I haven’t written poetry in months, but, sometimes, the skies turn grey in New Mexico, and my brain is suddenly grown over in the weeds of my youth. The sodden layers emerge, leftovers from all of those years of rain, rain, and rain, and I greatly desire to write poetry. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time, so I’ve decided to pull a rondeau from my archives. It isn’t a particularly good rondeau, but I’m hoping that it will inspire my readers to comments, or to post their own rondeaux–or their own poems. Have you written any?
Augusta Wind will blow again,
Her bones a vapor wrapped in skin,
A princess of the reedy rake
Who blossoms from the river’s wake
In high-moon nights distilled in gin.
Her movement whispers through the din,
A sigh, a song, a swell within
Of rising docks that groan and shake
With a gust of wind.
Her hands are soft, but chilled with sin;
They shut the red, gin eyes of men;
They shake them on the docks and take
Their souls with soft embraces; make
Them grasp at whispering maidens,
At nothing but Augusta Wind.
p.s. Yes, I’m well aware that my rhymes are horrid, along with the rest of it.