POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS, a site established in May 2011 and which reunites Marie Elena Good and Walter J Wojtanik to help nurture and inspire the poetic spirit.

INFORM POET – VILLONETTE

A Villonnet is a hybrid of the Villanelle and the Sonnet.   It has the Iambic Pentameter of both, but holds the four-stanza/line structure of the sonnet, while utilizing the two-line rhyme nature of the villanelle. The final stanza replaces the sonnet couplet with a typical villanelle tercet.

The Villonnet was created by D. Allen Jenkins.

An example Sonnet:

THE TENDER TRAP

Love is the tender trap that snares the heart,
from eyes’ first glance the ember’s passions start.
And so to bless two souls in search of love,
who in each other’s heartbeats they do move.

The snare so baited lures her to his arms
where he becomes enraptured by her charms.
A gentle hold upon him she does reign,
to touch his very life and soul again.

He, once the hunter now becomes the prey,
the tender trap is set to save his way,
a sanctuary there within each chest;
a safety sure, procured in nurture’s nest.

Evasive hearts surrender, for ’tis true,
there is a tender trap set just for you!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

A sample Villanelle: 

TIME AND TIDE

Time and tide waits not for any man,
both will come of their own will, not yours.
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

Take on challenges the best you can,
and waste not your minutes and hours.
Time and tide waits not for any man.

As seeds that are planted in the sand,
we will wither and die like flowers.
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

The time that we borrow comes from His hand
doled out through Celestial powers,
Time and tide waits not for any man,

live your lives and make no demands,
this gift washes down in Loving showers,
So, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

Our fates are held within His hands,
go boldly forward; do not cower,
time and tide waits not for any man,
so, pick your spots and stick to the plan.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

WALT’S VILLONETTE:

POEMS COME HOME TO ROOST

Another verse that’s written from my heart,
a true emotion searching for repose.
Just a room in which it can take comfort,
a soul museum to display my art.

A biting poem piercing like a dart,
a loving poem like a lover’s kiss.
The saddest poem anyone could read,
to let a foolish poet play his part.

For in his heart is where his poems start,
expressions written from the poet’s soul.
They all come home to live inside his words,
a world in which all reason will depart.

Another verse that’s written from the heart,
these poems live and breathe in every rhyme.
A soul museum to display my art.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

 

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22 thoughts on “INFORM POET – VILLONETTE

  1. Earl Parsons on said:

    If Life Was….

    If life was a book, would we read about
    Our own life adventures page after page
    Or would it be boring, collecting dust
    Rewrite your life if you have any doubt

    If life was a race, say a marathon
    Would we run full throttle or take it slow
    The end is the end no matter the pace
    Slow and steady and life’s race will be won

    If life was eternal, would it mean more?
    Not just this moment we spend here on Earth
    But for all time in a life after death
    Where would we choose to spend our evermore?

    If life was eternal, would it mean more?
    That is a question worth pondering now
    Where would we choose to spend our evermore?

    © 2019 Earl Parsons

  2. Earl Parsons on said:

    If Life Was…… Part 2

    If life was a choice that someone else made
    Based solely on how they felt on that day
    Then living would be the luck of the draw
    The losers, well, soon their memories fade

    If life was predestined, we’d have no say
    We’d just be along for the ride, I guess
    What fun would that be; life with no control
    Every minute planned out day after day

    If life was by chance from evolution
    How did we manage to be what we are?
    Miraculous creatures perfectly made
    From the hands of supreme intervention

    If life was a choice that someone else made
    That Someone Else had a plan for us all
    Miraculous creatures perfectly made

  3. Beach Love

    A romance that begins on a beach
    is effortless, drifting soft as a cloud.
    Those salted zephyrs that tickle the skin
    are as silken as a baby’s skin of peach.

    Desire is a body bronzed within reach,
    An intoxicating coconut scent,
    and eyes burning bright as a candle’s flame.
    There is much to learn and much to teach.

    Love may last through summer or only a week,
    still romance is ever fondly recalled
    as a carefree time of just two people
    in a background bleached into fog for each.

    A romance that begins on a beach
    of seaweed, salt, and wild cries of gulls
    is as silken as a baby’s skin of peach.

  4. Earl Parsons on said:

    If Life Was….. Part 3

    If life was baseball, we’d stand at the plate
    Bat raised high awaiting the pitcher’s throw
    The catcher and pitcher know what’s coming
    Will we be fooled? Guess we’ll just have to wait

    If life was football, and we quarterbacks
    Would our friends protect us from life’s evils?
    Or would the power of evil break through?
    And the Devil would drive through for the sack

    If life was a golf match, us on the tee
    A blind drive ahead on the horizon
    A hook or a slice means trouble ahead
    Should we play safe or go for the glory?

    If life was baseball, we’d stand at the plate
    No fear for we have an eye for the pitch
    Will we be fooled? Guess we’ll just have to wait

  5. Seems not many are Villonette fans. A little challenge for your muse. If poetry were meant to be easy, every poem would be a limerick. 😉

  6. William Preston on said:

    SITTING WITH AN OLD SETTER

    The old dog’s muzzle now is gleaming white
    where formerly it was a copper red;
    she still consents to let me rub her head
    but nowadays I keep my stroking light.

    We’ve been together since she was a pup;
    she loved to play throughout the livelong day;
    it didn’t take me long to name her Gay
    because her silky ears were always up.

    But time has done its work, and now we two
    are hoary as the January snow;
    the time is coming fast for us to go
    but till it comes, these quiet days will do.

    The old dog’s muzzle now is gleaming white.
    I see her still as young and hale instead,
    but nowadays I keep my stroking light.

  7. Earl Parsons on said:

    The Standoff

    I looked down to see what’s tickling my toes
    ‘Twas the tail of my cat twitching nervous
    His eyes focused forward, a mouse in view
    The mouse froze in place, just twitching its nose

    My cat and this mouse intently locked stares
    Both tails quivered in anticipation
    The fur on their backs rose up to a point
    Neither moved nor escaped the other’s glare

    As I watched this standoff, I was in awe
    No attacks, no skedaddle, both sat froze
    This went against everything I’ve been taught
    Did my twenty pound Maine coon have a flaw?

    I looked down to see what’s tickling my toes
    It was a real life cat and mouse standoff
    No attacks, no skedaddle, both sat froze

    © 2019 Earl Parsons

  8. Earl Parsons on said:

    Where’d everybody go?

  9. William Preston on said:

    For what it might be worth, I did some research on this form, finding out, among other things, that it has other spellings, such as villonnet, and that it can be written with more or less rhyming. I chose to use one of the more-rhyming variants, to wit: A¹bbA² cddc effe A¹bA². The creator, Jenkins, apparently used at least three variants in writing his poems.

  10. (Yes. Don’t know why this form seemed so difficult to me, but here’s my attempt. Earl and the rest of you made it seem easy. Maybe it’s because the last stanza doesn’t seem finished with only three lines. At any rate we have 3 days of lows in the teens after Tuesday here in North Arkansas and I am tired of winter, so that was my motivation here.. )

    Win-tired

    The mud that once was squishy now is ice,
    its playful whims now somber as a stone,
    forgotten is the rain with which it played
    some days ago; its playfulness is gone.

    The wind that once was gentle, bitter blows.
    It makes my bones grow brittle with its whine,
    and scrapes my face, and bites my tender ears,
    and freezes, beyond feeling, my red nose.

    Old Winter, I am tired of your intent
    to make this hemisphere agree with you.
    I’ll not accept that your cold way of life
    Is how my days on this earth will be spent.

    Come Spring! Rise up from southern regions fair,
    come rescue me from this vain Season’s reign,
    he is a brute—I long for your warm care.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

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