"rondeau" poems
.*
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.
The physical weight is a thing that I share,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair?*
I am close to you now. Yes, touching my hair
the flag with its lions of gold and of red
that wraps round your coffin. I know you are there.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.
My comrades move with me in slow, solemn tread.
Our eyes are all fixed in an unseeing stare.
Our shoulders support you in your oaken bed.
The physical weight is a thing that I share.
As I feel the world watching I try not to care.
My deepest emotions are best left unsaid.
Let others show grief like a garment they wear,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.
The flowers they leave like a carpet are spread,
In the books of remembrance they have written, 'Somewhere
a star is extinguished because you are dead.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair? '
The tears that we weep will soon grow more rare,
the rawness of grief turn to memory instead.
But deep in our hearts you will always be there,
and I ask, will I ever be able to shed
the burden I bear?
.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
The winds of autumn shall soon blow
Verdant leaves that in summer show
Cascading, floating, golden-red
And make a copper-russet bed
Before it’s white with quilted snow ...
The burnished rays of autumn's glow
Will implore summer's heat to go
As falling leaves shall dance and shed
The winds of autumn...
And those sweet seeds that I shall sow
Tenderly, someday, will bloom and grow
Where hopes of life so gently tread…
As I, on earth, shall rest my head
All seasons of this life to know
The winds of autumn...
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
Gone and passed is the gold of day,
And the evening’s brown and blue:
Silenced the shepherd’s tender flute
And the evening’s brown and blue
Gone and passed as is the gold of day.
2.1k
.
*This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.*
And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.
It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high.
Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.
Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.
.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
With mouth agape, just like a clown,
I'm drifting through a brand new town.
All captivated by the lights,
I'm glaring, staring at the sights,
that awe me with their high renown.
As though wearing a royal crown,
I'm floating through this well-known town.
Above the sky, I reach new heights,
with mouth agape.
Too high for life to pull me down,
I'm soaring through this humdrum town.
On wings that arc above the lights,
I scarce can see the dwindling sights
of people, places, things and nouns,
with mouth agape.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
On Halloween the sky was scarred
The full moon peered, a piercing shard,
Behind a hole, the eye of night,
Above the smell of death and fright,
Along a bone laced boulevard.
As corpses crept from crypts unbarred,
The flames, they crawled, with pale regard,
On roasting rot – a sanguine sight...
On Halloween.
The bones, they blanched within the yard,
Again to have their evening marred
By ghouls and fiends who rip and bite
With claws and fangs which drip delight
While gorging flesh, so slightly charred...
On Halloween.
;-)
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Rondeau
With not a sigh a tear or care
In gentle arms of midnight dare
Where dreams of wildest breeze elope
Roams twilight’s bless of softly hope
Toward an acquiesce of share
Warm snuggle now in cashmere bare
Suggestive of their sweet affair
A passion dance of thrill devote
With not a sigh
Tho drawn a more attentive pair
His smoulder deep, her raven hair
A love explored of wordly cope
For love there is no antidote
In mingle destiny’s somewhere
With not a sigh
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Nothing in life's e'er guaranteed
Borne of ink, on thin paper reeds,
Spades may shatter Diamond skies; So
in red or black, no tell, we'll show
Playing hard, as this life proceeds.
Marked cards, Bad & Good, defined; Deeds
shuffled, we love, we fight, we bleed.
"Roll the die" Jokers laugh, "Let's owe
nothing to Life!"
Dealing dirt hands, with want, not needs
Flushed; Their greediness supersedes
So let's choose our cards, best we know,
stay true in Hearts; Letting go,
where false relativity breeds
nothing in life
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
Alexis Helmer died a true hero
Like all that became
To save our future
Today I will remember him
It is now our turn
Our responsibility
Our role
To ensure we never need another rondeau
For last night I saw poppies
Fall and float from the sky
Tears from the fallen
Our Remembrance
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
I loved you so, my shining star.
From who you were, to where you've been,
to whom you've met, to what you've seen.
Your shining light is who you are.
From knighted woods to Myanmar,
some only see a lit cigar,
though to me you're a shining queen...
I loved you so.
When you're near or even afar
I'd follow you to all bazaars.
But none could possibly have seen
that something worse was our routine,
that what you'd leave was really scars.
I loved you so...
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
[and scarcely worth the trouble, at that]
The same to me are somber days and gay.
Though Joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.
My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are somber days and gay.
Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.
Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.
Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.
And this, O love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light....
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.
1.4k
The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.
My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.
Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.
Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.
And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light ...
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.
1.4k
I am an alcoholic
i used to smoke and drink
But now my drug of choice
is notebook paper and ink
I can't get enough
it goes right to my head
Keep my pen and pad
right next to my bed
I'm a ****** when
it comes to composition
Used to scratch tickets
another sad addiction
In the distant past
stocked up on bottles of *****
Now it's ink and paper
that I wisely choose
I love to scribble,
compose and formulate
Of my poetry I have
a jealous mate
I write at night
So as not to ignore him
But this is important
it's not jut a whim
When I'm out of paper or ink
I go thru withdrawl
An envelope, a sticky note
most anything to scrawl
Verse, rhyme, sonnet, rondeau
I really love it all
If I'm not careful I'll
Start penning on the wall
Try to write a poem daily
I need to get my fix
Limerick, Haiku it
doesn't matter the mix
It's an addiction
I can take and run
It helps inside
And is lots of fun
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
My birth was christened with a curse
but every year those parties were flurries
of bon fires and candle sparklers.
My feet didn't touch the dance floor
it seemed, not once, while
the orchestra was playing
a whirling dervish of a waltz
bangs cropped carefree
across the plains of my tanned face,
swishing and twirling the knee length
pink gown,
kicking off pinching white flats to steal
across the June-hot grounds
only to drift back to father’s feet
for another dance.
The orchestra packs up,
the courtly ladies yawn behind trailing sleeves
as I am tucked in
my bed of feathered down, only to wake up
thirteen years later, with cricks
nestled in the tendons of my neck
and rickety cramps twitching like
the seizure flickering of lightning bugs
through my thighs, as dust billows and rises
with my shifting in the strange light.
Sleeping Beauty wakes up
eighty-seven years ahead of schedule
in the suburbs, the curse a dud
with no prince to sweep her into syrupy swoons
with no words to name this coiling, clammy heat,
this suffocating musk.
I drag my weight
through the two-story house, teaching myself
a new vocabulary
so I can learn to breathe
through the ugly fits of orange tinted panic
at the spider webbed frailty of magic
the kismet pinprick of a spinning wheel
and the helpless sighs of my parents,
a King and Queen dethroned, overthrown
from their untouchable, eternal pedestal.
I couldn't dance
at my next birthday celebration,
when the orchestra was playing
a rollicking rondeau,
mostly because
my hair was too slicked and curled,
framing my fickle new skin,
sitting and twisting a silk napkin in my lap,
ribs locked in the powder blue grip of a whale,
resting poised to turn my toes into graceful
creatures, ten crippled wood nymphs.
To run I would have stumbled,
and it was impossible not to notice that
while we stood, my eyes grazed the top
of father’s thinning, speckled head.
I would break his feet with one more dance.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Je pense à vous voir tant d'attraits,
Qu'Amour vous a formée exprès
Pour faire que sa fête on chôme,
Car vous en avez une somme
Bien dangereuse à voir de près.
Vous êtes belle plus que très,
Et vous avez le teint si frais,
Qu'il n'est rien d'égal (au moins comme
Je pense) à vous.
Vos yeux, par des ressorts secrets,
Tenaient mille cœurs dans vos rets ;
Qui s'en défend est habile homme :
Pour moi qu'un si beau feu consomme,
Nuit et jour percé de vos traits
Je pense à vous.
1.1k
(rondeau redoublé)
This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.
And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.
It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.
Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things "just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
(a rondeau)
when it was new, this farm shone
with the tractor’s polished chrome
the barn’s crisp trim
the silo’s glinting rim
and the field’s glowing loam
it became a place for weeds to comb
through rotting cars as if sown;
these rusting crops never creased his skin
when it was new
now, the gate creaks with his bones
the fence posts lean and groan
with his warped, hobbling limb
familiarity cannot sate him
he never felt as alone
when it was new
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
" Hai,ku you tell me if da poet lives rondeau bout here? "
" Yes, he's in Limerick, it's trochee to find but I'll senryu
acrosticarpark and it's the ode place with red tiles sonnet,
number 5-7-5 called Villa Nelle. "
" Tanka."
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
When there is nothing left to say
Pleas, half-formed unspoken fade
No last chances on a plate
No dying breath to resuscitate
All our jokers, aces played
Reluctant still to move away
Familiarity urges us to stay
Use the door, close the gate
When there is nothing left to say
The mirage that was yesterday
Crumbles into dust today
No more fire in the grate
All burnt out so why wait
The path untrodden leads the way
When there is nothing left to say
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
Love me again, I'll give my everything
Give me your heart, I’ll take the love you bring
We’ll set the world where we don’t see the past
We’ll sail the sea with our love’s stronger mast--
We’ll feel the breeze like songs of love we sing.
So love me, dear and let our heartstrings cling
Through all our Winters, Summers on through Spring
So take my hand, you’re mine again at last!
Love me again...
We’ll be as two doves flying wing to wing
To our celestial throne as queen and king
Where soft angelic clouds may off-broadcast
A love's that's deeper than the stars are vast
As vibrant harp strings mimic each heartstring
Love me again…
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
A thick thread
of never-ending
cruelness,
its toxicity running
so deep
it contaminates
anyone
it can wrap itself
around
until I discovered
how to cut
myself
loose.
Copyright © 2025 Alyssa Rondeau
All Rights Reserved
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 10:29 AM UTC
The words, they jump right off the page
Imagination all the rage
To feel as if you are right there
Adventure finds you everywhere
The book you pick is how you gauge
The princess locked up in a cage
You are allowed to go backstage
Be the judge of how she will fair
The words, they jump
Allow your heart to take the stage
Be the hero who saves the sage
Fun and adventure in the air
Open a book, read if you dare
Respect the library with care
The words, they jump
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 10:27 AM UTC