I now hate a Rondeau and so does my tree

Winds move me, gales stripping my branches bare
feel vulnerable, in crisp midnight air
twisted limbs on show, daring kids to climb
pray for summer, magnificence, my prime
frosty branches kill, a morbid affair.

nests vacated, just silence, oh the din
yearning for rapture, considered a sin
roots hinder me, my branches hidden twins
winds move me.

Snow falls heavy, a glistening winter shawl
dancing wild, a demented wedding doll
Christmas lights adorn me, disco in flora
new cycle in sight, springs around the corner
yet hope just trickles, the sun still awol
winds move me.

** I said I was willing to learn, truth is I enjoy restrictive forms as much as I enjoy sticking my head in a microwave.
too much repetitive rhyming turns a poem into a nursery rhyme.
A rondeau can sit beside a sonnet as an enemy of poetry.

If I was in a pram right now, there wouldn't be any toys in it.

back to painting.