Jane Richard (form: Roundeau Redouble`)

“Jane Richard”

An evil simmers through the milling crowd;
two brothers carry fire packed in urns.
They relish killing with their hate endowed;
they take the innocent and try to burn.

The evil fails to take Jane’s Irish,  proud,
but tries that little heart of dance that yearns.
The hate enkindled by the fire allowed;
our love of Jane  is where we all must turn.

(form: Roundeau  Redouble`)
Jane, the little Irish dancer, age 7,  lost her brother, Martin, age 8  and one of her legs in the marathon-terror-blast.
To help the Richard family with their sudden expenses, a bank account has been established in their name at Meetinghouse Bank, 2250 Dorchester Avenue, Dorchester Center, Massachusetts, 02124. Checks can be made payable to the Richard Family Fund.

My Cousin Vinny’s Argument (form Roundeau Redouble`)

“My Cousin Vinny’s Argument” (form: Roundeau Redouble`)

Of Possibility, there’s such a ruse:
You must take care to make your choice today
for choices in the past might cook your goose
or choices made too late may doom your play.

The Possible depends upon the way
you pause or grab the moment, as would Zeus!
Who strikes with all his power and his sway
for once your chance is gone, you cannot choose!

(Sestina) “Requiem for a Bedbug”

“Requiem for a Bedbug”

“Delicious Morsels, Edible Earth For
Bed Bugs”, blink signs tonight in this *Paris.
“Let them eat Earth, they shall bite me no more!”
Marie, named Antoinette , she snored a while
as little vampires ate her, banquet style.
Now comes the dawn, a sorry sight; en masse

of Bed Bugs dead, humongous, in a mass.
These bugs thus have a predilection for
a munching lunch in banquet-gathered style,
prepare to brunch upon the queen’s Paris.
So sleeps Marie who knew naught for a while
or that, voracious bugs had plans for more.

Was but a pound of flesh; they wanted more.
The Captain, bugged, thus counted comrade’s mass;
commissioned ready soldiers wait a while:
“Await the broom, the mop, the sacred pail for
we, as bugs, do love a clean Paris”.
Ladies-in-Waiting steamed queen sheets with style!

The Queen took to her bed in regal style:
“’Let them eat cake’; they shall eat me no more!”
Surprise for bed bugs to this site, Paris
and so the Ladies sweep them in a mass.
“They’ll sniff burnt sulfur! That we’re waiting for!
They’ll sing a dirge for dead comrades a while!”

The nightly stampede starts in just a while.
Bug Captain says “Ho, Forward!” , and with style.
The sulfur burns the lungs of sick crew for
they breathe vile fumes upon their munching more.
“Comrades!” the Bug Lead shouts, “We’re dead en masse:
abandon Queen in bed to her Paris!”

Kind sir, hear story of this fair Paris:
poor city! Head-bowed, bend your neck a while…
Bed Bugs, they had their day and night, en masse;
they fought a brave, new battle with such style.
But none could fathom sorrow so much more
than what Ladies-in-Waiting… waited for:

No Paris defestation for a while:
The guillotine exacts from Queen her style
as all her ladies moan: “More bugs en masse!”

*Paris pronounced “Pair ee”.

Day 15, April PAD for Writer’s Digest Prompt: Create a Sestina

Day Eleven April Pad Challenge

No Giggling Allowed”

In case you giggle while in church;
(my friend elbows me way too much)
You dare not look or glance her way
lest sinful howl; disastrous day!

Your mom has half-turned in her seat
her eyes now dare you sound or peep!
You swallow hard such loud guffaw;
and inside feels like buzzing saw!

O, world I cannot hold you thus;
the laughter from my belly thrust.
With hanky to my bleating throat
I exit quickly ‘fore I bust.

Day Twelve, April Pad Challenge

“The Unbroken”

Beneath this stone a broken heart:
here, hidden, in this silent place,
Low hangs brave moss this tree imparts
a shining grace

Where once my youthful boaster beamed
and I did kiss him ‘pon his mouth.
He laughed at all our broken dreams
that did go south.

But O, if I could love again
those broken dreams, remembered well:
the dream of him would be my end
for any hell.

Suffering theme ; pad for 10 April

Suffered Enough

There’s sadness in the curtain’s final scene;
That cup has quenched your candle in the wind.
There’s catatonic rest in “might have been”
And in your vacant room, a vacuumed din.

You saw it in your lover’s troubled eyes
the evil gripping him a bit quite mad:
your blame now past as withered are his cries;
not forced to say again, “my bad; my bad!

Sometimes we choose to linger in the pain
than let it go and snuff out all our tears;
Sometimes we choose to let the pain remain
than struggle with the unknown and our fears.

When love and sense, together, are not strong
Is better to let go than string along.

“Upon Viewing Diana” (theme for 9 April: the hunter or hunted)

Upon Viewing “Diana the Huntress” by Giampietrino at the Metropolitan

Diana, Huntress, breathes now at the Met;
Da Vinci’s pupil thus bestowed to all.
Once seen her placid world, I’ll not forget
her innocence is beauty that enthralls.

This marbled creature stands aloof and pure
perfection for the eye and of her sheaf;
no leaf asunder and no look demure
but swift this maiden captures my belief.

O, take your color, leaving me quite blind!
Diana’s captured my unconscious sea.
Her heart’s the hunter for that thing, sublime:
the indefinable; life’s mystery.

Diana, Huntress, now has pierced my heart;
the artist sends us now beyond the art.

“Thirty-Five Miles Per Hour”

“Thirty-Five Miles Per Hour”

The winter gone; bluebonnets peep their heads
among a broken fence-line, near a sign.
This ground now hallowed, they will bloom instead
in wild confusion for a heart that’s blind.

For those who do not see the need for pause;
for those who do not heed the gift of life.
The “pedal to the medal” seems a clause;
a saying they would live by as their right.

Below the bonnets grieve the innocent;
those wide-eyed wonders on their way to school.
They had so brief a moment to confront
the jagged bumper of the speeding fool.

So, spring is here; bluebonnets lift their heads:
a heaven-haloed blue for those now dead.

“Sevenling (Such beauty is…)

(Titles not required, a Sevenling should be titled Sevenling followed by the first few words in parentheses The tone should be mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told. The poem should have a certain ambience which invites guesswork from the reader.

“Sevenling” (such beauty is)

Such beauty is the white rose in that vase!
There’s kitchen clatter; guttural the drain.
The hiss of steaming pots announce a din.

A hurried note; its writing smeared and stained
White tablecloth is stormed with many spots;
The chicken, fried, is cold and in a bowl.

The sign upon the door says: “Out to Lunch”


We pass, like strangers, quickly down our hall.
His night shift over, sun will speed his sleep.
No pity has the morn for me to stall;
It’s time to take the baby to his keep.

To work and to the sitter; life’s a sigh!
But on my coffee table, there’s a note
where I must quickly scribble out reply
to running quips we do, between us, quote.

“You are my Juliet and I love you
in dreams”, sez he.”And you will be my sun!”
But hark, my answer, though it be quite true,
conditioned by my feet about to run:

“Sleep on, oh Sun God, in our bed of brass!
Tomorrow, in the hallway, we shall pass!

(My cop worked the night shift. My teacher job meant we passed like ships in the night. But funny couplets flew between us during the week. One original, scrawled in pencil on yellowed legal, survives. We were together 62 years. And yes, it was a brass bed.)

original title:  “notes for a lifetime”