Poem: wait the time

And so all sit and wait the time,
to hear the words that do not rhyme,
and find the news of what will be,
when hopes will come or hopes will flee,
and hear the words that may not chime.

Somewhere the hill they all do climb,
to find a sprig of hope not thyme,
and they do go and try to see,
and so all sit and wait the time.

And one does move much like a mime,
who does a show for just one dime,
no words are heard of pain or glee,
as eyes do look to the far sea,
and see the cliffs that are white lime,
and so all sit and wait the time.

Post Series: The Christmas Series: Poem: O’ hear the call

O’ hear the call of these bold words,
that fly from here like flocks of birds,
this Christmas time is not for rush,
or weight of gifts that seem to crush,
or things to do that press like herds.

Like from the whey one strains the curds,
remove from now the rope that girds,
and tell the list of tasks to hush,
O’ hear the call of these bold words.

Like numbers that some do call surds,
irrationality of words,
does try to make this time like mush,
and hide the truth as if with blush,
that One was born near to some herds,
O’ hear the call of these bold words.

Poem: a speech

A song did play on one bright day,
when one man stood and he did say,
that what he saw it must be wrong,
that it had been this way too long,
and that this way it must not stay.

The man did speak in a clear way,
of that which did on his mind weigh,
and he spoke well just like a song,
a song did play.

And those who heard they all did pay,
attention as the song did play,
and they did sing right there along,
and all did cheer at the last gong,
as the last note did fly away,
a song did play.

Poem with an explanation: The Specter Looms

The Specter Looms

The specter looms in silence still,
and does not waver in his will,
he stands above with silent gaze,
above the land that’s like a maze,
and there he stands upon his hill.

The sound he makes is not and nil,
yet those that hide across the rill,
do fear his form which he does raise,
the specter looms.

They wish to move across the sill,
and enter where the gold does fill,
yet as if the land does hide in haze,
they stand afar still in a daze,
as if they swallowed fear in a pill,
the specter looms.

The above poem is a rondeau.  At first glance, the poem is meant to sound a bit frightening: the idea of a specter looming and some group fearing this specter.  However, in reality, the poem is about something simpler: a scarecrow.

The specter in the poem is the scarecrow.  The group are the crows.  The poem describes the scarecrow in the field and the crows being afraid to go there.  The idea was to present a simple idea, in a way that hid the actual meaning, and made it sound as if something more significant was being described.

A Poem: 6 Poems = 1 Poem: Breakfast

frying two large eggs,
in a small pan with butter,
while bacon crisps


the smell moves around,
of butter and smoked bacon,
filling all the house,
with a new scent of hunger,
which flows in wisps through all rooms


in back
the kettle heats,
on the warm metal stove,
it’s for the tea that’s in the pot,
that waits


the oven warms within its walls,
the bread that slowly heats,
it has a scent that fills the halls,
as each room the scent meets


the table is set with plates of white,
that are so clean and seem so bright,
and in a vase are yellow blooms,
that brighten all and dispel glooms,
and seem to fill the room with light

the plates have knives set to the right,
and on the left are forks in sight,
that napkins look like cloth made on looms,
the table is set

the table is set at the best height,
so all the chairs do not fit tight,
and in the house of all the rooms,
this one was most cleaned well with brooms,
so that the room would have no plight,
the table is set


the food is served upon the plates of white,
and has a scent that of itself tastes good,
it seems to be a very pleasant sight,
as it all seems just as it seems it should

the food is there with wisps that seem to rise,
up from the bacon, eggs, and bread and tea,
the breakfast there it seems as such a prize,
the best that there upon the plates could be

and the warm breakfast that is there that day,
it was prepared that morning after dawn,
with such great care and in a certain way,
before the cool of the new day was gone,

the breakfast was made early with such care,
and all the food it was a perfect fare.

Poem series: Rondeaux Four: Corn


The corn was cut and lay upon the ground,
it was spread out, not in a mound,
it was alright the day before,
but that in state, it was no more,
for it was cut and spread around.

During the night there was no sound,
nothing did seem to wake the hound,
but as he slept upon the floor,
the corn was cut.

Although the gate was closed and bound,
and on the land the fence went round,
beneath the ground something did bore,
or it did fly and through skies tore,
for it did come and cut what it found,
the corn was cut.

Poem series: Rondeaux Three: Thirst


There was a thirst that was inside,
behind the throat it did reside,
it felt empty but filled with need,
and it had hope for one small deed,
and this small need it did not hide.

With each swallow it did confide,
with the near mind that was the guide,
that it did want the mind to heed,
there was a thirst.

The mind did know it had not lied,
and that this pain it could not bide,
that the body it should so lead,
and that its form it should so geed,
to fill the need that was so cried,
there was a thirst.

Poem series: Rondeaux Two: The Butter Melted

The Butter Melted

The butter melted within the pan,
and then around the edge it ran,
and in the pan the bread did go,
the slices placed within a row,
to cook right there as was the plan.

And in the box the eyes did scan,
to find the cheese behind the flan,
and then the heat was set to low,
the butter melted.

The bread did cook and it turned tan,
and seemed the color of rattan,
and the cheese did melt in a manner slow,
and made a food that seemed to glow,
that was served on a plate colored cyan,
the butter melted.

Poem series: Rondeaux One: The Laundry Washed

The Laundry Washed

The laundry washed as it did spin,
in the machine that made a din,
it washed and spun and moved about,
and seemed as if it fought a bout,
and it did seem the machine did win.

The clothes weren’t clean in the small bin,
where they did sit with all their kin,
but then after a quick short route,
the laundry washed.

Into the machine the clothes went in,
and it was sealed much like a tin,
when they were done they were moved out,
and they were clean as none could doubt,
and then they found a line and pin,
the laundry washed.

Poem series: Space: Rondeau

A room with books and a large chair,
with quietness that does feel rare,
and a window that looks outside,
where from distraction one can hide,
someone can sit and rest from wear.

Inside are books that show some care,
and two small lamps that form a pair,
a fireplace that’s to the side,
a room with books.

Like a burrow of a small hare,
or a stone cave for a brown bear,
this space does fit on the inside,
with a small space that’s not too wide,
where one can feel how well they fare,
a room with books.