Eight-one degrees F. at noon today. Whew...we jump from winter to mid-summer and skip spring.
The north side of the garage still has 3" if ice and snow on the ground in a swath three feet wide. On the south side of the property we stood and watched the daffodils and hyacinths open before our eyes. Not complaining, just saying. The forecast for tomorrow is for the mid-seventies. I have to do an eleven mile training run tomorrow in preparation for the 1/2 marathon I'll be running at the end of May in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Since I find it advantageous to run when it's cooler, I'll be on the road by 0700 when the temp should be in the high forties or low fifties.

Today's assignment/prompt for poefusion was to write a villenelle. I've written a villenelle about my training run tomorrow morning based on my 10 mile run over the same route two weeks ago. This route over the 4 rod road to Edwardsville is a particularly rigorous one. I describe it as ten mile loop, up-hill both ways. While technically untrue, it sure feels like it when your running it. ;)

The villanelle is a fixed form of nineteen lines consisting of five tercets (three line stanzas) and a quatrain (four line stanza). The first line (refrain) is repeated in lines six, twelve and eighteen while the third line is repeated in lines nine, fifteen and nineteen. These refrains (first/third lines) rhyme with each other and with the opening line of each stanza. The middle lines rhyme with each other to make the rhyme scheme aba.
The road rolls out; uphill everyway.
Eleven miles of macadam to go,
Counting cadence, in silence sway.

The morning is the cool of day.
Smoothly gliding, heel to toe.
The road rolls out, uphill everyway.

Breathing quickens, muscles bay,
Brain taunts and says: no, no.
Counting cadence, in silence sway.

Sips of water quench thirst away
Each and every mile or so......
The road rolls out, uphill everyway.

Reaching mile 5.5, mind in disarray,
Make the turn, feel confidence grow.
Counting cadence, in silence sway.

Almost there, at last I pray.
I've passed the test, I feel the glow!
The road rolls out, uphill everyway.
Counting cadence, in silence sway.

Smörgåsbord....# 102

David MeLange was looking forward to attending the event of the season; the literary smörgåsbord hosted by his group of writing aficionados. It's not as if they were a group of published authors or anything. No, most of their publishing was done on Blogger or Wordpress or some such online blog/journal site, although a few had had some poems published in some obscure poetry magazines.

Basically, they were a group of literary connoisseurs who savored words as if they were the spices and ingredients in a hodgepodge of bellatristic scribblings. No matter the genre or form, be it short story, flash fiction, novel, villanelle, or ode, it was reading the words, admiring their placement, absorbing the aroma of ideas saturating their mind's eye that brought them satisfaction. They literally tasted the succulent words of their fellow writers. Picking and choosing those most appetizing to themselves. As they rolled the words around on their tongues, they were as prompts, hundreds of prompts, that invited them to choose which oven to bake them in and produce their own literary masterpieces.

Truly, a feast for all the senses awaited. "I can hardly wait" thought David.

And thusly, he took pen

in

hand:

Smörgåsbord

Taste the author's succulent board,
Each word choice nuance does convey
An appetizing sampler, a smörgåsbord.

Each page, each stanza, does afford
The reader a literary buffet.
Taste the author's succulent board.

Choosing a piece for your reward,
Will you pick a profound essay?
An appetizing sampler, a smörgåsbord?

This lover's sonnet, doth here record
Two hearts entwined; amours foray.
Taste the author's succulent board.

A novella offers new words to hoard,
To bend and mold like paper maché.
An appetizing sampler, a smörgåsbord.

Here a blogger offers up his concord;
Musings linked in grand array.
Taste the author's succulent board,
An appetizing sampler, a smörgåsbord.

rel ©16 Mar. 2008

Villanelle

The words stuck in my head
Refusing to take their place
Leaves my soul feeling dead.

No reason given me instead
Just trapped in enclosed space
The words stuck in my head.

Never written, still unread
Aimless words no form embrace
Leaves my soul feeling dead.

Befuddlement brings on dread
Tightening my breathing space
The words stuck in my head.

Withdrawn mood leaves unsaid
true feelings, now misplace
Leaves my soul feeling dead.

Mind and heart, words unwed
Makes a void in tattered lace
The words stuck in my head
Leaves my soul feeling dead.