November gales are drawing nigh,
As autumn heaves a gusty sigh.
A whirlwind sprays the fallow ground
With rotting leaves, all creased and browned,
Whilst angry clouds go scudding by.
Take wing, yon bluebird, time to fly
Away to sun-drenched fields of rye.
For soon, the storms shall make their round--
November Gales.
Before the snow blots out the sky,
Chrysanthemums shall wilt and die.
A field mouse scurries 'neath the mound
Of nuts and seeds, ol' gray squirrel found.
The crow maintains a watchful eye--
November Gales.
* * *
November gales are drawing nigh,
Through pelting rain, the sailors cry.
To distant shores, this freighter's bound,
But scrapes a shoal and runs aground.
The crashing surf leaves no one dry.
Should she go down, all hands will die,
To heaven, some, whilst others fry.
"It don't look good," the captain frowned--
November Gales
In sandy tombs, the shipwrecks lie,
Now left to rot, as time creeps by.
The doomed craft makes a wailing sound,
Awaking all those dead and drowned,
And sails into the tempest's eye--
November Gales
As autumn heaves a gusty sigh.
A whirlwind sprays the fallow ground
With rotting leaves, all creased and browned,
Whilst angry clouds go scudding by.
Take wing, yon bluebird, time to fly
Away to sun-drenched fields of rye.
For soon, the storms shall make their round--
November Gales.
Before the snow blots out the sky,
Chrysanthemums shall wilt and die.
A field mouse scurries 'neath the mound
Of nuts and seeds, ol' gray squirrel found.
The crow maintains a watchful eye--
November Gales.
* * *
November gales are drawing nigh,
Through pelting rain, the sailors cry.
To distant shores, this freighter's bound,
But scrapes a shoal and runs aground.
The crashing surf leaves no one dry.
Should she go down, all hands will die,
To heaven, some, whilst others fry.
"It don't look good," the captain frowned--
November Gales
In sandy tombs, the shipwrecks lie,
Now left to rot, as time creeps by.
The doomed craft makes a wailing sound,
Awaking all those dead and drowned,
And sails into the tempest's eye--
November Gales
Author notes
v e r d e b o y
The Rondeau is a French form of 15 lines in 3 stanzas: quintet, quatrain and sestet. 13 of the lines are of 8 syllables, and 2 of the lines are a refrain of 4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is aabba aabR aabbaR. For added difficulty, use the first half of the first line for the repeating refrain.
A contest entry
- Rondeaux, s’il vous plaît by Peripatetic.
1500 points, ended November 24, 12 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Oh, my!
Ah, well, you stopped at only two. I guess it's always best to leave 'em wanting more than otherwise! The images of the first are especially vivid and captivating to the imagination while the tone of the second is of the same quality and to the same effect. Together the two Rondeaux remind us that in all the world there is more going on at one time than those involved in the goings on might perceive at the time.
I'm just wondering what kind of conflict might arise between the field mouse and the squirrel.

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I love this! It's wonderfully colorful! I love your descriptions! Good luck in the contest!


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I enjoyed your poem(s)!
both of them written about November gales and yet took this reader to two different places. I liked the way you did that and they both were interesting.
Good luck in the contest, j
y


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Nicely done!
good luck in the contest!

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Excellent! Fits the season and fits the form wonderfully.


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Thank You!
'Tis still a work in progress...
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WoW.
Very, very nice!!! A difficult form of poetry to write, but you nailed it! -
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Thanks So Much!
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1 - 8 of 8







