Headline: Publishers Murder French Form

(Are they dead? Did they die as lemons or endowments?)

Should England mourn Sestina’s death when all our vain
Attempts to gain her life have brought us no support?
Should England mourn Sestina’s death if penning sound
To fit an English voice into her cadence failed?
Should England mourn Sestina’s death if but for print
She never musters sparks to aid a bland career?                                                         
Could England mourn without regard for lost career
We treat as child to wean the self from being vain?
Would mourning claim to blame that we are not in print
Because we deemed Sestina lacked orál support?
Can England mourn Sestina died as voices failed
To guess accentuation found inside her sound?

Does England mourn a poet’s death from such a sound
Designed by France to make or break a bright career
When trials for feet inside Sestina’s cadence failed?
If England mourns with baited breath beneath our vain
Neglect to give revered Sestina due support
Then England mourns in selfish need to seed all print.

Should England ask the French who never hear our print
To give us trust of each old troubadour’s new sound;
Unseal protective shields that give their forms support?
Could England make Sestina’s death our best career
To master French in beast of forms we mock in vain
Then sing her dead Sestina’s song whose cadence failed
   
If England’s solemn mourning song in cadence failed
Then we reflect the pen that never would see print
And songs to mourn Sestina’s death are all in vain.
A student who forgets to sing Sestina’s sound
Can lose a measured goal then hinder paid career
And void all ground Sestina earned to gain support.
Why mourn Sestina’s death when England scoffed support
As strict selection found again her cadence failed
To give an added flavor to a drab career?
Why mourn Sestina’s death when not to be in print
Would mourn ourselves a lack of song that bears our sound?
Dismiss these thoughts, all based in selfish greed, as vain.
                                   
Forget we wish to print! Sing out Sestina’s sound!		
Sestina died in vain if choice impedes career!
Sestina’s cadence never failed my penned support. 

Understated Heroes

Dawning slays steel, reflecting the fixed star
As a stark taskmaster conquering night.
The dry-dock has a solitary ship
Surrendering skin to the flamed torches
Of mechanics; understated heroes
Who barely notice the breaking of day.  
                                                                                                        
While peppering rotations grind all day,
The hot-steel welder waits to be the star.
Naval ship repairs delay our heroes.
Sal’s nine-pound baby, born just last night, 
Dazed his mind amid flaming torches.
He cannot go home. Sal refits our ship.
                                                                                                      
Un-uniformed forfeit just for our ship.
Strict rules govern when they stay through the day.
Men show anger by swinging lit torches.
Noon sun strikes steel projecting the fixed star
As patent power. Eyes, blinded through night,
Require darker shields to guide our heroes.

Incessant demands are made of heroes
By white-hats then suits and boots aboard ship.
Patient duty prolongs every night.
Yil is a Turk who has been here one day,
Trades skills for a chance to be a free star;
Islam’s misfit is at home with torches.

All fear repairmen when holding torches.
Our wars grant them respect as real heroes.
Dusk strokes steel by injecting the fixed star
With cool winds that soothe skin on our lame ship.
Dim light loosens might at the end of day,
Calls crews that work through darker rule of night.

Dock-Porta-lite strings must now defeat night.
Men beg the moon to show face as torches
Fit steel that took the bigger hits that day
From the foes of American heroes
At  hard dirty work repairing our ship.
See splashing rays, new light of dawn’s fixed star

That frees our heroes, and sea worthy ship!
Earth has one fixed star only seen by day. 
So hail skilled torches lit by crews last night.

French Rondel’s 1st Epistemology

Enough said; I’m due to be dead
from flaws inside my selfish need,
and laws from which i take no heed,
where grace keeps me alive instead.

From whom does this world get its head
but we who pander childish seed.
Enough said; I’m due to be dead
from flaws inside my selfish need?

To not know self is what i dread;
Ah rats! in madness think me bold
and rather sad i must grow old.
Weak, so to speak, from what I’ve read;
Enough said; I’m due to be dead
from flaws inside my selfish need!

Late Through The Gate

Dreams start the race late through the gate
Unaware of how we will fare.
Dreams  part ways when talent is rare
And they begin by tempting fate.

What if our dreams get a new slate
That faces the challenger’s dare?
Dreams start the race late through the gate
Unaware of how we will fare?

Our dreams get their strength from our care
In preparation for each date.
All dreams are destroyed when we hate
But have life in the Love we share.
Dreams start the race late through the gate
Unaware of how we will fare.

Traditional Rondel Hymn in English Metré

We worship God in our every thought;
Seeking to save all those lost on their way.
Trusting to know for our lives He will pray
That we serve God in our deeds as we ought.

We read God’s Word, finding how we were wrought
And we find missions of value each day.
We worship God in our every thought;
Seeking to save all those lost on their way?

Remember the price paid when we were bought.
Remember in Praise our minds do not stray.
God is the potter and we are God’s clay
God as Messiah; the gift that He brought.
We Worship God in our every thought;
Seeking to save all those lost on their way!

Lost Sonnet’s Soliloquy

“Never asked, why did our paths intersect?
Did I have reasons to go out that night?
Selfish lives meshed then seen in retrospect
Refocus sight that made it all seem right.
Never asked, why did our wrath lose this fight?
Your lap was cradle for my weary head
To bare soul, unload my pained life in flight,
Empty all without fears of common dread
Then make your comfort where my need would tread.
Is any bone a single reasoned gain?
Is freedom from my cage now surely dead
In chapters where dry pages show our stain
      	Beset by embraces with no basis,
      	Still disgraces you as my oasis?”

Plastic Sonnets Too!

Parts inside our cars, almost each cell-phone,
Bags so your lunch stays fresh, her easy-bake,
Pens, computers, backpacks, his action drone;
All things we use that need crude oil to make,
Endangered fossils are the risks we stake.
Does man hear his own solid choice of plan?
Do humans prove God had one sad mistake?
Our search provides my voice to say you can
Create tools so plastics will avoid this ban.
No doubt I tout your clout decides our way
To garner what is needed by earthman
And save refuse to use another day.
	Recycling solves with a plastic mandate;
	Middle America must participate.

All Get There

When arrogance denied humility
A break from wealth, my frigid spirit’s bent,
It wondered if maligned agility
Could find the hem of garment that was sent.
More obstinate than each perceptive vent
Of pondered hope in great anticipation 
Were thoughts that sheltered altars in our tent
Guaranteed each aim to gain salvation
Which could bear your strict examination
On this earthly ship afloat where all share
A spiritual illumination
That sets us free; escape the gilded snare.
	The arrogance of wealth to be denied
	By Joy assured in all those lives you tried.

Context Petrarchan In an old Italian Castle

How curious that fate let blind eyes see
Your smile while ending my relief from pain.
Your rope of love, now thirsty, has no strain.
What should I say if you envelop me? 
Blind cup without a lid is much too free.
I meet my fate that never offered gain
From leaving all your clouds to share their rain
Then ask my guile in tears to let you be.

The dawn will rise for fate to catch this hand.
The lid could be undone from our affair.
The rope would then be thirsty for my neck.
So serious that now I take a stand.
Blind missed this dance of light upon your hair.
Conspire with me to greet with “What the heck!”

Make our Song a Lie (French Virelai) 

There was a famous song we wrote
Which read our music died,
Our levees were as one dry mote,
And none could say we truly tried.

Is there a sign we never lied
Of how you let earth’s man 
Abuse the fossils as we cried,
Where are the ones who have a plan? 

Sound thinkers say we know you can
Help young hearts hum one note
Reclaiming tunes from beasts that ran
And make lies of that song we wrote.

Old Mares, Old Farms, Old Farmers (French Virelai)

Old  mare runs with a young spring in her trot
Forcing time to stand still on this farm.
Her purposeful stride shows nature forgot
What her age was intended to harm.

Broken wheel on the plow gave no alarm
As that old mare just quickened her glide.
Old  farmer determined, with one good arm
Tightly wrapped on her bridle to guide,

That it was the end of this life and ride.
His wry smiles note that old mare will show
Plowing old fields as a way they can hide
In his crops where weeds cover each row.
 
He prays good health for new seed he would sow
Against nature’s old farm in neglect
And trusts that all seeds he planted will grow
To provide healthy plants that reflect

Old Mares, Old  Farms, and Old Farmers reject
Old Death’s choke as an end to their lot
But never provided what would protect
From our Nature’s indigenous plot.

Blind (French Virelai)

Blind led blind to the precipice of sin,
neither could see what lay ahead.
Kind God find us before patience wears thin
keeping us free from lives of dread.

We lack truths in those scriptures never read
that Love of God provides clear sight
of blood shed as our spiritual bread
nourishing our road, to God’s might.

People perish lacking knowledge to fight
an old war, only God can win.
People cherish salvation to let light
change hearts then ban the dark within.

Adieu Rondeau- Warm Rain: Cold Snow

Warm rain, cold snow are my pleasure.
They take part in our Earth’s measure
To feed all but not leave a trace
Of seasons that keep them in place;
Yet, friends in their lone adventure.

Large trees, small birds; know the treasure
In safe blankets guaranteed  pure
By two from one source with one face;
Warm rain, cold snow. 

Rosebuds accept what they endure
From creation’s way to nurture
Roots sleeping under winter’s space,
Dreaming of sweet lives from Spring’s grace,
Loving this pair as their future;  
Warm rain, cold snow.

Lockeroom Villanelle

Who charges through athletic minds
then stretches them to limit flaws?
Headmaster searches books and  finds,

athletics breed so many kinds,
who all seem bitter to the laws,
who charges through athletic minds.

If wishing for his mental binds
or need to know if he had claws:
Headmaster searches books and  finds,

athletics foster mental grinds
to ask the question, from the jaws;
Who charges through athletic minds?

Then faces each as if he blinds
the way of questions to his paws.
Headmaster searches books and finds

athletic’s pathway turns and winds
as in books closing,  too  then draws:
Who charges through athletic minds?
Headmaster searches books and finds.

(Sedoka) (Double Katauta)(Double Nahani)

A note
as messenger of  truth
assuages doubt
gaining its importance  to all.

A note
as messenger of  lies
engages doubt
gaining its importance  to all.

A note when bearing 
truth ejects doubt  becoming
a sincere gesture to all.

A note when bearing 
lies begets doubt becoming
disingenuous to all.

Kind

The kind little bird
shared his food with the squirrel
then flew to his winter nest.

He got there to find
his brothers ate what he left
and kind bird beat them to death.

Cinquain Couplet

Pleading,
Begging in tone 
Gives heed in direction
Now reassured you heard the need 
Entreat.

“Five-0,”
keepers of law
kill killers of children
feeling safe after feeling fear:
Police.

The Haiku group

ghastly figures loom
above the knife before dawn
celebrate all saints

one ear, one eye crushed
cascading slopes torn by snow
Halloween costume

darkness was not dark
dim halos bound together
empty shiny shoes 

cold feeling darkness
reaching just for your own hands
we are not lovers

rising from the deep
bearing teeth down on faint bone
Pass the gravy, please

never scarify 
nyctophobia victims
birds chirp at daybreak

winter ages roots
calling rodents to new food
changing hair color

spring rains bring rosebuds, 
winter snows end the matter
new loving old lust

fall night owls screeching 
in foreboding oboe caves
man’s hog-killing time

winter seeds falling
blind spring fruit a chance to fit 
legal bastard’s void

falling spring Apple
provides sauce with sturdy core 
pro- and con of choice

man’s moot scholarship
spring choice summons question or
questions mandate choice?

springtime lemonade
bitter choice, sweeten voice
misfit invasions