Flaming Sheep: A Nightmare Villanelle by Toni Cross

 

Pulsing through my mind is nothing but fear

Running from a dream that stalks the edges of my sleep

I’m screaming and screaming where no one can hear

 

From the darkness, faces are pausing to leer

I fight towards consciousness, but I’m in too deep

Pulsing through my mind is nothing but fear

 

In this careening night, there’s no one to steer

I’m slipping on a cliff that is slick and too steep

I’m screaming and screaming where no one can hear

 

Wild flame of thought burning swift to sear

No counting can be done as I stare at blazing sheep

Pulsing through my mind is nothing but fear

 

Reality is thin; like oxygen it’s sheer

Bolting my eyes tightly, I will not steal a peep

I’m screaming and screaming where no one can hear

 

Fast breath, slow breath, gasping, acrid hot and clear

Daring into nothing, I quickly, blindly leap

Pulsing through my mind is nothing but fear

I’m screaming and screaming where no one can hear

 

 

What is a villanelle?

“The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating
rhymes and two refrains. The form is made up of five tercets followed by a
quatrain. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated
alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final
stanza, the refrain serves as the poem’s two concluding lines.”

For more, go to: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5796

 

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Wooed by Memory, Stealing From Time: A Pantoum Poem

I am pulled; I am drawn, into the past
Frozen in elation and joy’s perfect thrill
Enchanted by how this antique moment could last
One breath of life where my heart stood still

Frozen in elation and joy’s perfect thrill
I steal from the sentinel clock

One breath of life where my heart stood still
Cupping this memory as second’s newborn tick and watching it turn into a tock

I steal from the sentinel clock
Enchanted by how this antique moment could last
Cupping this memory as second’s newborn tick and watching it turn into a tock
I am pulled; I am drawn, into the past

“The Mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks: A Different Sort of Poetry Reading

I created the following poetry reading on an impulse. This poem speaks to me- I’m not sure why, but it does. The rawness of the anonymous mother who grieves her aborted babies echoes my own heart’s desperation, as I long for my miscarried little one.