Villainous Nell and Her Villanelle

Oh, there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
iniquitous poet, and quick to offend,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

Her poetry grates like a banshee’s yell,
and no one could like it, nor even pretend,
for there ne’er was a poet like Villainous Nell.

The rhymes and the rhythms seemed tortured in hell,
but beautiful sonnets could never contend,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

The townsfolk all plotted how best to expel
this fiendish reciter, or how to defend
their poor, suffering ears from that Villainous Nell.

When at last they arrested this cruel damoiselle,
she clutched to her breast the foul ode she had penned,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

So now she just waits, all locked up in her cell,
scrawling more poems, awaiting her end,
for there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

A Jeeves and Wooster Villanelle

“What ho! I say! That’s a jolly good wheeze!”
It always starts so innocently, eh?
“Precisely, sir. I do endeavor to please.”

An old school chum is in a bit of a squeeze,
And Bertie rallies round to save the day.
“What ho! I say! That’s a jolly good wheeze!”

But with Aunts looming large, the best plans freeze.
It’s time to hear what Jeeves may have to say.
“Precisely, sir. I do endeavor to please.”

A careful study of psychologies
of individuals he now displays.
“What ho! I say! That’s a jolly good wheeze!”

The solution absolutely takes the cheese,
dodging an engagement on the way.
“Precisely, sir. I do endeavor to please.”

“How ever do you come up with schemes like these?”
“In all modesty, sir, I really couldn’t say.”
“What ho! I say! That’s a jolly good wheeze!”
“Precisely, sir. I do endeavor to please.”

Villanelle. Really, Just a Villanelle.

All month I’ve tried to write a villanelle.
The thought has pestered me now every night.
No matter what, it doesn’t turn out well.

My mind will visit every day this cell,
wherein it frets upon its self-made plight:
a month now looking for a villanelle.

It seems a pleasant verse in which to dwell,
where thoughts can bed down cozy overnight,
but somehow still, it never turns out well.

I try to conjure up the proper spell,
the one that makes the words align just right.
Once more I try to write a villanelle,

but lines with funny colors, awkward smells,
and itchy skin descend on it like blight.
No matter what, it doesn’t turn out well.

I swear this strange desire I will quell!
I’ll squeeze the poem out in black and white!
All month I tried to write a villanelle,
and now I have… though really not that well.

The Reincarnation Villanelle

Our lives extend beyond our sight,
An unrepeating repetend,
We come back ’till we get it right.

For though it looks like darkest night,
Death is not the final end —
Our lives extend beyond our sight.

We shirk our lessons, though despite
The karmic law we hope to bend,
We’ll come back ’till we get it right.

We struggle, hoping to rewrite
The epic plot that God has penned.
But life extends beyond our sight,

And when we give ourselves to Light,
We find it is our greatest friend,
Guiding us to get it right.

When finally, to our delight,
Our limitations we transcend,
All Life extends beyond mere sight.
We won’t come back; we got it right.

In Which the Books Win

I can hardly stand to look
At things my friends might read for fun.
My house can’t take another book.

I’ve crammed them into every nook,
Partly read, or un-begun,
I can hardly stand to look.

I climb the piles with grappling hooks,
I fight them off with gatling guns,
My house can’t take another book.

I think I’m free, but I’m mistook —
They pile ’round me by the ton.
I can hardly stand to look.

I’d burn them but I’m trapped — I’d cook,
Farenheit 451.
My house can’t take another book.

I can’t escape, by hook or crook,
I know I never will be done.
I can hardly stand to look...
But still pick up another book.