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July 2018


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RC James @ 07-13-18 16:06
Read: 32   Comments: 0
RC James @ 07-13-18 16:03
Read: 37   Comments: 0
JustDaniel @ 07-7-18 17:25
Read: 42   Comments: 2

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12 Indicted, More, Close to Home. to Come
Posted by RC James - 07-13-18 16:06 - 0 comments

Clearly, above the hubub today,
the hounds’ bays, piercing,
sustained, drown out all other
sounds, as if a dome
of fogged silence shuts out
all but the fierce barks, yelps,
howls and growling.

The hounds’ owner sits,
calmly, on a ridge, knowing
precisely where the search leads.
He has adopted the measured,
well-advised course
maintaining the disciplined process
of discovery, arrest, and conviction.

He pauses for a solemn look
into the disarray of the valley,
then nudges his charger’s reins
back to from where he came,
the mountain where eagles live;
he’ll consult with a hermit there,
who has forsaken all comforts
for the headstrong life of refusal.

The horseman will simply sit
to a cup of the hermit’s special blend,
and as he leaves they’ll exchange nods,
nothing more; enough is enough.
Read 32 times - make a comment   

Questions on the Way Over
Posted by RC James - 07-13-18 16:03 - 0 comments

An otherworldly white rose appears full bloom
on the mantle to soothe our harsh tomorrows.
Where does the lithe spirit we abandoned loom?
Alive, alive in memory, not in sorrow.

The dread apparitions that claim you nightly,
will they too, come with us on our final run,
then in drear spite, haunt us anew frightfully,
and dwell in this dream’s remainder like a sun?

Will the fear of what we’ve come to understand,
proud in lop-top-sided triumph, embrace us?
A thousand turbulent miles from land lies more land,
here, the dolphins hypnotize with arcing trust.

The ocean of our past informs us, and gleams;
beneath tormented skies, prophets’ poems speak
while silent seamsters sew spirit to our dreams.
We can’t forget what we’ve lost for what we seek.

Can we summon the extent of what we know,
how we know it, and make when conform to now?
There is nothing more sound than a falcon’s show,
only a dove’s return with what love might allow.
Read 37 times - make a comment   

Posted by JustDaniel - 07-7-18 17:25 - 2 comments


He owned the neighborhood where we
transplanted him to South Jersey
from Florida. We'd left his sis
but didn't think that he would miss
her all that much, 'cause he loved me

He'd jump on anything he'd see
refrigerator, bird in tree
a mouse that he would give death's kiss
He owned the neighborhood

One mouse had the audacity
to be a warfarin causality
Dink’s neck became a giant cyst
but when he healed, could not resist
the squirrels, the mice, a bird in tree
He owned the neighborhood

© MLee Dickens’son 07 July 2018
Read 42 times - last comment by JustDaniel   

Posted by Larry - 06-21-18 13:26 - 4 comments

Alone within my mind I wile
away the years trying to find
a new poetic thought or style.
Alone within my mind I wile

and wonder if there’s any kind
that stands the test of time or trial.
Old masters of the craft designed

the forms I use and might compile
into a book or two. Resigned
to facts that it might take a while
alone within my mind.
Read 84 times - last comment by Larry   

Posted by Larry - 06-21-18 13:23 - 4 comments

Some flowers might aspire to smell as sweet
as roses in full bloom or their aspect
if they could only think. Would they reflect
upon their lives and feel it was complete?

To be admired in shows would be a treat
if vanity were theirs. I must reject
some flowers might aspire to smell as sweet
as roses in full bloom or their aspect

for nature's panoply would then retreat.
Variety of species could be wrecked
and gardeners, with nothing to collect,
would plant a mundane row and then repeat
some flowers might aspire to smell as sweet.
Read 129 times - last comment by Larry   

Posted by JustDaniel - 06-15-18 15:43 - 2 comments

A French form consisting of 13 lines: two quatrains and a quintet, rhyming as follows: ABba abAB abbaA. The capital letters are the refrains, or repeats.


A Rondel for Margarita

On the carousel, on a summer's day,
As the rest of the fairground goes gliding by,
We coast together, now low, now high,
But how quickly the moment slips away.

She laughs at the music, elfin and fey,
She laughs for joy at the sapphire sky,
On the carousel, on a summer's day,
As the rest of the fairground goes gliding by.

How sweet her delight in simple play,
Someday, without me, she'll take to the sky,
Brave little fledgling, ready to fly.
We must hold these moments while we may
On the carousel, on a summer's day.

Copyright © 2004 Gail Kavanagh

from Shadow Poetry
Read 61 times - last comment by Larry   

Posted by JustDaniel - 06-15-18 15:38 - 4 comments
A Roundel (not to be confused with the rondel) is a form of verse used in English language poetry devised by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909). It is the Anglo-Norman form corresponding to the French rondeau. It makes use of refrains, repeated according to a certain stylized pattern.

A roundel consists of nine lines each having the same number of syllables, plus a refrain after the third line and after the last line. The refrain must be identical with the beginning of the first line: it may be a half-line, and rhymes with the second line. It has three stanzas and its rhyme scheme is as follows: A B A R ; B A B ; A B A R ; where R is the refrain.

Swinburne had published a book A Century of Roundels, dedicating his poems to friend Christina Rossetti, who then started writing roundels herself, as evidenced by the following examples from her anthology of poetry: Wife to Husband; A Better Resurrection; A Life's Parallels; Today for me; It is finished; From Metastasio

Swinburne’s first roundel:

The roundel:

A roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere, A
With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought, B
That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear A
A roundel is wrought. R

Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught - B
Love, laughter, or mourning - remembrance of rapture or fear - A
That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought. B

As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear A
Pause answer to pause, and again the same strain caught, B
So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, A
A roundel is wrought. R

Swinburne’s poem "A baby's death" contains seven roundels. The fourth roundel became the song "Roundel: The little eyes that never knew Light," set to music by the English composer Edward Elgar.
Read 75 times - last comment by Larry   

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