In the Rough - Merlene Fawdry

End of the month

2012-01-31T10:01:00.001+11:00

The first month of 2012 is almost over and with it goes the January, A River of Stones, challenge. In some ways it's not a challenge, as the theme for the month is set and takes less mental energy than posting daily and thinking about the month ahead.

Applications have been coming in for the Write a Longer Work series of workshops. The original plan had been to offer a Longitudinal Novel Writing workshop; however, with many people writing in other genres, it seemed fairer to open it up to include all forms and lengths from Novellettes to memoirs or other non-fiction. This workshop is a community service initiative of the Wordsmiths of Melton to encourage and foster literary interest from those living within the Shire of Melton.

Studying three subjects online at the one time is another commitment - and a challenge to meet deadlines. For anyone considering online studying I would suggest two subjects at a time is enough unless you have plenty of time on your hands - I don't. Often it can mean the difference between a high distinction grading and a distinction.

The writing of my own novel continues, although not at the pace set during Nanowrimo. This is a learning experience for me, having begun the project with only a beginning and an ending in mind and letting the story write itself. This proved to be an enjoyable and productive experience until I reached a point wher I needed and outline or I was in danger of losing my way completely. This is where writing groups or writing peers can be invaluable, to throw ideas around and see what you catch on the back toss. I'm pleased to say I've found my way before I got too far off the beaten lexiconic track - and have now completed an outline for the remainder of the story - as well as retrospectively.

~Merlene

Change of title

2012-01-17T10:07:00.000+11:00

This year my focus will be extend beyond the development of poems and I have changed the title of this blog to reflect those changes. My posts are always what fall from my metaphoric pen, therefore will always be in the rough - often the first and only draft. I had thought of posting random paragraphs from the novel I'm currently writing, which has a working title of The Run, but need to think whether there is any purpose to this before I rush off at the keyboard. Poetry, for this month, is covered by short form observations posted on http://aros-merlene.blogspot.com/ and competition updates continue at http://writingandpoetryopportunities.blogspot.com/

Symbiotic or symbolic?

2012-01-12T12:40:00.000+11:00

Today I used the words hieroglyphics and sarcophagus in two unrelated haiku - symbiotic or symbolic? The first related to editing markups and the second to a desk tidy. Could both be symbolic of the mystery of death - death of a manuscript from author's intention to editor's correction, and the other as the holder of dead pens? Obviously I am procrastinating from the real job of writing and need to take a self-discipline pill.

A question of integrity - or not

2012-01-10T12:10:00.002+11:00

At a local writing group I attended last Sunday the question was raised about the integrity of entering work in a competition after it had been critiqued by a number of other people – the question being at what stage did a story move from being a sole effort to one of collaboration. The person who posed the question was not asking from a position of ‘sour grapes’, as she neither wrote for nor entered competitions, so I accepted her concern as genuine.

As the founder of a critiquing group (and as a member of many writer’s groups over many years) where the focus has always been on assisting the writer further develop their skill, I have openly encouraged beginning writers to present their work for critique prior to submitting anywhere (be it competition or publication). The purpose of this was to ensure their work was at its polished best; to optimise their chance of having their work accepted. I saw this as an integral function of the group.

Alternatively, I have seen some stories presented in their rawest, most grammatically incorrect form – little more than a concept thrown on the page - and watched them over a period of critique sessions, and with the input of half a dozen other writers, transform into a well-shaped, fine piece of writing. I never gave a thought as to whether these stories might then be entered into a competition and the question of integrity in this regard never arose.

These were my thoughts as I attempted to respond to her question, as several of my own arose from her single one, so I’m asking for opinions on the following:

Would it be a more appropriate to submit a group -worked story to competitions or publications where entries are invited from collaborative efforts of writers rather than an individual?
If a writer pens the original concept, does that make them the sole author, despite input on grammar and syntax from others?
As writing competitions are judged on a number of elements, not the least being use of language and punctuation, and if the story has been critiqued and structurally edited by a series of writers, is it ethical for it to be submitted as the work of one writer?

Please help with this one – it would be much appreciated. ~Merlene

Reflection

2012-01-04T15:20:00.001+11:00

Christmas and new year have come and gone with barely a beat missed in my writing schedule - well, maybe one or two - but basically I've managed to stay on track. Most of my blogging during January will be done on my River of Stones blog http://aros-merlene.blogspot.com/ with the occasional writing post here.

2011 began as a year of poetry in development, incorporating two River of Small Stones writing challenges in January and July, and finishing up with NaNoWriMo in November. In between I worked with various forms of traditional poetry, combining this with an ocasional photogaph - my other interest.

During this year I ran writing workshops on topics ranging from Misplaced and Dangling Modifiers, Poetry - Haiku and Free Verse, Novel Writing, Punctuation, Judging Short Story Competitions, Epublishing and Social Networking for the Writer, Life Story and Memoir Writing, and creative writing in general.

I will be scaling back on this in 2012 to concentrate on my studies and to keep pace with my increased freelance editing workload. I will be running a series of writer's workshops at Melton library for those wishing to complete a longer work, fiction or non fiction, and locality specific small group sessions (more on this later)

I finished the NaNoWriMo self-challenge with over 50,000 words for the month and continue to work on development of this manuscript, not working at the initial pace of course, but still taking a more disciplined approach to my writing. I will blog about the process from time to time, more as a reminder to myself of my own progress.

Poetry will continue to feature in my life and on this blog, although I have yet to decide what form that might take - it will unfold as the year goes on.

It is also my intention to blog occasionally about the good, the bad and the ugly of the writing world from my own experience; the humble yet brilliant writers I've met who lack confidence to promote themselves and the empty vessels who spend so many words in self-promotion they forget they need the product to back this up; the wonderful poets I know who feel unworthy of the name and those who rattle off a few lines of doggerel and call themselves poets; the writers who have turned social networking into a unique skill of ackowledgement and sharing and those who pass off the teachings of others as their own, ignoring the source.

My writing competition blog http://writingandpoetryopportunities.blogspot.com/ was well received and I look forward to keep this current over the coming year.

Unfortunately, other goals have fallen by the wayside of circumstance to be picked up some other time.

Overall, 2011 was a productive year for me in many ways and I look forward to new learning and new challenges of 2012. You've all been great company and I hope you'll journey with me.

~ Merlene

A timely reminder

2011-12-07T20:44:00.000+11:00

Sometimes we all need a reminder of the value of our work, not the pats on the back or the ego stroking that some writers need to before they can write the next word, sentence, paragraph, page or chapter, but the quiet validation that others have enjoyed your work enough to publish it.

Today I tidied my study, sorting through piles of loose paper and notes scribbled on scrap, emptying and sorting the contents of magazine holders, and letting go of letters and memorabilia of my early writing days that were yellowing in the overflowing filing cabinet. From there I moved to bookshelves and, while I didn't part with any, I did manage to make them fit more snugly and sit up straighter on the shelves. I cleared the big round coffee table that tends to grow paper piles, seemingly overnight, and I threw out six bags of paper stuff I no longer needed. Such is the life of the writer, poet, and workshop facilitator, we are the hunter gatherers of paper.

In tidying my books, I set aside my own publications and others I had been published in, a modest pile, but one that tells me others have read and enjoyed my work. Tomorrow I will return to the keyboard and write in my neat study and someday, maybe, I'll have another book on my shelves with my name on it.

Nanowrimo update

2011-11-27T19:30:00.001+11:00

Made it to 50,000 words in 27 days. I haven't read back over any of what I've written so far and have decided to finish the mss (50-70,000 more words) before I look at any of it. The most difficult part of working in this way is remembering characters (I now have a character chart made up) timelines and sub plots. A very worthwhile experience.

mystic thoughts

2011-11-27T13:35:00.001+11:00

mystic thoughts

2011-11-24T18:49:00.000+11:00

Nearly there!

Nanowrimo diary

2011-11-02T15:27:00.008+11:00

This month I am taking part in Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) with a target of 50,000. I signed up for this challenge last year and manged to sidetrack myself into other activities so this year I am trying to remain more focused on the task. It's a long time since I set out to write a longer work and I'm hoping the discipline will aid my writing.

1 November.

Day one and I'm tempted to cheat, to drag out an unfinished novel mouldering on my hard drive, well I wasn't really tempted but I could see some might be. But it wouldn't prove anything if I were to do this, and the sense of achievement would be lost, so I started from scratch. My target word count for the month equates to 1667 words per day. Easy, you say, and that is right, but not so much when it is coming as a stream of consciousness and still needs to have the form of a novel - my rule for the month - so I began to write stopping at 1735 words, a little over my quota but nothing ground shaking. I then wasted time - too much time - trying to work out how to update my word count. Am I that thick? Well, apparently so. In the end, after trolling the help files to no avail, I had to give in and ask how to do it in a forum. very relieved to see I'm not the only dunderhead here as someone else needed to know the same thing. I got a greater sense of achievement from updating my word count than the actual writing.

2 November

Day two and I'm eager to resume writing. A few other writing chores to deal with first and an assignment to begin for my editing and proofreading course.Planning is the answer for today - write then rest with a diversionary activity - well that's the plan. It worked to some degree. 2267 words today so I'm ahead of schedule, which I need to be as there'll be a couple of days this month when I won't be able to write. I'm on track, but is the story any good? Who knows. I've told myself I'm only going to read over the work once a week, hard going for a compulsive editor like me but that's another rule I've made for myself.

3 November

I woke to a disaster today. I had a mid morning appointment and decided to use any time spent in the waiting room to write up character, time and place statistics for my novel - so I turned the computer on and opened the Word file, ready to jot down relevant details before I left. What! All my writing of the last two days had gone - disappeared - left the building - and all that was left was the meagre outline I'd written before I began writing in earnest on the first day. After looking in every nook and cranny on my PC it finally dawned where it had got to. I have a bad habit of having numerous pages and browsers open at the same time, which means I often have to close from the bottom tool bar, as the PC becomes as confused as I and refuses to cooperate at all. What had happened was, when I highlighted and copied text to validate my update, I didn't return to the open file, leaving the work still highlighted. I wandered around the internet for awhile, played a few mind numbing games to flush any unused words from my brain - and then closed the file from the bottom toolbar. When I got a save prompt that is what I did - consequently it saved minus the highlighted section. I felt like giving up at this point, knowing from experience words, once written, will never be written in the same order ever again. I went to my appointment minus notes and stared at the carpet in the waiting room until I was called. I came home and completed an assignment and posted it - then I started writing again. Is it as good as yesterday's effort? Probably not. The important thing is that I got back on my bike, put my feet on the pedals and rode back into writing mode.

Day 4

No disasters today, although my word count was down on previous days' efforts. This could be because I'm spending more time saving the work - and to multiple destinations. I'm still enjoying watching the characters unfold beneath my fingers and the freedom of not editing or doing any corrections as I write. I know where the story began and I have a firm idea for the ending, it's all the bits in the middle I'm not sure of.

Day 7

Does the lack of entries here mean I have been flat out writing - well, yes I think it does. I never did recover the work I lost but I'm now up to 12,741 words and happy about my progress so far. I will lose a couple of writing days this week but hopefully will make up for some lost ground at the weekend. I have camera club tomorrow night and , while not happy with the shots I've taken (am I ever) I thought they would have to do - until I went upstairs to close the blinds and noticed a magnificent sunset rapidly disappearing. grabbed camera and husband and raced up One Tree Hill, the highest point in town, only realizing half way I didn't have my camera bag with distance lens - no matter, got some good shots which I'll sort through tomorrow during a break from Nanowrimo.

Day 13

Almost half way through and, despite the loss of words on day 3 and two days out with other responsibilities, I'm amazed to find I'm still on track with the word count. I hit a bit of a wall yesterday and today, when The flow seemed to dry up. Not that I stopped writing, it's just that what I wrote is probably sheer prattle that may have to be edited out once I've finished. Who knows - the story is still rolling along and that's the main thing. Apart from the setbacks I'm very much enjoying the challenge and learning more about the writer in me as I progress.

15 November

27,520 words so far keeping me on track with the word count. What I've noticed is, as I'm writing forward, any minor discrepancies in the story to date jump up and bite me and, rather than back track and fix the problem, I just make a note to go back to it later. Still travelling.

22 November

Well, the month is rolling by fast - very fast - faster than I'd like. Word count yesterday 37,732 words. I'm on track, but would prefer to be further ahead with a few days out before the end of the month. Will I make target? I don't know. Does it matter? No, because I've made an excellent start on something I think might be worthwhile continuing with and I've learnt a lot about my writing through undertaking this exercise.

He's turned the corner

2011-10-31T12:12:00.002+11:00

He's turned the corner
someone whispered, and
I wondered in which direction he went
because it seemed to me
he was going nowhere
pinned down as he was
by the weight of his treatment
lines snaking from vein to bottle
and back again
bells and whistles of nuclear medicine
falling quiet and white in the ICU

he's turned the corner
the voice insists
and I turned to see him
shuffling from the shadows
toward the light while
on the screen
a flat line stretches
into infinity

He's turned the corner

2011-10-23T09:54:00.002+11:00

I'm not sure where this poem is going. I began writing it yesterday and it is in its roughest form.

1st draft

He's turned the corner
someone whispered and
I wondered which direction he went
because it seemed to me
he was going nowhere
pinned down as he was
by the weight of his treatment
lines snaking from vein to bottle

and back again

bells and whistles of computer medicine
quiet and white in the ICU

he's turned the corner
the voice insists
and I see him now
shuffling from the shadows
toward the light

__________________________________

2nd draft

He's turned the corner
someone whispered and
I wondered which direction he went
because it seemed to me
he was going nowhere
pinned down as he was
by the weight of his treatment
lines snaking from vein to bottle

and back again

bells and whistles of ~~computer~~ nuclear medicine
quiet and white in the ICU

he's turned the corner
the voice insists
and I turned to see him ~~see him now~~
shuffling from the shadows
toward the light

__________________________________

3rd draft

He's turned the corner,
someone whispered, and
I wondered which direction he went
because it seemed to me
he was going nowhere
pinned down as he was
by the weight of his treatment
lines snaking from vein to bottle

and back again

bells and whistles of nuclear medicine
growing quiet and white in the ICU

he's turned the corner
the voice insists
and I turned to see him
shuffling from the shadows
toward the light

while, on the screen
a flat line stretches
to infinity

Learning - slowly

2011-10-20T11:08:00.001+11:00

1st draft

I am learning: true value
is determined by the dollar amount
placed on goods and services

bargain basement prices and give-aways
allotted minimal value

acts of altruism ridiculed
kindness misinterpreted

respect for intentions
an alien concept

to the takers

the dichotomy: financial remuneration
an additional reward
when value is shown

through enthusiasm and joy
of those you'd happily give to

for their understanding of
the essence of giving.

____________________________________

2nd draft

I am learning: true value

is determined by the dollar amount

placed on goods and services

bargain basement prices and give-aways

allotted minimal value

acts of altruism ridiculed

kindness misinterpreted

respect for intentions

an alien concept

to the takers

the dichotomy: financial remuneration

an additional reward

when value is shown

through enthusiasm and joy

of from those you'd gift to freely ~~happily give to~~

for their understanding of

the essence of giving.

Judging Short Story Workshop

2011-10-13T14:56:00.001+11:00

Peparations for the Judging Short Story workshop have kept me busy this month, sending out stories to participants for 'judging' and comments prior to the final session. This course covers all aspects of short story judging, from receiving and shortlisting entries, working coperatively as part of a judging or selection panel, to preparation of judges reports. With the additional components for setting competition guidelines and judging criteria, this is course would be of benefit for any community writing group intending to run their own competition in either short story or poetry.

Missing in (in)action

2011-10-02T18:18:00.001+11:00

Not a lot happening on this page for the past few days and here it is October, and the beginning of this month's challenge, already. With no preparation, I've decided to continue last month style diversity without the theme.

In the middle of the night
a neighbouring dog
nipped at the edges of my sleep
shaking me awake
with terrier tenacity and
a torment of ill timed barks

in the morning I snarled
into my food bowl
...a dangerous breed

2nd draft

In the middle of the night
a neighbouring dog
nipped at the ~~edges~~ edge of my sleep
shaking me awake
with terrier tenacity and
a torment of ill timed barks

in the morning I
~~snarled~~ snarled
into my food bowl
...a dangerous breed

Spring rain

2011-09-30T12:20:00.002+10:00

Spring rain falls
a rainbow veil covers
the face of the sun

A Haiku of sorts

2011-09-27T20:04:00.001+10:00

the shadow of the elder

fingers splayed across the lawn

pluck freshly mown grass

Angel's Trumpet - a Villanelle

2011-09-16T16:59:00.002+10:00

Angels' Trumpets - 1st draft

From my window I can see the Angel's Trumpet in my neighbour's yard.

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Benign against the red brick wall

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

While Madonna lilies stoop to pray

O’er petals lost to blustery squall

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Blossoms in the breeze do sway

Lost in deep narcotic thrall

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

These slippered ladies hide away

Until the early nightfall

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Decked out in nature’s negligee

Worn beneath a fluted shawl

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

Reluctantly I turn away

And close my mind to the sirens’ call

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

2nd draft

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Benign against the red brick wall

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

While Madonna lilies stoop to pray

O’er petals lost to blustery squall

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Blossoms in the breeze do sway

Lost in deep narcotic thrall

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

These slippered ladies hide away

Until the early nightfall

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Decked out in nature’s negligee

Worn beneath a fluted shawl

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

Reluctantly I turn away

And close my mind to ~~the sirens’~~ perfumed call

Angel’s trumpets rest by day

Dreaming of past bacchanalia

From my window... a Tanka

2011-09-14T12:27:00.000+10:00

Today's view from my window is described inTanka form.

Parrots slash the sky

in playful scribble

as a child's crayon
traces vivid red and blue
on sheets of butcher's paper.

Traditionally in Japanese, the Tanka is five groups of sounds, each of 5 or 7 sound units. The first and third units have 5 sound units , as in Haiku, while the last two units have 7 sound units.
In English, the English syllable is considered to be a suitable approximation to a Japanese sound unit, with each syllabic group usually on a separate line:

From my window - free verse

2011-09-12T12:24:00.000+10:00

From my window, roof tiles
of the Chinese Heritage Centre
glint through the trees
and branches tap against walls
echoing picks against granite
a reminder of the boom times
when men from all nations
joined the rush for gold.

From my window - a Villanelle - the drafting process

2011-09-02T17:10:00.005+10:00

This will probably be the last draft of this Villanelle for awhile - we both need a rest from each other and I need to look at other things outside my window..

5th draft

I look outward from my window

To where I ~~handed~~ offered you my heart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

Where petals in the breeze did blow

~~Away~~ Aside your vow to never part;

I look outwards from my window

For how was I to ever know

You could so easily compart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

I told you how I loved you so

Yet still you threatened to depart;

I look outward from my window

I see it now the whole tableau

of lies you told me from the start

On fields where wild gazanias grow

And now you'll never get to go

No more deceit will you impart

I look outward from my windows

On fields where wild gazanias grow

4th draft

I look outward from my window

To ~~the place~~ where I ~~left~~ handed you my heart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

Where petals in the breeze did blow

~~As with~~ Away your vow to never part;

I look outwards from my window

For how was I to ever know

You could so easily compart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

I told you how I loved you so

Yet still you ~~moved as~~ threatened to depart;

I look outward from my window

I see it now the whole tableau

of lies you told me from the start

On fields where wild gazanias grow

And now you'll never get to go

No more deceit will you impart

I look outward from my windows

On fields where wild gazanias grow

3rd draft

I look outward from my window

To the place where I ~~lost~~ left my heart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

Where petals in the breeze did blow

~~Upon~~ As with your vow to never part;

I look outwards from my window

For how was I to ever know

~~Seduction was your work of art~~

You could so easily compart
On fields where wild gazanias grow

I told you how I loved you so

~~Even as you turned~~ Yet still you moved as to depart;

I look outward from my window

I see it now the whole tableau

of d~~eceit played out~~ lies you told me from the start

On fields where wild gazanias grow

~~I will not ever let you~~ And now you'll never get to go

~~Forever mine in~~ No more deceit will you impart

I look outward from my windows

On fields where wild gazanias grow

2nd draft

I look outward from my window

To the place where I lost my heart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

Where petals in the breeze did blow

~~Upon~~ As with your vow to never part;

I look outwards from my window

For how was I to ever know

~~Seduction was your work of art~~

You could so easily compart
On fields where wild gazanias grow

I told you how I loved you so

Even as you turned to depart;

I look outward from my window

I see it now the whole tableau

of d~~eceit played out~~ lies you told me from the start

On fields where wild gazanias grow

~~I will not ever let you~~ And now you'll never get to go

Forever mine in floral art

I look outward from my windows

On fields where wild gazanias grow

1st draft

I look outward from my window

To the place where I lost my heart

On fields where wild gazanias grow

Where petals in the breeze did blow

Upon your vow to never part;

I look outwards from my window

For how was I to ever know

Seduction was your work of art

On fields where wild gazanias grow

I told you how I loved you so

Even as you turned to depart;

I look outward from my window

I see it now the whole tableau

of deceit played out from the start

On fields where wild gazanias grow

I will not ever let you go

I look outward from my windows

On fields where wild gazanias grow

A Villanelle containes two rhyming lines that repeat cyclically throughout the poem as a refrain. Consisting of 19 lines made up of 5 tercets and ends in a couplet. The rhyming pattern is ABA throughout with ABAA at the end.

I can see this 1st draft will have to undergo many revisions before it is done - but that is the challenge.

From my window

2011-09-01T19:12:00.000+10:00

From my window...

an outburst of blossom
heralds new life
as Winter departs.

August poetry challenge 6th Triolet

2011-08-22T12:01:00.002+10:00

22nd August 1sd raft

If I could chose my time to die
It would be in a moment of bliss
Before it passed on a whispered sigh
If I could chose my time to die
I'd offer this as my last goodbye
An act of absolute submiss
If I could chose my time to die
It would be in a moment of bliss

23 August 2nd draft

If I could chose my time to die
It would be in a moment of bliss
Before it passed on a whispered sigh
If I could chose my time to die
I'd offer ~~this~~ up as my last goodbye
An act of absolute submiss
If I could chose my time to die
It would be in a moment of bliss

5th Triolet - August challenge 1st draft

2011-08-17T14:47:00.001+10:00

Can love survive the deep corrosion
of acidic words etched on the heart
thrown in anger-fueled explosion
Can love survive the deep corrosion,
the disbelief, the trust erosion
when romance threatens to depart
Can love survive the deep corrosion
of acidic words etched on the heart

4th Triolet - August challenge

2011-08-14T10:39:00.006+10:00

1st draft - Saturday 13 August

He steps between cracks, not tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats
he's always on time, never one second late
he steps between cracks, not tempting fate
his wardrobe is ordered according to date
making perfect sense to this bureaucrat
he steps between cracks, not tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats.

___________________________________

2nd draft - Sunday 14 August

He steps between cracks, ~~not~~ never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats
he's always on time, not~~ever~~ one second late
he steps between cracks, ~~not~~ never tempting fate
his wardrobe is ordered according to date
?
he steps between cracks, ~~not~~ never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats

____________________________________

3rd draft - Monday 15 August

He steps between cracks, never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats
he's always on time, not one second late
he steps between cracks, never tempting fate
his wardrobe is ordered according to date
he checks behind doors and under the mats
he steps between cracks, never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats

___________________________________-

4th draft - Tuesday 16 August

He steps between cracks, never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats
he's always on time, not one second late
he steps between cracks, never tempting fate
his wardrobe is ordered according to date
he checks behind doors and under ~~the~~ all mats
he steps between cracks, never tempting fate
twists around ladders and avoids black cats

3rd Triolet for August poetry challenge

2011-08-11T19:27:00.003+10:00

1st draft

I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
Avoiding all shadows that are heavy with grief
Knowing days lost to darkness I can never replace
I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
?
?
I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
Avoiding all shadows that are heavy with grief

____________________________________

2nd draft

I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
Avoiding all shadows that are heavy with grief
Knowing days lost to darkness I can never replace
I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
Though thunderheads threaten to take up the chase
They cannot keep pace with my belief
I walk between clouds to keep the sun on my face
Avoiding all shadows that are heavy with grief

1st Triolet - 3rd draft

2011-08-09T16:26:00.000+10:00

I think this is going from bad to worse:

In a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains
~~humming in a monotone~~ each bloom a perfect gemstone
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
the only thing she'd ever known
this weaving into skeins
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains.

1st triolet - 2nd draft

2011-08-08T10:57:00.000+10:00

This was the first Triolet I wrote on the 1st day of this month's challenge, then set it aside as I couldn't think of any changes. I'm still not happy with the 6th line but something may come to me.

In a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains
humming in a monotone
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
~~as if it's all she's ever~~ the only thing she'd ever known
this weaving into skeins
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains.

4th draft - Triolet

2011-08-07T12:02:00.000+10:00

The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page
Words of angst mixed with despair
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
As to the world he must declare
The loss and grief that feeds his rage
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page

This is the last draft of this one for awhile. Now I'll set it aside and let it stew until I can see it with a clearer eye and tomorrow i will begin the next Triolet.

Triolet - 3rd draft

2011-08-04T10:54:00.000+10:00

The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page
Words of ~~grief~~ angst mixed with despair
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
~~Forsaken love his to~~ As to the world he must declare
~~From a metaphorical stage~~
As The loss and grief feeds his rage
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page.

Triolet - 2nd draft

2011-08-03T11:37:00.001+10:00

The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page
Words of ~~grief~~ angst mixed with despair
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Forsaken love his to declare
~~From a metaphorical stage~~
As loss and grief feeds his rage
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page.

I'm still not happy with the 6th line - nor the 5th. I can see I've got plenty of work still ahead with this one.

The Poet's Pen - 1st draft Triolet

2011-08-02T14:36:00.000+10:00

The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page
Words of grief mixed with despair
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Forsaken love his to declare
From a metaphorical stage
The poet's pen is a soul laid bare
Weeping tears on an empty page.

After yesterday's effort ground to a dismal halt I thought I have another try - I'm not sure of the 7th line here - all comments appreciated - thank you.

Still a 1st draft - Triolet

2011-08-02T12:39:00.000+10:00

I can't think of any changes to make to this - may come back to it later.

In a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains
humming in a monotone
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
as if it's all she's ever known
this weaving into skeins
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains.

Triolet - 1st draft

2011-08-01T17:01:00.001+10:00

In a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains
humming in a monotone
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
as if it's all she's ever known
this weaving into skeins
in a field of flowers, she sits alone
weaving daisies into chains.

The Bus - 2nd draft

2011-07-16T10:39:00.002+10:00

The bus passes on the hour
~~carrying~~ empty seats of passengers
on the road to nowhere

today I began my own journey
passing all stops along the route
in search of fellow travellers

at the cemetery gates ~~terminus they boarded~~
the aroma of spent blooms
fill~~ing~~ed every seat

~~riding familiar streets~~
I look for my image in windows
~~staring~~ that stare back at empty seats
unseeing, unknowing

such is the destiny of the travellers ~~restless~~
on who board the Flying Dutchman ~~omnibus~~
~~doomed to travel forever, unseen~~
of the streets

The bus - 1st draft

2011-07-11T10:58:00.000+10:00

Small stones I have written as part of the July challenge http://aros-merlene.blogspot.com/ and comments from others have led to the creation of this poem.

The bus passes on the hour
carrying empty seats
of passengers on the road to nowhere

today I began my own journey
passing all stops along the route
in search of fellow travellers

at the cemetery terminus they boarded
the aroma of spent blooms
filling every seat

riding familiar streets
I look for my image in windows
staring back at empty seats

such is the destiny of the restless
on the Flying Dutchman omnibus
doomed to travel forever, unseen

Publishers Corner

2011-06-29T16:42:00.000+10:00

Publishers Corner

Sestina - last draft

2011-06-23T15:12:00.000+10:00

Childhood fades to that faraway place
where blue skies framed an endless j~~oyful~~ sun
that warmed the spirit and nurtured growth
of small bodies eager for the living
when laughter tinkled as crystals in the breeze
in an anthem of spontaneous expression.

We seek once more that free expression
that binds us firmly to that place
years pass as candles snuffed by the breeze
clouds moving across the face of the sun;
birthdays part of the mystery of living
notched on door frames ~~in a~~ to measure of our growth.

But would there be excitement at that growth
or a frown overshadow joyous expression
if we saw in advance the truth about living
and understood more about time and place,
would we dance so freely in the sun
if we knew how fleeting was the breeze.

For each life stage passes with the breeze
that feathers every seasons' growth
from winter darkness to summer sun
a metaphor for all expression
as we move to each new place
marking the phases of the living.

And as we celebrate the living
carried forth on endless breeze
be happy in each special place
that mark the milestones of our growth
the changing vista of expression
beneath the guard of a watchful sun.

For each day we spend beneath the sun
we need take time to feel the living
for childhood is but a brief expression
of the changing direction of the breeze;
short days and years that count our growth
across the transience of place.

Now I understand my place, under an older sun
each age of growth essential to living
I pass by on the breeze, content in expression.

Sestina - 2nd draft

2011-06-10T16:07:00.000+10:00

Childhood fades to that faraway place

where blue skies framed a joyful sun
that ~~fed~~ warmed the spirit and nurtured growth
of small bodies eager for the living
when laughter tinkled ~~like~~ as crystals in the breeze
in an anthem of spontaneous expression.

We ~~try to regain~~ seek once more that free expression
that binds us firmly to that place
years pass as candles snuffed by the breeze
clouds moving across the face of the sun;
birthdays part of the mystery of living
notched on door frames ~~marking~~ ~~our~~ in a measure of growth.

But would there be excitement at that growth
or a frowns overshadow joyous expression
if we saw in advance the truth about ~~the~~ living
and understood more about time and place
would we dance so freely in the sun
if we knew how fleeting was the breeze.

For each life stage passes with the breeze
that feathers every seasons' growth
from winter darkness to summer sun
a metaphor for all expression
as we move to each new place
~~to mark~~ marking the phases of the living.

And as we celebrate the living
carried forth on endless breeze
~~appreciate~~ be happy in each special place
that mark the milestones of our growth
the changing vista of expression
beneath the guard of a watchful sun.

For ~~every~~ each day we spend beneath the sun
we ~~need~~ need to take ~~joy in~~ time to feel the living
our childhood is ~~but~~ just a brief expression
of the changing direction of the breeze
~~the~~ short days and years that count our growth
across the transience of place.

Now ~~I've found~~ I understand my place, under ~~the~~ an older sun
each age of growth essential to living
I pass by on the breeze, content in expression.

1st draft Sestina - 1 - 6 stanzas + tercet

2011-06-07T15:27:00.002+10:00

Childhood fades to that faraway place
where blue skies frame a joyful sun
that fed the spirit and nurtured growth
of small bodies eager for the living
when laughter tinkled like crystals in the breeze
in an anthem of spontaneous expression.

We try to regain that free expression
that binds us firmly to that place
years pass as candles snuffed by the breeze
clouds moving across the face of the sun;
birthdays part of the mystery of living
notched on door frames marking our growth.

But would there be excitement at that growth
or frowns overshadow joyous expression
if we saw in advance truth about the living
and understood more about time and place
would we dance so freely in the sun
if we knew how fleeting was the breeze.

For each life stage passes with the breeze

that feathers every seasons' growth

from winter darkness to summer sun

a metaphor for all expression

as we move to each new place

to mark the phases of the living.

And as we celebrate the living

carried forth on endless breeze

appreciate each special place

that mark the milestones of our growth

the changing vista of expression
beneath the guard of a watchful sun.

For every day we spend beneath the sun

we need to take joy in the living

childhood is but a brief expression

of the changing direction of the breeze

the days and years that count our growth

across the transience of place.

Now I've found my place, under the sun
each age of growth essential to living
I pass by on the breeze, content in expression.

1st draft Sestina - 1 - 6 stanzas

2011-06-06T15:48:00.000+10:00

For each life stage passes with the breeze

that feathers every seasons' growth

from winter darkness to summer sun

a metaphor for all expression

as we move to each new place

to mark the phases of the living.

And as we celebrate the living

carried forth on endless breeze

appreciate each special place

that mark the milestones of our growth

the changing vista of expression
beneath the guard of a watchful sun.

For every day we spend beneath the sun

we need to take joy in the living

childhood is but a brief expression

of the changing direction of the breeze

the days and years that count our growth

across the transience of place.

Sestina - 1st draft - 1 - 5 stanzas

2011-06-05T12:39:00.002+10:00

For each life stage passes with the breeze

that feathers every seasons' growth

from winter darkness to summer sun

a metaphor for all expression

as we move to each new place

to mark the phases of the living.

And as we celebrate the living

carried forth on endless breeze

appreciate each special place

that mark the milestones of our growth

the changing vista of expression
beneath the guard of a watchful sun.

Sestina - 1st draft - 1st, 2nd, 3rd & 4th stanzas

2011-06-04T11:24:00.001+10:00

For each life stage passes with the breeze

that feathers every seasons' growth

from winter darkness to summer sun

a metaphor for all expression

as we move to each new place

to mark the phases of the living.

Sestina - 1st draft - 1st, 2nd & 3rd stanzas

2011-06-03T12:30:00.002+10:00

Sestina - 1st draft - 1st & 2nd stanzas

2011-06-02T15:47:00.000+10:00

My first Sestina - 1st draft - 1st stanza

2011-06-01T12:50:00.000+10:00

Childhood fades to that far away place
where blue skies framed a joyful sun
that fed the spirit and nurtured growth
of small bodies eager for the living
where laughter tinkled like crystal in the breeze;
an anthem of spontaneous expression.

On Aching Feet - 2nd draft - a Roundel

2011-05-30T16:09:00.000+10:00

On aching feet, he shuffleds dust

On his regular outback beat

A never ending wanderlust,

On aching feet.

He passes empty stalks of wheat

And wilted crops, all ruined by the rust

No croppers left to meet and greet,

Yet he still he wanders as he must

The lonely roads and outback streets

To In this brown land he ~~shows~~ proves his trust,

On aching feet.

On Aching Feet - 1st draft - a Roundel

2011-05-28T14:35:00.001+10:00

On aching feet, he shuffles dust

On his regular outback beat

A never ending wanderlust,

On aching feet.

He passes empty stalks of wheat

And wilted crops, all ruined by the rust

No croppers left to meet and greet,

Yet he still wanders as he must

The lonely roads and outback streets

To this brown land he shows his trust,

On aching feet.

The Battered Suitcase - 4th draft - a Roundel

2011-05-25T16:17:00.001+10:00

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

~~So what had caused~~ ~~Yet suddenly,~~ ~~And yet one day~~

And then one day, a fall from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle,

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace.

~~When~~ For wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase.

The Battered Suitcase - 3rd draft - a Roundel

2011-05-24T15:01:00.001+10:00

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

~~So what had caused~~ ~~Yet suddenly, this fall~~ And yet one day he fell from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace.

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase.

The Battered Suitcase - 2nd draft - A Roundel

2011-05-23T15:30:00.000+10:00

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

~~So what had caused~~ Yet suddenly, this fall from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace.

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase.

The Battered Suitcase - 1st draft - a Roundel

2011-05-21T15:23:00.001+10:00

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

So what had caused this fall from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase

Born in a Mist - a Roundel 1st draft

2011-05-14T11:42:00.001+10:00

Born in a mist of social shame,
to the world I could not exist
forbidden to even know my name,
born in a mist.

It is my right and I insist
the truth of self I will reclaim
and challenge all who still resist.

I never will accept false blame
from interfering catechist
by whose deceit I then became,
Born in a mist.

Love in the Mist - a Roundel 2nd draft

2011-05-14T11:40:00.000+10:00

Love in a mist, the adoptees’ flower
Often born of careless tryst
Blooms on beneath the shaded bower,
Love in a mist.

And yet to some they don’t exist
Lost to the single focussed plough
Of the legislated nihilist.

Yet never will these petals cower
~~They will forever coexist,~~ under government's heavy fist
In open fields they seize their power,
Love in a mist.

Love in the Mist - a Roundel 1st draft

2011-05-11T12:31:00.002+10:00

Love in a mist, the adoptees’ flower
Often born of careless tryst
Blooms on beneath the shaded bower,
Love in a mist.

And yet to some they don’t exist
Lost to the single focussed plough
Of the legislated nihilist.

Yet never will these petals cower
They will forever coexist,
In open fields they seize their power,
Love in a mist.

When Children Play - a roundel 1st draft

2011-05-07T16:04:00.001+10:00

When children play, in open spaces
Voices ring out loud and gay
Joy of life etched on their faces
When children play.

Would we could forever stay
In that happiest of places
Cares of adulthood still so far away.

Time and tide together races
Toward the closing of the day
Childhood leaves such fleeting traces
When children play.

A chat

2011-05-07T11:26:00.000+10:00

I'm absolutely out of creative poetry ideas at this time so I'll just take time out to have a chat about the process. I have begun and discarded many poems over the past few days, mainly because the rhyming required with this form of poetry means I frequently ended up with misshapen limericks, or doggerel of the worst kind, both with obvious forced rhyme. When this happens it's like having a song playing over and over in your mind, making it difficult to get back on track. Not that all is lost in the world of writing, as I've been revising The Little Mongrel - ~~free~~ to a good home and formatting it as an ebook, adding pictures as well for a second print edition. It just goes to show the need to concentrate on one task at a time if it's to be done properly.
The temperature is very cold in this last month of Autumn, nipping at fingers and leading them astray in the hunt for words. I know many writers have almost starved, half frozen in garrets of their creativity, but not me. I prefer the image of open fires and rugs over knees and the warm glow of well-being to release the poet within. Cocoa anyone?

If I should speak - 2nd draft

2011-05-02T11:56:00.001+10:00

If I should speak what’s on my mind
Giving language to my pique
Would others think me too unkind,
If I should speak?

What trouble do you think I’d wreak
If I chose to so unwind,
An unexpected uprise from the meek

My inner thoughts are well defined
For eloquent critique
Yet fear presents a double bind, ~~Yet others may feel so inclined~~
If I should speak.

If I should speak - 1st draft

2011-05-01T12:03:00.001+10:00

If I should speak - 1stdraft

If I should speak what’s on my mind
Giving language to my pique
Would others think me too unkind,
If I should speak?

What trouble do you think I’d wreak
If I chose to so unwind
An unexpected uprise from the meek

My inner thoughts are well defined
For eloquent critique
Yet others may feel so inclined
If I should speak.

Tankas for April

2011-04-30T14:19:00.001+10:00

April has been a low creativity month for me and I don't feel I've met the Tanka challenge very well. The following poem has been formed by linking three tankas and I've selected this as an example of this month's challenge. I hope May is a more satisfying productive month for me, when I'll be concenrating on the Roundel form of poetry. Thank you everyone for your messages and comments.

He loves her, he loves her not

She spends every day
in the shadow of the sun
pondering on life
she strips petals from daisies;
he loves her, he loves her not.

Petals lost to rain
broken blossoms of lost dreams
scattered in the grass
at the lowering of the day;
he loves her, he loves her not.

She spends all her nights
seeking guidance from the stars
on past decisions
and opportunities lost;
he loves her, he loves or not.

(c) Merlene Fawdry

He loves her, he loves her not - continued

2011-04-21T11:54:00.001+10:00

She spends all her nights

seeking guidance from the stars

on past decisions

and opportunites lost;

he loves her, he loves or not.

He loves her, he loves her not ... continued

2011-04-20T13:45:00.001+10:00

Petals lost to rain

broken blossoms and lost dreams

scattered in the grass

at the lowering of the day;

he loves her, he loves her not.

He loves her, he loves her not

2011-04-19T14:54:00.004+10:00

She spends every day

in the shadow of the sun

seeking an answer

she strips petals from daisies;

he loves her, he loves her not.

Golden tears

2011-04-18T16:12:00.001+10:00

Yellow roses bloom
long after Summer has past
the garden silent
waiting for her love's return
as Autumn sheds golden tears.

Floral tarot

2011-04-15T14:27:00.000+10:00

a vase of flowers
selected and placed with care
a floral tarot
allowing for the scryer
divine interpretation

Lost words

2011-04-12T15:04:00.000+10:00

on a winter day
sentences in suspension
melt away as clouds
words frozen in time, unheard
until released by the thaw

Colours of school days - a tanka

2011-04-11T16:53:00.000+10:00

colours of school days
return on winds of autumn
shades of gold spattered
against a backdrop of green
beneath a uniform grey

Lost words

2011-04-09T16:46:00.001+10:00

words melt from my mind
elusive as candy floss
caught in a light breeze
strands of anticipation
move further beyond my reach

Joy

2011-04-06T14:01:00.000+10:00

small children, heads bowed
giggle into grubby hands
unbridled laughter
erupts from between fingers
in a prayer of joyfulness

Beyond the glaciers

2011-04-05T14:54:00.001+10:00

beyond the glaciers
in the freezing arctic seas
ships, frozen in time
await the return of men
snowblinded in hope of fame

Seasons change

2011-04-04T15:58:00.000+10:00

in autumn garden
green gives way to warmer tones
the patchwork duvet
a random quilt of nature
conceals the summer garden

Daylight savings

2011-04-03T15:17:00.000+10:00

turn the clocks backwards
to a confusion of time
an earlier start
to a day starting later
puts my account in the red

Waking

2011-04-01T13:44:00.001+11:00

Today I awoke
On the darker side of dawn
Dream interupted
I add words to images
Of the time before waking

Rondeau for March

2011-03-31T14:35:00.002+11:00

The following Rondeau are the finished products of this months' challenge. Hardly show stopping, the process has none the less taught me a lot about this form of poetry and its complexties. I'm reasonably happy with #1 and #7, in terms of completion, the others I will lay to rest for a month or so to look at later with fresh eyes. Although I hadn't anticipated the degree of difficulty it has been a worthwhile exercise.

#1 Beyond these bluestone walls

Beyond these bluestone walls, they tell
Of men condemned to living hell
And those who walked toward the rope
To end their lives, bereft of hope
Priest's words lost to the tolling bell.

Unto these men, a fate befell;
From social change; a new artel
That meant not one would e'er elope
Beyond these bluestone walls.

For into each and every cell
The voyeurs came, and paid quite well
To peer and pry, to interlope
And place beneath a microscope
Poor wretches all, who once did dwell
Beyond these bluestone walls.

#2 Into the past

Into the past, I drift once more,
Moving through an enchanted door
To time gone by and familiar faces,
A mystic realm of magic places,
On that wondrous distant shore.

Familiar streets I re-explore,
Crooked lanes, the sun-kissed moor
Stepping lightly in open spaces
Following all the well loved traces
Into the past.

Yet waking now, it's as before
I floated down that corridor,
No friendly face, no warm embraces
Just the cold grey ash of fireplaces,
And I crave sleep take me evermore
Into the past.

                    *

#3 Dry eyed she lay

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear holding sleep at bay
Since welfare came and took her away;
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

Around these thoughts others sped
Of forgotten places, things unsaid
A place of love so far away
Where part of her would always stay
With this sweet dream inside her head,
Dry eyed she lay.

                    *

#4 As the steam rose

As the steam rose, over fingers bare
She thought how life could be unfair
Bonded to the ironing station,
This token of her expiation
Under sister's solemn glare.

How difficult to not despair
Knowing she could no longer bear
The searing pain of conflagration
As the steam rose.

She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
As the steam rose.

                    *

#5 As the keyboard taps

As the keyboard taps, at rapid pace
Lines of thoughts join in the race
As words and images intertwine
And metaphors leap, line to line,
Each jockeying to find their place.

Nimble fingers lead the chase
To finely craft a work of grace
Rhythm and metric beat combine
As the keyboard taps

Letters form a tight embrace
As stanzas seek their rightful place
Every symbol and every sign
Stamp out their mark and, by design
Echoes of words leave their trace
As the keyboard taps.

                    *

#6 On open plains

On open plains, the suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out roads and city lights
All measured by theodolites
To introduce a new milieu.

Gone wallabies, bilbys too
Out with the old, in with the new
So few survivors left to view
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's loss that would ensue
When progress of unequal might
Did force this ecological flight
On open plains.

                    *

#7 As Leaves float down

As leaves float down, on gentled breeze
In Autumn dance beneath the trees
They dust the earth in shades of red,
Russet, gold, a wondrous spread;
A crimson sun on wooded lees.

These are the sprites of nature's ease
Who twist and twirl in merry tease
Then land upon an earthen bed,
As leaves float down.

The artist's brush paints as he sees
The bloodied ground a startling frieze
While poet's write in mournful dread
A metaphor of loves' tears shed
Yet seasons pass as each does please,
As leaves float down.

(c) Merlene Fawdry

As leaves fall down - 3rd draft

2011-03-30T11:19:00.001+11:00

As leaves float down - 3rd draft

As leaves float down, on gentled breeze
In Autumn dance beneath the trees
They o dust the earth in shades of red,
Russet, gold, a wondrous spread;
A crimson sun on wooded lees.

These are the sprites of nature's ease
Who twist and twirl in merry tease
Then land to upon and earthen ~~a comfy~~ bed,
As leaves float down.

The artist's brush paints as he sees
The bloodied ground a startling frieze
While poet's write in mournful dread
A metaphor of loves' tears shed
Yet seasons pass as each does please,
As leaves float down.

As leaves fall down - 2nd draft

2011-03-29T16:36:00.000+11:00

As leaves float down - 2nd draft

As leaves float down, ~~whipped by the~~ on gentled breeze
In Autumn dance beneath the trees
To dust the earth in shades of red,
Russet, gold, a wondrous spread;
A crimson sun on wooded lees. ~~fabled seas~~.

These are the sprites of nature's ease
Who twist and twirl in merry tease
Then land to upon a comfy bed,
As leaves float down.

The artist's brush paints as he sees
The bloodied ground a startling frieze
While poet's write in mournful dread
A metaphor of loves' tears shed
Yet seasons pass as each does please,
As leaves float down.

As leaves float down - 1st draft

2011-03-28T16:39:00.002+11:00

As leaves float down, whipped by the breeze
In Autumn, dance beneath the trees
To dust the earth in shades of red,
Russet, gold, a wondrous spread;
A crimson sun on fabled seas.

These are the sprites of nature's ease
Who twist and twirl in merry tease
Then land to upon comfy bed,
As leaves float down.

The artist's brush paints as he sees
The bloodied ground a startling frieze
While poet's write in mournful dread
A metaphor of loves' tears shed
Yet seasons pass as each does please,
As leaves float down.

On open plains

2011-03-27T16:11:00.001+11:00

On open plains, the suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out roads and city lights
All measured by theodolites
To introduce a new milieu.

Gone wallabies, bilbys too
Out with the old, in with the new
So few survivors left to view
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's loss that would ensue
When progress of unequal might
Did force this ecological flight
On open plains.

This month's challenge has taught me one thing - I'm no Rondeau poet. I can't seem to separate myself from the rhyming pattern, making the poem/s sound contrived, amateurish and altogether not very good.

On open plains - 4th draft

2011-03-26T13:03:00.000+11:00

On open plains - 4thdraft

On open plains, the suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out ~~streets~~ roads and ~~traffic~~ bright street lights
~~From workers with~~ All measured by theodolites
To introduce a new milieu.

Gone wallabies, bilbys too
Out with the old, in with the new
So few survivors left to view
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's loss that would ensue
When progress of unequal might
Did force this ecological flight
On open plains.

On open plains 3rd draft

2011-03-25T15:33:00.000+11:00

On open plains - 3rd draft

On open plains, the suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out streets and traffic lights
From workers with theodolites
To introduce a new milieu.

~~Gone the bilby, the reptiles too~~
Gone wallabies and bilbys too
~~Out with the old, in with the new~~
So few survivors left to view
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's loss that would ensue
When progress of unequal might
Did force this ecological flight
On open plains.

On open plains - 2nd draft

2011-03-24T14:50:00.000+11:00

On open plains - 2nd draft

On open plains, ~~vast~~ the suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out streets and traffic lights
From workers with theodolites
To introduce ~~a new~~ the next milieu.

Gone the bilby, the reptiles too
Out with the old, in with the new
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's loss that would ensue
When progress of unequal might
To Did force this ecological flight
On open plains.

On open plains - 1st draft

2011-03-23T13:23:00.000+11:00

On open plains - 1st draft

On open plains, vast suburbs grew
Replacing grass and kangaroo
With mapped out streets and traffic lights
From workers with theodolites
To introduce a new milieu.

Gone the bilby, the reptiles too
Out with the old, in with the new
A different vista on star filled nights
On open plains.

Is it possible they never knew
Of nature's losses that would ensue
When progress unequal might
To force this ecological flight
On open plains.

As the keyboard taps - 4th draft

2011-03-22T19:11:00.000+11:00

As the keyboard taps - 4th draft

As the keyboard taps, at rapid pace
Lines of thoughts join in the race
As words and images intertwine
And metaphors leap, line to line,
Each jockeying to find their place.

Nimble fingers lead the chase
To finely craft a work of grace
Rhythm and metric beat combine
As the keyboard taps

Letters form a tight embrace
As stanzas seek their rightful place
Every symbol and every sign
Stamp out their mark and, by design
Echoes of words leave their trace
As the keyboard taps.

As the keyboard taps - 3rd draft

2011-03-21T15:53:00.000+11:00

As the keyboard taps - 3rd draft

As the keyboard taps at rapid pace

Lines of thoughts ~~propel~~ join in the race
As words and images intertwine
And metaphors leap, line to line
Each jockeying to find their place.

Nimble fingers maintain the chase
To finely craft a work of grace
Rhythm and metric beat combine
As the keyboard taps

Letters form a tight embrace
As stanzas seek their rightful place
Every symbol and every sign
Stamp out their mark and, by design
Echoes of words leave their trace
As the keyboard taps.

I'm not happy with the 2nd line 2nd stanza ,but can't think of an alternative yet.

As the keyboard taps 2nd draft

2011-03-20T20:26:00.000+11:00

As the keyboard taps - 2nd draft

As the keyboard taps at rapid ~~rate~~ pace
Lines of thoughts propel the race
As words and images intertwine
And metaphors leap line to line
Each jockeying to find their place.

Nimble fingers maintain the chase
To finely craft a work of grace
Rhythm and metric beat combine
As the keyboard taps

Letters form a tight embrace
As And stanzas seek their rightful place
Every symbol and every sign
Stamp out their mark and by design
Echoes of words leave their trace
As the keyboard taps.

As the keyboard taps

2011-03-19T15:31:00.001+11:00

I seem to have a bit of a theme happening here of doom, gloom, and general misery, so I'll try for a change of mood with this next one.

As the keyboard taps - 1st draft

As the keyboard taps at rapid rate
Lines of thoughts propel the race
As words and images intertwine
And metaphors leap line to line
Each jockeying to find their place.

Nimble fingers maintain the chase
To finely craft a work of grace
Rhythm and metric beat combine
As the keyboard taps

Letters form a tight embrace
As stanzas seek their rightful place
Every symbol and every sign
Stamp out their mark and by design
Echoes of words leave their trace
As the keyboard taps.

As steam rose - 3rd draft

2011-03-17T15:22:00.001+11:00

As steam rose - 3rd draft

As ~~the~~ steam rose, over fingers bare
She thought how life could be unfair
Bonded to the ironing station,
~~The symbol of her incarceration~~
This token of her expiation
Under sister's solemn glare.

How difficult to not dispair
Knowing she could no longer bear
The searing pain of conflagration
As ~~the~~ steam rose.

She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
As ~~the~~ steam rose.

When I started this challenge I knew that was exactly what it wold be - a challenge. What I didn't realize was the enormity of it and how the focus on rhyme can interfere with creative flow. I can look at this poem, for instance, and see its flaws immediately, what I can't see are the words that might remedy this.

As the steam rose - 2nd draft

2011-03-16T16:37:00.000+11:00

As the steam rose - 2nd draft

As the steam rose over fingers bare
~~The whole time she'd been standing there~~
She thought how life could be unfair
Bonded to the ironing station
The symbol of her incarceration
Under sister's solemn glare.

How difficult to not dispair
~~Forbidden speech with which to share~~
knowing she could no longer bear
The searing pain of conflagration
As the steam rose.

She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
As the steam rose.

As the steam rose - 1st draft

2011-03-15T19:34:00.000+11:00

As the steam rose - 1st draft

As the steam rose over fingers bare
The whole time she'd been standing there
Bonded to the ironing station
The symbol of her incarceration
Under sister's solemn glare.

How difficult to not dispair
Forbidden speech with which to share
The searing pain of conflagration
As the steam rose.

She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
As the steam rose.

Dry eyed she lay

2011-03-14T13:29:00.001+11:00

Dry eyed she lay - last edit

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear holding sleep at bay
Since welfare came and took her away;
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

Around these thoughts others sped
Of forgotten places, things unsaid
A place of love so far away
Where part of her would always stay
With this sweet dream inside her head,
Dry eyed she lay.

I still think the 4th and 5th line of the first stanza still need some attention - one day.

Dry eyed she lay 4th draft

2011-03-12T12:28:00.000+11:00

Dry eyed she lay - 4th draft

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear ~~keep~~ holding sleep at bay
Since welfare came and took her away;
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

~~Between through~~ Around these thoughts others sped
~~Of a different place, free of dread~~
Of forgotten places, things unsaid
A place of love ~~where she could play~~ so far away
~~And where she could forever~~ Where part of her would always stay
With this sweet dream inside her head,
Dry eyed she lay.

These revisions were suggested to me and I think they work better than what I had. Thank you

Dry eyed she lay - 3rd draft

2011-03-10T14:13:00.000+11:00

Dry eyed she lay - 3rd draft

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear keeping sleep at bay
Since welfare came and took her away;
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

Between through these thoughts others sped
Of a different place, free of dread
A place of love where she could play
And where she could forever stay
With this sweet dream inside her head,
Dry eyed she lay.

Dry eyed she lay 2nd draft

2011-03-09T10:56:00.000+11:00

Dry eyed she lay - 2nd draft

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear keep sleep at bay
Ever since welfare ~~Since welfare came and~~ took her away,
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

Between ~~through~~ these thoughts others sped
Of a different place, free of dread ~~a different bed~~
A place of love where she could play
And where she could forever stay
With this sweet dream inside her head,
Dry eyed she lay.

I must admit to using a rhyming dictionary for this challenge - is that cheating?

Dry eyed she lay 1st draft

2011-03-08T20:07:00.002+11:00

DRy eyed she lay - 1st draft

Dry eyed she lay, in her lonely bed
Tears of heartache left unshed
Shadows of fear keep sleep at bay
Since welfare came and took her away
To a place of safety, they said.

Away from that other life she'd led
To live as a prisoner here, instead
Inside these walls, day after day
Dry eyed she lay.

Between these thoughts others sped
Of a different place, a different bed
A place of love where she could play
And where she could forever stay
With this sweet dream inside her head
Dry eyed she lay.

This is a very rough first draft of the first three stanzas. I'm really struggling with this one.

Into the past 4th draft

2011-03-07T19:49:00.002+11:00

Into the past, I drift once more,
Moving through an enchanted door
To time gone by and familiar faces,
A mystic realm of magic places,
On that wondrous distant shore.

Familar streets I re-explore,
Crooked lanes, the sun-kissed moor
Stepping lightly in open spaces
Following all the well loved traces
Into the past.

Yet waking now, it's as before
I floated down that corridor,
No friendly face, no warm embraces
Just the cold grey ash of ~~in unlit~~ fireplaces,
And I crave sleep take me evermore
Into the past.

These changes have also been suggested and I reckon it brings it together more. Thank you

Into the past - 3rd draft

2011-03-06T15:12:00.000+11:00

Into the past

Into the past, I drift once more,
~~A daydream opening~~ Moving through an enchanted door
To a time gone by and familiar faces,
A mystic realm of magic places,
On that wondrous distant shore.

Familar streets I re-explore,
~~The~~ Crooked lanes, the sun-kissed moor
Stepping lightly in open spaces
Following all the well loved traces
Into the past.

On Yet waking now, it's as before
I floated down that corridor,
No friendly face, no warm embraces
Just cold grey ash of in unlit fireplaces,
And I crave sleep take me evermore
Into the past.

I was wrong. There are always changes to be made.

Into the past - 2nd draft

2011-03-05T11:40:00.001+11:00

Into the past

Into the past, I drift once more,
A daydream opening an enchanted door
To time gone by and familiar faces,
A mystic realm of magic places,
On that wondrous distant shore.

Familar streets I re-explore,
The crooked lanes, the sun kissed moor
Stepping lightly in open spaces
Following all the well loved traces
Into the past.

On waking now, it's as before
I floated down that corridor,
No friendly face, no warm embraces
In Just cold grey ash of unlit fireplaces,
And I crave sleep take me evermore
Into the past.

Only one small change made in the 4th line, 3rd stanza. I can't see anything else to change at this time so this one can also sit for awhile.

Into the past - 1st draft

2011-03-04T13:35:00.000+11:00

This is my second Rondeau for this month and the task doesn't get any easier. It does, however, increase my admiration for writers of traditional forms of poetry such as this hundred fold.

Into the past

Into the past, I drift once more,
A daydream opening an enchanted door
To time gone by and familiar faces,
A mystic realm of magic places,
On that wondrous distant shore.

Familar streets I re-explore,
The crooked lanes, the sun kissed moor
Stepping lightly in open spaces
Following all the well loved traces
Into the past.

On waking now, it's as before
I floated down that corridor,
No friendly face, no warm embraces
In cold grey ash of unlit fireplaces,
And I crave sleep take me evermore
Into the past.

Beyond these bluestone walls

2011-03-03T11:52:00.003+11:00

A Rondeau

Beyond these bluestone walls, they tell
Of men condemned to living hell
And those who walked toward the rope
To end their lives, bereft of hope
Priest's words lost to the tolling bell.

Unto these men, a fate befell;
From social change; a new artel
That meant not one would e'er elope
Beyond these bluestone walls.

For into each and every cell
The voyeurs came, and paid quite well
To peer and pry, to interlope
And place beneath a microscope
Poor wretches all, who once did dwell
Beyond these bluestone walls.

~ Merlene Fawdry 2011

Beyond these bluestone walls 2nd draft

2011-03-02T12:39:00.002+11:00

Beyond these bluestone walls

First stanza:

Beyond these bluestone walls, they tell
Of men condemned to living hell
And those who walked toward the rope
To end their lives, bereft of hope
Priest's words lost to the tolling bell.

Second stanza:

Unto these men, a fate befell;
~~The mad, the bad, the great unwell;~~
From social change, a new artel
~~That~~ Meant not a one would e'er elope
Beyond these bluestone walls.

Third stanza

For into each and every cell
The voyeurs came, and paid quite well
To peer and pry and interlope
And place beneath a microscope
Wretches all, who once did dwell
Beyond these bluestone walls.

I've managed to change the 2nd line of the 2nd stanza and change could to would, 4th line same stanza, also delete that from the same line. I may need to let this one sit for awhile and come back to it later, unless others have some suggesions - she asks with hope in her eyes.