Skip to content

Tag: French verse forms

The Time Not Now: villanelle

The time not now will never come to pass.
What is born here today, this day will die.
All this that is was never built to last.

The past does not go slow, nor future fast,
yet both what is and was confuse the eye.
The time not now will never come to pass.

Enjoy this moment’s rich and full repast,
its laughter, tears, brief hours and gentle sighs.
All this that is was never built to last.

The flags for yesterday don’t fly half mast,
nor need us wringing hands with woeful cries.
The time not now will never come to pass.

There is no back and forth, the die is cast.
What you know now is all you’ll realize.
All this that is was never built to last.

There just time to focus on this task,
not what waits in your wheelhouse by-and-by.
All this that is was never built to last.
The time not now will never come to pass.

14 Jul 2025

Leave a Comment

What You See: triolet

What you see is what you get.
Be careful since the eyes can lie –
a simple truth we often can forget:
what you see is what you get,
and once you’ve got it, you’re in debt
to those who’ve shown you what to buy.
What you see is what you get.
Be careful, since the eyes can lie.

You may not get what you deserve.
There is no fair exchange on high,
no sacred balance to preserve.
You may not get what you deserve.
The masters change, the source may swerve,
but we all live, and serve, and die.
You may not get what you deserve.
There is no fair exchange on high.

The only time you have is now.
There is no past or future tense
to look for or work through, somehow.
The only time you have is now,
and in this moment is allowed
the brief chance to experience
the only time you have is now.
There is no past or future tense.

11 JUL 2025

Leave a Comment

The Unbound Wheel: sestina

The wheel has come unbound, our heading lost.
No one is in command who knows the way.
What good is it to offer thoughts and prayers
when power tells us action is no use,
and only seeks to satisfy itself.
The ocean does not classify its dead.

And when the last vestige of hope is dead,
who will be left to measure what is lost?
A treasure cannot ever spend itself,
nor can a map discover its own way.
These tools that we accumulate for use,
are pointless as more idle thought and prayer.

Who is the object of that fervent prayer,
the ruler of somewhere we go when dead,
a place while living that has little use
except to frighten those we claim are lost?
We do not know, but claim to know the way,
despite not having seen the spot itself.

Yet that is not so great a sin, itself.
Despite the efficaciousness of prayers,
the wayward soul may quickly find its way.
Still, no one profits from a slave that’s dead,
or can recoup what profits may be lost.
Mere punishment alone is not much use.

So what is to be done, and what’s the use
ignoring those who speak for God itself?
The road is straight ahead. We are not lost.
This is the answer to our whispered prayers.
Excelsior, it’s forward now, or dead.
All options narrow to a single way.

There surely must be more than just one way,
a myriad of different tools to use.
We worship, but don’t listen to, the dead,
who tell us means define the end itself.
We talk too much about our thoughts and prayers,
but in this great confusion we are lost

The wheel has come unbound along the way,
which is not all that troublesome itself
but with just maps and charts of little use,
we seem to be dependent on some prayers
that only seem to help you when you’re dead,
or when you make believe you are not lost.

03 JUL 2025

Leave a Comment

What Would Become: rondine

What would become of me without ambition,
a driving force to make some kind of mark,
to cast my feeble light out in the dark
and so improve my overall condition?
To otherwise behave suggests perdition,
a life led without purpose or benchmark.
What would become of me?

If I accomplish nothing, what derision
will others heap upon my useless mission,
assuming I’m a bum lost in the park,
my fortune come to nil and prospects stark?
What would become of me?

26 Jun 2025

Leave a Comment

Outside of Time: rondelet

We’re out of time,
past the hour when clocks expire.
We’re out of time,
beyond this moment’s final chime.
We can exist, if we desire,
right now – and never age or tire.
We’re out of time.

We’re out of time.
When the last flame has left the fire
we’re out of time.
In desperation, on we climb,
the dreams to which our hearts aspire
still waiting, listening to that liar:
we’re out of time.

We’re out of time,
past all that counting, muck and mire.
We’re out of time,
Where all the world exists in rhyme
and we can join in with the choir,
with nothing left us to acquire:
we’re out of time.

26 Jun 2025

Leave a Comment

Blame the Mess: rondel supreme

The world’s become a ghastly mess,
and we have just ourselves to blame.
What good is keeping score? The game
we’re playing, who can guess?

There’s no use wailing in distress,
or pointing fingers. What a shame
the world’s become a ghastly mess,
and we have just ourselves to blame.

If we were honest, we’d confess
our guilt in making things so lame.
We hate the rich, but want the same,
no matter who must live with less.
The world’s become a ghastly mess,
and we have just ourselves to blame.

25 Jun 2025

Leave a Comment

Ways and Means: rondel

The means you use always define the end.
If that end is not beautiful, you know
somewhere beyond the last, most recent bend,
your principles dissolved into mere show,

that sense of purpose lost in “let’s pretend”
where only ambiguity can grow.
The means you use always define the end.
If that end is not beautiful, you know.

There is no point in trying to defend
that act that gave your truth a fatal blow,
the consequence you swore to not intend.
Once you are caught up in the undertow,
the means you use always define the end.
If that end is not beautiful, you know.

25 Jun 2025

Leave a Comment