Rondeau poems bring the best collection of short and long rondeau poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great rondeau rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these rondeau poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on rondeau are here for you.
“Life before me? The play was that banal. And Aryan, poor boy, he was so dull.” Of course, that upset her, she’s smitten; I’ll show you the bad poetry she’s written. You want to help? Rhyme her something nice with
If only words were capable enough! To articulate how I felt, The delicate heaviness that dwelt In the crevice of my heart, And the hollowness I dealt When we had to part, The fear of a lonesome night, The sense
I watched her as she swam across the lagoon And her smile much brighter than the moon. The clam breeze in the air whispered gently, As if a marching band played a loving tune. I was quickly invited into the
skeletal bones in the hidden residue to escape with its fashionable decorum hidden inside there is a map a scroll to tell us where is the buried treasure turn right on interpass twelve quick left passed the brook under an
God’s hazel gaze scans a barren land empty stomachs and hungry stands a fertile field an enduring belief precious and exalted and dwelling bequeath breathe in, breathe out live, laugh, love the plea of the needy comes from above swift
In the silence of the blue ocean tides, As the water sweeps on the sea rides I feel you are with me; holding my hands, Walking slowly along the cold wet sands, Knowing that one fine dawn we shall meet.
She canters freedom like wind Gallops wilderness like fire And into metallic dreams She blazes banter with reverence- Only to chute through life’s greenbrier- letting seasons mark her deviance! As she gaits, bittersweet love is dinned with a shako of
She is the whole world to me She is middle aged, still looks young She possesses wrinkles, yet is the most beautiful She is the lady with courage and strength She strives for patience and perseverance She believes “Work is
I spied through the window as I sipped morning’s brew A frisky young rabbit having his morning’s chew He bounced through our garden, munching on green burrowed roots Having no ideas or cares, as I donned my tall boots I
She ran out to the woods Chased adventure all the way down to the lake Black like tar and anger and emotion and hatred She jumped in trepidation and cold and fire and that sound of stone cracking against stone
How wonderfully great it is to be human, This phenomenal thinking godlike specie, With the potential to explore the universe Yet with intentions of being mostly sleazy. Living in a garden of land, water, and sky, A living vessel so
She came to visit me from America, Everybody shouted, she is my replica. She is very pretty, white and pink, She wore her jacket, made of mink. My little lady always looked very busy, Serving tea with her beautiful tea-cosy.
Champagne bubbles , Glasses tingles I hear cheers of joyful mingles, Toasting to they who lives for gingle . Dance with me under the moon light, Fall on my lips your crystal drizzles , molten in your arms as I’m
I live in dreams, waiting for time to come, That bud I spied would open up someday, What had been days or scant minutes for some, Became those lonely centuries to me; As sun would tarry long before it dims,
She is silent, He is silent, But the silence is broken, And the eyes are doing their work, A beautiful heart in love, Is reflected in the eyes. She knows it well, He knows it well, Then why this refrain?
Poem Dedicated To My Father Late Moinuddin Hasan–An Ideal Teacher- BEFORE TEACHERS’ DAY Moinuddin was his name,eloquent, which means— One who is an aide to faith and for that weens He lost his father when only six months and mother,
Never being late, Never being fast, Never being slept, performs a watchman’s task, Keeps its sharp eyes on everybody, Works hour can’t be stop by anybody, I usually ask myself, doesn’t he feel tired? He replied; if it would be
When given a deep thought a certain realization hovered over my head. …truly everything happens for a reason, a reason that sometimes may be an unknown illusion, sometimes the things we curse and at times something that overwhelms us to
Cats are running around Besieging all the burrows in sniffing jestures, Blackened spirits in utter desperation Seeking quivering mouse on holes. Mouse that are born on conscience depth Brought up with faint knowledge To charm the graves of moral saints
Like everyone else, A poet has dreams Dreams to flow within the letters of the words That lead him closer to his destiny He is partial To imagine What the neural network Across the brain cannot Even if he was
We are not mere sepals, petals, and pollen-grains As scientists view us under their microscopes, But a flower, with all faculties of beauty and life, A full bloomed blossom, the expectations and fulfillment, The long cherished dreams of a plant
The sun comes up and the sun goes down. Spring Has turned into autumn and now all the leaves Are falling to the ground. White laced woman When will all your dreams come true? Broken Hearted she cries “I know
You wanted to live inside a shell and step outside, in a bowl of habits, sometimes, nudging accumulated sins to offset the aftershocks. Tsunami is here to stay. The crowd was swelling lured by candles on the sea. Each candle
(A collaboration with Gene) In dark melancholy’s mire a heart’s forlorn canoe paddles through the dense grief floating on the surface clutching like vines, sticks like Val Des ooze, pulling me under. Listening to the ghostly music coming from the
The ocean breeze blew through my hair On it, a hint of magnolias Or was that the incense you were burning At the altar of your daily prayer Filled my lungs with the dusks’ freshness The dance of the chimes
Like each dropp of your humbleness engulfing my urbanite woes; the graffiti emerges in tender grace to resurrect a windmill. My spirit, the abode of small birds carrying the sunset on its back was returning home for the final- sleep
Midnight in the Rose Garden, in the shadow of the moon’s Shadow well, I retrace the paths we used to walk back to That moon-flower covered two storey gazebo…I climb the Stairs again to the top that overlooks the deep
Deprived of affection and a sense of belonging one retires to a sanctuary of isolation. Arraigned by the acute pain of rejection the walls become his or her world. Indicted with selfishness and antisocial behavior sleep is the best defense