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Goddess Rue Aug 7
My vision of you,
Belied if tallied with stars in the night,
Like the moon lit blue.

Don’t tell me it’s true,
When I dare say you’re my sunlight,
If asked my vision of you.

Because there are so few,
Paintings that describe you right,
Your beauty like the moon lit blue.

Won’t you tell me a clue?
How do I eternalize this precious kite?
To keep my vision of you.

If only you knew,
You leave me breathless, gone my flight,
Tamed like the moon lit blue.

I pledge my true-blue
Forever be my pride, my delight, my side,
For my vision of you,
Is authentic like the moon lit blue.
My first tale,
Of villanelle,
So love I tell;
Though not too well,
Of a villanelle.

(Bulan Biru: Blue Moon)
The villanelle is not too hard to master,
Though most who write them should for them repent.
(Too often it's a nineteen-line disaster.)

Though most examples render me aghast or
Appalled or absolutely discontent,
The villanelle is not (too) hard to master.

Alike the little triolet, but vaster,
(As vast as this lamentable lament),
Too often it's a nineteen-line disaster.

A bloom of verse as dainty as an aster,
A Frenchman's inspiration (Heaven-sent),
The villanelle is not too hard to master.

But all agree (or should) from pope to pastor,
From schoolhouse janitor to president:
Too often it's a nineteen-line disaster.

For poet-pro and ***** poetaster,
(Anyone with the least poetic bent),
The villanelle is n̶o̶t too hard to master.
Too often it's a nineteen-line disaster.
Serena Jun 19
Blue and white and orange and white
And songs and coffee and tears
Keep together my daily plight

I’d add you to my list of fears
But I don’t want to miss your laughs
And songs and coffee and tears

I’d split my soul into two neat halves
And hand me to you on a platter
But I don’t want to miss your laughs

I know that it would need to matter
If you were to open up one day
And hand you to me on a platter

I’ll model the place we’re in like clay
And slowly, slowly seep me out
If you were to open up one day

I’d take good notice of the route
Blue and white and orange and white
Would slowly, slowly seep us out
Keep together my daily plight
Mya Dec 2022
Poor soul, grieving is all you’re bound to know
You burn the weak bridges of distant bays
In the barren shade you will never grow


You’ll reap the rotted seeds of all you sow
Doomed to be alone for the coming days
Poor soul, grieving is all you’re bound to know


Neither pain, nor pleasure, will make you glow
Stuck forever in your pitiful ways
In the barren shade you will never grow


Through evil, twisted words and forked-tongue woe
Do your everything to push them away
Poor soul, grieving is all you’re bound to know


In the haste of fright, you condemn your foe
Care little to not for the truth they say
In the barren shade you will never grow


I’d give you my heart for this final blow
Even for the fruit of love you’d not stay
Poor soul, grieving is all you’re bound to know
In the barren shade you will never grow
Strangerous Apr 2022
I may be just a partying sort of guy,
But that’s the sort of guy I want to be.
I intend to go down laughing when I die.

I like the ladies, that I won’t deny.
I give them what they want, and they like me
Because I’m such a partying sort of guy.

I make love, sleep, wake up, and then get high.
My days and nights are filled with revelry.
I know I’ll go down laughing when I die.

I wear the finest clothing I can buy
And drive the fastest car you’ve ever seen
To prove I’m quite a partying sort of guy.

I never get depressed, I never cry,
But those who do have all my sympathy.
I’d rather go down laughing when I die.

So why are some committed to the lie
That life is hard? They must love misery.
Myself, I’ll be a partying sort of guy
Until I go down laughing, when I die.
© 1991 by Jack Morris

Hear the song on Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/track/4vaz9FN1wAGPtihDtHaZey?si=22a9999a6c564599
kate cc Apr 2022
Take me with you to your Atlantis
Where hues of blue glisten in noons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Are days of sober in crystallic bliss
Are nights of glacial comfort under mystic lunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Wash me into a tender kiss
Too soft to be witnessed but the full moons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Beyond boundaries of mortality at this
ocean, through the skies and dunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Volumes and arks fill up the abyss
with painted tales of Atlantic ruins
For eternity we embrace in its promise

When love dreamily left only to reminisce
as the ink of Plato seeped in tunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis
For eternity we embrace in its promise
First shot at a villanelle:) (This was hard)
Nolan Willett Apr 2022
How far must the honey bee roam
To find an elusive flower,
And return to his honeycomb?

How long must a tumbling stone
Through a lonely landscape scour,
To realize its conclusive home?

How many do their fate bemoan,
Amidst the dark and latent hours,
Staining tears upon their cheekbones?

How do those, resting on their thrones,
Convince all of their own power,
And feign to know all that which is known?

Do we have power all our own?
Our own reasons to scour?
How far ahead is our fate sewn?

Do we let ourselves be enthroned,
To be a humble wallflower?
Or do we let ourselves be flown,
Into a troublesome unknown?
Anna Oct 2021
Her love for me was mellow
Instead of feeling blues
I always felt yellow

She was a weird fellow
The portrait of me she drew
Her love for me was mellow

Every time she says hello
She doesn’t have a clue
I always felt yellow

She called me a marsh mellow
She said I’m her muse
Her love for me was mellow

I sniffed into her pillow
She smells like morning dew
I always felt yellow

Once again she said hello
Watched my heart flew
Her love for me was mellow
I always felt yellow
TomDoubty Jun 2021
Strutting shoes in dust and spit
The boys make their way in scented air
This is home to the gravel pits

The intercity snakes with a thwack and a hiss
Cuts through the night without a care
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Dead-dogs in bags and lean stray cats
Bashed old cars with their smashed glass glare
This is home to the gravel pits

Toking butts he smiles, so fit
through smoke with eyes that stir, arms bare
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Then with cuts and grazes running, swinging sticks
A skirmish with the out-group, ****** warfare
This is home to the gravel pits

I stand here, look back and see it-
Turning for home in the cooled night air
Strutting shoes in dust and spit
This was home to the gravel pits
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