Past poems, to stoke and fuel the potential for further musings:
The following is NOT, by any sense of the word, in the form of a villanelle, but rather a brainstorm on what else that word could possibly conjure up in the imagination:
Seeking Definition: “Villanelle”
Villanelle? Ma Barker, Belle Starr, female villains both,
What about Calamity Jane, more misguided than villainess,
And she-done-him-wrong Jezebel, Delilah, Lilith, Eve?
Does the fact they are notorious make them evil,
And in whose minds, and what are the criteria, anyway?
And I know this is not right, but still
The word sits and taunts, tongue sticking out,
Going no, no, no, villanelle.
A villa with a bell tower in the south of France
Where I can hear Poe’s “tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells”
As Belle Starr says goodbye to Cole Younger and the James Gang,
Trades in her Bandit Queen six-guns for a ticket to France
And disappears from history to age gracefully
As Belle Etoile in a villa overlooking the clear blue Mediterranean?
And I made that up too, for I know the stories about her
Were mostly fabricated to sell The Police Gazette and she was shot
Riding her horse toward home and no one tried too hard
To find her murderer and she never got the chance to go to France,
But still the word nags, no, no, no, crying,
Villanelle! Ah, the pirate woman extraordinaire, in her wide brimmed
Hat with the white ostrich plume, gallows looming
‘Til she seduced the judge who set her free,
Her womanpower more privateer
Than the burn, rape, and pillage of less noble sorts?
The word snorts, then giggles, and begs me continue.
Villanelle retired to the south of France, joined Belle Etoile
In friendly female rivalry, as to whose press coverage
Was furthest from the truth, which men they bed in common
Or envied the other, not that it matters, for they stretched
The truth taut, into a fine skin for the vintage wine
They had become, Belle Etoile and Villanelle.
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SOUL ON WRONG
If you get
your soul on crooked
it niggles at your feet
like a lumpy sock
tickles your armpits
and itches your neck
like a label stuck
inside out
makes you scratch your head
wrinkle your brow
squint into the dark
and shrink from the light
pokes you in the ribs
saying
“something’s wrong here”
but won’t give you a clue
as to how to get
the wrinkles out
you can stand all day
in a steamy shower
and it will shrivel
even tighter
‘til you want to scream
“What’s going on here?
Why can’t I get it right?”
but you can’t get it right
as long as you’ve got
your soul on wrong.
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As the heat of summer descends upon us, it might be pleasant to revisit February
YUM!
Like an unexpected gift this day
unwraps in sweet brevity,
February melting like chocolate
visiting on a whim
up from the Gulf of Mexico
to flirt with close-budded cherry trees
and tease the jackets off tourists on the Mall.
The sharp bite of winter
still lurks in the shadows,
but the sun-licked day is stretching itself,
a sweet confection
demanding to be savored.
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And now, whoosh, it is May again!
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FREE LUNCH
On my butterfly bush,
amidst the pungent purple plumes
perhaps in print too minuscule
for human eyes to perceive,
Nature must have a schedule posted
to have patrons so orderly:
Free Lunch –
Monarchs on Sunday,
Swallowtails on Monday,
and so on down the list,
from most regal
to the common white moths
on Saturday.
I watch each day,
yet never once do I spy
a greedy butterfly.
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HYDRANGEA
The hydrangea outside my window
are peeking through the glass,
blue heads bobbing in the June breeze.
They are chest high now, the blue ones,
but the pinks,
the pinks are
twice as thick and plush,
waist-level,
drooping with the
weight of their lushness
as if humbled
by the gift
of their own beauty.
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HUMAN
Three statues guard my garden:
Tawanda, the pre-Columbian goddess,
Cordelia, the flower girl,
and the green Egyptian cat;
stone eyes stare into space
in perpetual meditation.
Three gazes meet
to spark a sacred space
in which I sit,
listening to my heart beat.