Can you hear voices in the wind tonight?

Over the weekend when we were away without internet, I wrote a lot of poetry. This is a(nother) villanelle that attempts to capture the atmosphere of those nights. For the dVerse open night.

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Can you hear voices in the wind tonight?

Listen to the scratching at the window—

In the velvet darkness the stars shine bright.

 

Beneath the roses in the pale moonlight,

Someone is singing a song sweet and low.

Can you hear voices in the wind tonight?

 

The touch of the night breeze is pure delight,

The moon silvers fox in the field below,

In the velvet darkness the stars shine bright.

 

You listen to the wind with eyes closed tight,

Stop your ears, bolt the door against the foe.

Can you hear voices in the wind tonight?

 

You never saw the owl, her silent flight,

Or heard fairy music ripple river-slow,

Though in the velvet darkness stars shine bright.

 

From hunters in starshine, you turn in fright,

You won’t take the path where the good folk go.

Can you hear voices in the wind tonight,

When in the velvet darkness stars shine bright?

River runs where the kingcups grow

For the dverse R’river’prompt, a villanelle.

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River runs where the kingcups grow,

Their yellow faces catch the light,

At evening when the sun is low.

 

Through the fields making poppies blow,

Wind sweeps dark as the watchful kite,

River runs where the kingcups grow.

 

Mist is rising from the river slow,

Pearl grey the dusk sinking into night,

At evening when the sun is low.

 

Past muddy banks when the night folk go

To drink the wild stream’s ripples bright,

River runs where the kingcups grow.

 

Fox and deer glide through dusk’s pink glow,

Ever wary and poised for flight,

At evening when the sun is low.

 

Had I the words to tell them so,

They’d know I mean no harm nor fright,

But always where the kingcups grow,

They slip away when the sun is low.

 

She pines for her lost dreams

A villanelle for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words are (with the odd synonym)

STRIPE | ABLE |BLUE | COLD | REVEAL

Sailors Take Warning

The red-striped sky is full of dreams,

Tomorrow’s stories yet untold,

And hopes that grow in silver beams.

 

Above the ocean, white cloud creams

In frosty blue and glacier cold,

The red-striped sky is full of dreams.

 

Bedecked in silk, the full moon seems

To pour a balm of pure white gold

And hopes that grow in silver beams.

 

Yet in the darkness sorrow streams,

For wishes lost that grew too old,

The red-striped sky is full of dreams.

 

That I could find hid in the seams,

Some unspoilt rose that might unfold,

And hopes that grow in silver beams.

 

For love is never what it seems,

Desires can be bought and sold,

The red-striped sky is full of dreams,

And hopes that grow in silver beams.

At the ending of this day

Sangbad reminded me I hadn’t written a villanelle in a long time. Probably because they’re difficult. I’m chuffed no end to have actually written one, so here it is.

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We wander at the ending of this day,

The stony path that overlooks the sea,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay,

 

We stand so close, to watch the sunlight play.

Above the waves that beat against the scree,

We wander at the ending of this day.

 

When twilight drains all day’s bright hues away,

Tomorrows’ hopes fade, with the daylight flee,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.

 

We toss white pebbles as the pious pray,

You ask for signs, I send a final plea,

We wander at the ending of this day.

 

The pebbles sink; you say you cannot stay,

The far horizon calls you to be free,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.

 

Your fixed gaze says there is no other way,

Already you are gone, that I can see,

Sundered at the ending of this day,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.

Waiting

The Daily Post prompt is: fork.

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At a fork in the path where I wait,

There’s a dog rose bends close to my ear,

Whisp’ring low that the evening is late.

 

Two paths, can I choose my own fate?

Though there’s only a dog rose to hear,

At a fork in the path where I wait?

 

The pain in my heart won’t abate,

This loneliness is what most I fear,

Whisp’ring low that the evening is late.

 

Through the dusk, is that you at the gate?

Or the shadows that turn the light drear,

At the fork in the path where I wait?

 

The sun sets, the dark I berate,

And hark for your voice drawing near,

Whisp’ring low that the evening is late.

 

Hope fading, my heart’s a lead weight

In my breast as the first stars appear,

At the fork in the path where I wait,

Whisp’ring low that the evening is late.

 

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Sometimes

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Sometimes it seems the world is full of rain,

The oceans and the rivers meet the sky,

In a cascade of weeping tears of pain.

 

I let the downpour wash away the stain,

Your cold words left upon my skin. I sigh,

Sometimes it seems the world is full of rain.

 

The echo falls upon my ears again,

With brash insistence I cannot deny,

In a cascade of weeping tears of pain.

 

Though you are gone I hear still the refrain,

See your face, smile twisted now and wry,

Sometimes it seems the world is full of rain.

 

In this room where in love we two have lain,

The shadows grow where no more we will lie,

In a cascade of weeping tears of pain.

 

The story’s over, nothing to explain,

I’d follow love if only I could fly,

Sometimes it seems the world is full of pain,

In a cascade of weeping tears of rain.

 

 

Only the night

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Only the night lights the lamps of the stars,

Only the sea catches them when they fall,

Rocks them with driftwood and wave-broken spars.

 

Shining the same on both beauty and scars,

The night fills with splendour our bottles and jars,

Only the night lights the lamps of the stars.

 

The blustering wind blows the ripples and mars

The spangles of sea stars, a silvery scrawl,

Rocks them with driftwood and wave-broken spars.

 

Day casts our dreams where there are no lodestars

Though our hearts yearn to catch and polish them all.

Only the night lights the lamps of the stars,

And rocks them with driftwood and wave-broken spars.

 

Last sunset

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In the west the sun is sinking,

Turquoise sky soaks up the light,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

Red cloud billows, day’s blood drinking,

Smothered by the creeping night,

In the west the sun is sinking.

 

Flying home, their safe world shrinking,

Mirror lake reflecting bird flight,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

Shutters barred and door chains clinking,

The shadows banned by candle bright,

In the west the sun is sinking.

 

The dead are still, they have no inkling,

Lay their ghosts with murmured rite,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

In the vaults dark coins are chinking,

Buying blindness to our plight,

In the west the sun is sinking,

In the east first stars are blinking.

Wind in the leaves

Another villanelle.

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Wind in the leaves blows with scarce a sigh,

River glides by with never a sound,

Pale winter sun sees the old year die.

 

Poplars stretch black branches high,

Gold and red scattered on the ground,

Wind in the leaves blows with scarce a sigh.

 

Green buds wait for the spring by and by,

Crows black with hunger in the meadow abound,

Pale winter sun sees the old year die.

 

Echoes the blackbird from azure sky,

Beneath summer trees was sweet love found,

Wind in the leaves blows with scarce a sigh.

 

Things of the heart with the wild geese fly,

And the falling leaves with rime are crowned,

Pale winter sun sees the old year die.

 

Love fled with you, tomorrow a lie,

Gold and red dim as the Earth turns around,

Wind in the leaves blows with scarce a sigh,

Pale winter sun sees the old year die.

 

Robin and the Winter King

I did it. I finally managed a villanelle. Winter and robins again.

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Winter’s king stands watching from the sill,

Around his feet the silent snowflakes fall,

The lake is frozen, silver ripples still.

 

Frozen lies the stream the bubbling rill,

Snow lies on the boughs of ash trees tall,

Winter’s king stands watching from the sill.

 

Watery sun hangs low upon the hill,

Robin’s song holds all the world in thrall,

The lake is frozen, silver ripples still.

 

And in the robin’s song we drink our fill,

Of autumn wine poured in the blazing hall,

Winter’s king stands watching from the sill.

 

Fires blaze to chase the bone-deep chill,

Robin sings as holly berries fall,

The lake is frozen, silver ripples still.

 

Red breast, fire heart, sings with all his skill,

Though hoar frost crystals cast a misty pall,

Winter’s king stands watching from the sill,

The lake is frozen, silver ripples still.