Feast of Poetry - The first two courses

[alpharaposa]

Having finished and edited the ode, I find that the original post is so old that most people will miss the poem! So, I'm reposting the finished poems early. I still have three more to do, and haven't forgotten.

Original post here: http://stryck.livejournal.com/773263.html

For jenny_evergreen, for her two boys.

My brother, we shall be Olympian!
We'll conquer trials Herculean;
Though sorely tested, we'll not be bested
So long as we stand as brothers true,
As Caster and Pollux were known to do.

For ysabetwordsmith, a villanelle for a picture of a snowy field:

I love to play on snowy hills,
To hear it crunching as I run
And chase away my winter chills.

I know a few who balk at spills
But nothing keeps me from my fun;
I love to play on snowy hills.

I don my boots and arm for drills,
For battles that are never won
And chase away my winter chills.

With armor thick and daring thrills
And epic quests but just begun,
I love to play on snowy hills.

Then steaming milk and cocoa fills
My mug to warm me when I'm done
And chase away my winter chills.

For cold's the least among those ills
That press me when I pine the sun.
I love to play on snowy hills
And chase away my winter chills.

For laffingkat, a triolet for a picture of three teens:

I was looking forward to today
If only she weren't here.
To see a movie, or a play,
I was looking forward to today.
"It's not so bad," is what you say,
Your thoughts are plain, I fear-
"I was looking foward to today,
If only she weren't here."

And for siege, an ode (in Greek style) with the prompts patience, thyme, caverns.

The Patient Gardener

Now spring is here. The scent of soil is full
Of loam and promise. Lift the dead with spades
And rakes and cast them to the heap. The seeds
That rattled loose in winter winds retrieve
Until the bed is laid. The rake and hoe
Are brought to bear on rocks and clumps of soil.
And yet the moment comes when tools are cast
Aside and worker's hands must pluck the weeds.
In reverence the dirt is nursed, then torn
Asunder, carved as beds of furrowed earth.

Now summer brings a triumph. Green and gold
With thyme and bay in rippling rows and wheat
A luminescent glory. Grapes for wine,
And grain for beer, and apples ripen full
For cider. Prune and pluck and groom the soil,
Then walk in pathways limned with blooms as bright
As banners. Crysanthemum and violet
And amaranth and marigold. They shine,
A balm to tired feet and busy minds,
This fecund paradise of luscious growth.

Now autumn comes. The harvest gathered, fruit
And nut and root. The laden branches gleam
Unclothed. The earth is butchered, torn apart,
The roots are jointed, the flesh removed, the trash
Returned, the wealth preserved in jars and bins.
The fields are wrapped inside a shroud of stalks
And leaves. A mournful ghost bestirs a stand
Of bones. Then white and soft the blanket falls,
The earth asleep in death. I face that death
With faith, for winter always turns to spring.

Still to come: poems for anher, that_guy_zach, and wyld_dandelyon