life, its beauty, grace,
    could all be gone before we blink.
    As climate change moves on apace,
    some still refuse to see the link.
    We are but a small speck in space,
    not as important as we think.

    As climate change moves on apace,
    some still refuse to see the link.
    Willing or not, we’re in a race
    to learn to swim before we sink.
    We are but a small speck in space,
    not as important as we think.

    Willing or not, we’re in a race
    to learn to swim before we sink.
    We cannot shrug or turn our face
    while species die and ice fields shrink.
    We are but a small speck in space,
    not as important as we think.

  11. Jezzie

    SUMMER LAMENT

    Fluffy white clouds float all across the sky
    but we can’t go to the beach any more.
    Children are playing in the sand, that’s why
    dogs are banned from the beaches they adore.
    High up on the cliffs stand my dog and I
    Watching the white topped waves roll to the shore.

    Children are playing in the sand, that’s why
    dogs are banned from the beaches they adore.
    We stroll across the coastal paths up high
    out of reach are waves where we splashed before.
    High up on the cliffs stand my dog and I
    Watching the white topped waves roll to the shore.

    We stroll across the coastal paths up high
    out of reach are waves where we splashed before.
    Every year: Easter, all through July
    right on until summer has gone for sure.
    High up on the cliffs stand my dog and I
    Watching the white topped waves roll to the shore.

    Every year: Easter, all through July
    right on until summer has gone for sure.
    Fluffy white clouds float all across the sky
    but we can’t go to the beach any more.
    High up on the cliffs stand my dog and I
    Watching the white topped waves roll to the shore.

  12. PressOn

    EVENT HORIZON

    Where sky greets sea the midnight cold
    seems not to matter, not to be;
    the ocean’s sweep unrolls tenfold
    and there the heavens beckon me.
    I long to cross the last threshold
    and meet again where sky meets sea.

    The ocean’s sweep unrolls tenfold
    and there the heavens beckon me;
    all finitude is past, paroled,
    and yields to grand infinity.
    I long to cross the last threshold
    and meet again where sky meets sea.

    All finitude is past, paroled,
    and yields to grand infinity;
    I watch the stars glow: orange and gold
    and green and blue and white, and free;
    I long to cross the last threshold
    and meet again where sky meets sea.

    I watch the stars glow orange and gold
    and green and blue and white, and free
    where sky greets sea. The midnight cold
    seems not to matter, not to be;
    I long to cross the last threshold
    and meet again where sky meets sea.

    —William Preston

  13. Eileen S

    Edna Dean Proctor
    by Eileen Sateriale

    Poetess, Edna Dean Proctor took on a cause and a chore.
    Seeing the end of slavery and its abuses was her desire.
    She wrote about the slavery institution that many abhorred.
    Interviews of mistreated and abused slaves generated ire.
    Born in New Hampshire, near the Contoocook river shore,
    She wrote poetry and news articles which caused a National fire.

    She wrote about the slavery institution that many abhorred.
    Interviews of mistreated and abused slaves generated ire.
    Among strident abolitionists Edna Dean Proctor was adored.
    While greedy plantation owners wanted her exposed as a liar.
    Born in New Hampshire, near the Contoocook river shore,
    She wrote poetry and news articles which caused a National fire.

    Among strident abolitionists Edna Dean Proctor was adored.
    While greedy plantation owners wanted her exposed as a liar.
    Her poetry was published and well-read during the Civil War.
    Preachers lauded her to their congregations as well as their choirs.
    Born in New Hampshire, near the Contoocook river shore,
    She wrote poetry and news articles which caused a National fire.

    Her poetry was published and well-read during the Civil War.
    Preachers lauded her to their congregations as well as their choirs.
    Poetess, Edna Dean Proctor took on a cause and a chore.
    Seeing the end of slavery and its abuses was her desire.
    Born in New Hampshire, near the Contoocook river shore,
    She wrote poetry and news articles which caused a National fire.

  14. DanielAri

    Release and embrace

    Soft spires of an anemone
    separate pink in the sun’s gold,
    the glint of mountains and pennies—
    everything that night unenfolds.
    Light splits the world into many,
    but dark is the one thing that holds

    the glint of mountains and pennies.
    Everything that night unenfolds
    passes peeled and bright as any
    bud, cub or calf into the cold.
    Light splits the world into many,
    but dark is the one thing that holds—

    passes—peeled and bright as any
    bud, cub or calf into the cold.
    In the dark friend or enemy,
    is a difference that can’t be told.
    Light splits the world into many,
    but dark is the one thing that holds

    in the dark. Friend or enemy
    is a difference that can’t be told.
    All is one ‘til light spins hemi-
    demi-semispheres manifold—
    light splits the world into many,
    but dark is the one thing that holds.

    —Daniel Ari

  15. Haikutopia

    A Glass of Roundelay

    Strolling alone through the woods
    Is many a poet’s main task
    For inspiration, nature’s got the goods
    And the beauty in which to bask
    It’s a change from the old neighborhood
    And for warmth, there’s always a flask.

    For inspiration, nature’s got the goods
    And the beauty in which to bask.
    The forest’s ever-changing moods
    Punctuate the most stoic mask
    It’s a change from the old neighborhood
    And for warmth, there’s always a flask.

    The forest’s ever-changing moods
    Punctuate the most stoic mask
    The words flow like wine as if they could
    Fill the poet’s mind like a cask
    It’s a change from the old neighborhood
    And for warmth, there’s always a flask.

    The words flow like wine as if they could
    Fill the poet’s mind like a cask
    Strolling alone through the woods
    Is many a poet’s main task
    It’s a change from the old neighborhood
    And for warmth, there’s always a flask.
    by Sari Grandstaff

  16. JRSimmang

    UPON A HILL

    He picks his axe and his hammer,
    then builds a home upon a hill.
    He fills the holes with opaque dammer
    and sits out on the porch until
    the winter months leave their glamour
    and the fire burns with fiery will.

    He fills the holes with opaque dammer
    and sits out on the porch until
    the roosters and the egrets clamour
    to dance their fanciful quadrilles.
    The winter months leave their glamour
    and the fire burns with fiery will.

    The roosters and the egrets clamour
    to dance their fanciful quadrilles
    while he waits for his gone paramour,
    her hair the scent of bougainville.
    The winter months leave their glamour,
    and the fire burns with fiery will.

    While he waits for his gone paramour,
    her hair the scent of bougainville,
    he picks his axe and his hammer,
    then builds a home upon a hill.
    The winter months leave their glamour,
    and the fire burns with fiery will.

    -JR Simmang

  17. JRSimmang

    LET MORE LIGHT IN

    We’ve felt so out of focus lately,
    succumbing to the horrid blur.
    Our minds and bodies act separately.
    Have you noticed? Do you concur?
    When will it be time to speak candidly
    about the consequences we incur?

    Our minds and bodies act separately.
    Have you noticed, do you concur?
    Tell me slowly and tell me straightly
    what you believe. Or, are you, too, insecure?
    When will it be time to speak candidly
    about the consequences we incur?

    Tell me slowly and tell me straightly
    what you believe. Or, are you, too, insecure?
    It’s time we sharpen ourselves greatly;
    we’re at a point we can no more ignore.
    When will it be time to speak candidly
    about the consequences we incur?

    It’s time we sharpen ourselves greatly;
    we’re at a point we can no more ignore.
    We’ve felt so out of focus lately,
    succumbing to the horrid blur.
    When will it be time to speak candidly
    about the consequences we incur?

    -JR Simmang

  18. James Von Hendy

    Snow Angel

    From dream she called to me from long ago,
    her face rising through the snow. I turned to flee
    this ghost that knew the taste of me, her woe
    and mine a lovers’ ancient history.
    She lay, a hollow body in the snow,
    her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

    This ghost that knew the taste of me, her woe
    and mine a lovers’ ancient history,
    she pursed her lips, a perfect ruby bow
    that always arrowed me. So wantonly
    she lay, a hollow body in the snow,
    her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

    She pursed her lips, a perfect ruby bow
    that always arrowed me so wantonly.
    I couldn’t tear myself away, and so
    I bent my lips to hers to let it be.
    She lay, a hollow body in the snow,
    her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

    I couldn’t tear myself away, and so
    I bent my lips to hers to let it be,
    and kissed not her but icy air below
    a veil of powdered snow, yet I could see
    she lay, a hollow body in the snow,
    her winged arms flung wide, and beckoned me.

    1. James Von Hendy

      Snow Angel

      From dream she called to me from long ago,
      her face rising through the snow. I turned to flee
      this ghost that knew the taste of me, her woe
      and mine a lovers’ ancient history.
      She lay, a hollow body in the snow,
      her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

      This ghost that knew the taste of me, her woe
      and mine a lovers’ ancient history,
      she pursed her lips, a perfect ruby bow
      that always arrowed me. So wantonly
      she lay, a hollow body in the snow,
      her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

      She pursed her lips, a perfect ruby bow
      that always arrowed me so wantonly.
      I couldn’t tear myself away, and so
      I bent my lips to hers to let it be.
      She lay, a hollow body in the snow,
      her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

      I couldn’t tear myself away, and so
      I bent my lips to hers to let it be,
      and kissed not her but icy air below
      a veil of powdered snow, yet I could see
      she lay, a hollow body in the snow,
      her winged arms flung wide to beckon me.

  19. lisastjohn

    A Mythology of Agony

    Living well is an art,
    although it is easier not to try.
    Scars tattoo our hearts.
    Demons of dried up hope cry,
    but these stories are ours to break apart.
    Transparent mythologies whisper lies.

    Scars tattoo our hearts.
    Scars tattoo our hearts.
    We must let breathe the healthy parts,
    so even winter’s sun can flood the sky.
    These stories are ours to break apart.
    Transparent mythologies whisper lies.

    We must let breathe the healthy parts,
    so even winter’s sun can flood the sky.
    We owe it to our wounded hearts
    to heal. It’s all too short to just get by.
    These stories are ours to break apart.
    Transparent mythologies whisper lies.

    We must let breathe the healthy parts,
    so even winter’s sun can flood the sky.
    It’s not impossible, this art.
    The tales say it’s easier just to wait and die,
    but these stories are ours to break apart.
    Transparent mythologies whisper lies.

  20. kaycourt

    Courtney Cohen

    A Forest of T’s on a Tempest Tost Sea

    A Forest of T’s on a tempest tost sea
    Sailed from home in the early morn
    The eldest T thought it never could be
    Though she’d dreamt of it since she was born
    Tanith, Teasdale, Thaddeus, Tilden and Ellery, all children you see
    Never dreaming that they could be torn

    The eldest T thought it never could be
    Though she’d dreamt of it since she was born
    A land built of wonder and fantasy
    Where nothing grew tired or worn
    Tanith, Teasdale, Thaddeus, Tilden and Ellery, all children you see
    Never dreaming that they could be torn

    A land built of wonder and fantasy
    Where nothing grew tired or worn
    But the glittering fancies led to catastrophe
    Lost children trapped in a land forlorn
    Tanith, Teasdale, Thaddeus, Tilden and Ellery, all children you see
    Never dreaming that they could be torn

    But the glittering fancies led to catastrophe
    Lost children trapped in a land forlorn
    Till the tear was mended and all were free
    Ships sailing home to return
    Tanith, Teasdale, Thaddeus, Tilden and Ellery, all children you see
    Never dreaming that they could be torn

  21. AsWritten

    A STERN LOOK AT TIME by Ken Bentz

    By some coincidence, Earth moves
    as if time were real. But we know
    that men dreamt it. A full moon proves
    the point – its mocking, waning glow
    charts a course along well-worn grooves
    of sky. A heart reaps what it sows.

    And men dreamt it. A full moon proves
    the point. Its mocking, waning glow
    Illuminates your scars. It removes
    (outshines) darkness, but its shadow
    charts a course along well-worn grooves
    of sky. A heart reaps what it sows –

    illuminates your scars. It removes
    (outshines) darkness, but its shadow
    is your nemesis. Life improves,
    but a lone blackbird’s sad solo
    charts a course along well-worn grooves
    of sky. A heart reaps what it sows.

    It’s your nemesis. Life improves,
    but a lone blackbird’s sad solo
    calls you back, even though Earth moves.
    Second thoughts. Imprisoned sorrow
    charts a course along well-worn grooves
    of sky. A heart reaps what it sows.

  22. Eileen S

    Let the River Flow

    Someone I once revered is mentally ill.
    When I found out, it was a sobering blow.
    The communications we have now is nil.
    He lives in a world where I cannot go.
    In the past, I wanted to push the river uphill
    because I could not let the river flow.

    The communications we have now is nil.
    He lives in a world where I cannot go.
    His anger and rage could make him kill.
    An assaultive fist, I’ve seen him throw.
    In the past, I wanted to push the river uphill
    because I wanted to control the river’s flow.

    His anger and rage could make him kill.
    An assaultive fist, I’ve seen him throw.
    He used to be kind and now he’s a pill.
    He can’t help himself, I do well know.
    In the past, I wanted to push the river uphill
    because I would not let the river flow.

    He used to be kind and now he’s a pill.
    He can’t help himself, I do well know.
    Someone I once revered is mentally ill.
    When I found out, it was quite a blow.
    In the past, I wanted to push the river uphill
    but now I sit back and let the river flow.

    Poem by Eileen Sateriale
    @ 2017
    Poet note: I am writing about a very difficult situation and coming to grips with it.

  23. Sasha A. Palmer

    The shore is kind, horizon — wide
    A tender breeze so gently blows
    Come, take your vessel for a ride
    Those swift white caps are not your foes
    Our happiness — an ocean tide
    That comes and goes, that comes and goes…

    Come, take your vessel for a ride
    Those swift white caps are not your foes
    You would not hold time if you tried
    Gold specks of sand between your toes
    Our happiness — an ocean tide
    That comes and goes, that comes and goes…

    You would not hold time if you tried
    Gold specks of sand between your toes
    Come, sail while dazzling seas abide
    The day, the hour — nobody knows
    Our happiness — an ocean tide
    That comes and goes, that comes and goes…

    Come, sail while dazzling seas abide
    The day, the hour — nobody knows
    Fragile sandcastles builds a child
    The setting sun so softly glows
    Our happiness — an ocean tide
    That comes and goes, that comes and goes…

  24. barbara_y

    Life’s Great Primordial Slime Traveling Carney Roundelay

    Why doesn’t life restart daily
    with Square One. With making Square One?
    We stare at the mirror palely,
    cartoon fish, sketched but never done,
    just a carnival of gaily
    strung DNA, bared to the sun.

    We stare at the mirror palely,
    cartoon fish, sketched but never done.
    Reliving the same fish tale. We
    will be caught and gutted again.
    Just a carnival of gaily
    strung DNA, bared to the sun.

    Reliving the same fish tale. We
    will be caught and gutted again.
    I’ve got my grandmother’s scaly
    elbows, but not her thick white bun,
    just a carnival of gaily
    strung DNA, bared to the sun.

    I’ve got my grandmother’s scaly
    elbows, but not her thick white bun.
    Which inherited ccktail we
    deserve is/not a trick question,
    just a carnival of gaily
    strung DNA, bared to the sun.

  25. RJ Clarken

    Neologisms

    See, this neologism piece
    is a bit of perserveerance.
    Please do not call the word police
    as there is no incoherence.
    Utter a blutter? Not caprice
    in spite of the odd appearance.

    Please do not call the word police
    as there is no incoherence.
    Like, flabsolution trumps obese.
    Twitticule’s just rude abearance.
    Utter a blutter? Not caprice
    in spite of the odd appearance.

    Like, flabsolution trumps obese.
    Twitticule’s just rude abearance.
    Chillax? Its use will not decrease
    sans 404 interference.
    Utter a blutter? Not caprice
    in spite of the odd appearance.

    Chillax? Its use will not decrease
    sans 404 interference.
    See, this neologism piece
    is a bit of perserveerance.
    Utter a blutter? Not caprice
    in spite of the odd appearance.

    ###

  26. taylor graham

    A POET’S LAST WORDS

    This was the end of a long ride,
    life being briefer than the bird
    who stopped to whistle by his side
    in the darkening woods. Absurd?
    If I remember right, he died
    pen in hand alive with a word.

    Who stopped to whistle by his side
    in the darkening woods. Absurd?
    From sky to earth no rivers bide,
    he’d taste the waters as they stirred.
    If I remember right, he died
    pen in hand alive with a word.

    From sky to earth no rivers bide,
    he’d taste the waters as they stirred.
    He was river – don’t say he lied,
    but wrote of silences he heard.
    If I remember right, he died
    pen in hand alive with a word.

    He was river – don’t say he lied.
    He wrote of silences unheard,
    unchaining of the dog long tied,
    its barking at the heavens blurred.
    If I remember right, he died
    pen in hand alive with a word.

  27. taylor graham

    THE CRUELEST MONTH

    I woke to keening of the sheep,
    a lamentation dark as night
    when the wild hunger can not sleep.
    A new lamb vanishes from sight –
    I look and listen to the deep
    but find no sign, no line of flight.

    When the wild hunger can not sleep
    a new lamb vanishes from sight.
    Off the high ridge coyotes sweep –
    are fences ever danger-tight?
    I look and listen to the deep
    but find no sign, no line of flight.

    Off the high ridge coyotes sweep –
    are fences never danger-tight?
    The owl calls our defenses cheap,
    its talons quick and steely bright.
    I look and listen to the deep
    but find no sign, no line of flight.

    The owl calls our defenses cheap,
    its talons quick and steely bright.
    It lifts small prey that run or creep
    in shadow, fearful of the light.
    I look and listen to the deep
    but find no sign, no line of flight.

  28. Bruce Niedt

    Category 5

    The weather radar shows its core,
    a cold, dead eye amidst a brew
    of wind and storms and rains that pour,
    a buzzsaw set to tear and chew.
    Some day it will blow in your door.
    The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

    The wind, the storms, the rains thatl pour,
    the buzzsaw set to tear and chew –
    this maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore;
    this time you may not ride it through.
    Some day it will blow in our door.
    The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

    This maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore,
    this time you may not ride it through.
    You watch the boat torn off its moor,
    your roof ripped out, you house askew.
    Today it has blown in your door.
    The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

    You watch the boat torn off its moor,
    your roof ripped out, your house askew.
    But then the winds are calm once more;
    the rains let up, the sky turns blue.
    Today it has blown in your door,
    but that red wheel’s not taken you.

    1. Bruce Niedt

      A slight edit:

      The weather radar shows its core,
      a cold, dead eye amidst a brew
      of wind and storms and rains that pour,
      a buzzsaw set to tear and chew.
      Some day it will blow in your door.
      The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

      The wind, the storms, the rains that pour,
      the buzzsaw set to tear and chew –
      this maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore;
      this time you may not ride it through.
      Some day it will blow in your door.
      The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

      This maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore,
      this time you may not ride it through.
      You watch the boat torn off its moor,
      your roof ripped out, you house askew.
      Today it has blown in your door.
      The red wheel spins, it spins for you.

      You watch the boat torn off its moor,
      your roof ripped out, your house askew.
      But then the winds are calm once more;
      the rains let up, the sky turns blue.
      Today it has blown in your door,
      but that red wheel’s not taken you.

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