Rondeau 6

The final shot will happen soon.
Perhaps on Sunday afternoon.
Or maybe in another week
We'll finally have the peace we seek
And then we'll sing a different tune.

They said that it would come last June,
"Before another harvest moon."
There is one thing of which they speak:
The final shot.

One day another damn buffoon
Will make the integral mob swoon.
And then the world won't seem as bleak.
Meanwhile the commanders tweak
To try to get for their platoon
The final shot.

Rondeau 5

Yes, it has been a few months since I posted. But I have been thinking about the poetry I write for this site all along. It takes concentration and time set aside to create something like a rondeau, (or any of the more complicated forms of poetry.) While I admit I could have been quicker about it this time, this poems are not the sort one can crank out ten at a time, and expect any quality.

Nonetheless, here is my fifth rondeau. My exploration of the form will continue for a bit more, hopefully without as large a delay as this time.

*

By candle light, one's heart is known.
For one can never be alone
Amid the dancing of the flame.
We cannot hide our pride or shame.
Our dreams, our fears, our sins are shown.

Undulating shadows are blown
Along four walls of solid stone.
Nothing ever looks the same
By candle light.

Some will their tragic state bemoan.
For sins, some others will atone.
Still others won't assign the blame.
To them it's nothing but a game.
And for a few? Their legend grows
By candle light.

Rondeau 4

In braver days, the land was free.
An honest difference would not be
A reason for me to despise
Distrust and doubt, defame with lies.
There was another view to see.

This land was safe for men like me.
It was no crime to disagree.
And noble souls could compromise.
In braver days.

No cowering on bended knee.
No public servant apathy.
No hungry wolves in sheep disguise.
No hesitance to realize
The weak owe no apology.
In braver days.

Rondeau 3

All summer long I hear the creek.
Bubbling, burbling, I hear it speak,
And with it crickets in the weed.
So very little do I need
When I embrace the earth's mystique.

I hike across  the world's physique,
Sweating and panting as I seek
The confirmations of my creed.
All summer long.

Oh how my passions reach their peak,
A soothing balm for when I'm weak.
Beneath the sun my soul shall feed.
There is a calling I shall heed
All summer long.

Rondeau 2

I wage a war I cannot show.
A war the world must never know.
The struggle is my private hell.
Combatants names I will not tell,
Nor will I tell where I must go.

No casualties. No blood will flow.
No commendations to bestow.
Yet if I win all will be well.
I wage a war.

An explanation I may owe.
Contemporaries tell me so.
Yet though their admonitions swell,
To say would sound my own death knell.
Suffice to say, it's going slow.
I wage a war.