You've given yourself quite a challenge here in building a world that seems imagined and fanciful, but that is enough like Earth to be plausible to your readers.
So far, it appears that you've done a respectable job, and at the same time you've given yourself a solid guideline to hold to as the story progresses.
The pet rock finds its home here once again,
revealing questions we have heard before,
now painted with a bright and different ken,
to keep us searching on for even more.
We find our heads ascratchin' up above,
when doubts of grim reality set in.
They scatter logic so we don the glove,
and sort the thorny answers through again.
But we look forward past what we don't know,
imagining the joys we understand
and turning to the things that help us grow;
perhaps we'll even ask God for a hand.
Last summer's answers rotted and decayed,
we ponder all that's new, but it's delayed.
Who are the non-essentials in our lives?
Are they the ones in need of fewer smiles?
Could they be where the coming vote derives
with unimagined grief from lockdown trials?
We cringe in fear. Our fragile shard is broke
with hesitation clearly holding sway.
There moves the blur of tears in which to cloak
those games the elite politicians play.
Now is that true denouement at the end?
Or do we hold the truth by just a thread?
We watch the well-fed sneak on past the bend
to look beyond and see not what they dread
Essential is a wound that you've laid bare.
One can’t deny the truth at which we stare.
You have given us a good look at the confusion and uncertainty of a difficult subject.
Those of us who have to face the issue personally will gain a lot by reading this and thinking through whatever options are available. Few legal entities are willing to face the issue, nor are they willing to get out of the way and let the patients deal with the horror in their own way.
Thank you for forcing me to consider it once again.
You've grabbed my muse and shook him to the core
by forcing thoughts of past unbranded smiles.
The prize of memories spread evermore.
without a touch of caution--or defiles.
Deep in times gone, my fragile shard is broke
with hesitation clearly holding sway.
There moves the blur of struggles in the cloak
Now wrapped in games of verse that we all play
Is that a true denouement at the end
we hold the theme's smooth mission by a thread.
A friend appears and struggles ‘round the bend
and of the New York clime enough is said.
At last, we see the prairie’s sweet relief,
and rise to smell the joy instead of grief.
You've grabbed us by imagination's core.
And shown us sights that we've not seen before
The POV of time-piece, that's a sight.
The travels as related, a delight.
We feel the chill and know the sea is cold,
and then, another misdirected way.
There moves the blur of promise in the hold,
now wrapped in games that deepsea divers play
In true form of denouement at the end
we hold the gentle truth by just a thread.
The ticking POV slips ‘round the bend
and though it’s not alive, it is not dead
The reader breathes a sigh of sweet relief.
The sadness of the loss, though old, is very brief.
With books, we have no limits to extol.
We search for thrills left hidden 'neath the rug,
as if we’re bent on wiping out the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
But standing with the bits that you recall,
are truths we know that we cannot ignore.
They shine there, just like beacons on the wall,
reminding us of what we're searching for.
But hidden in your verse, so short and deep,
are minders of a long-remembered gem,
which shows us we can grow and we can reap
an oft-lost joy in finding some of them.
You left that secret dangling in our minds,
and searching for those awe-inspiring finds.
Delightful, how you've shown that simmered fate.
while dragging us behind you for the ride.
You fold the consequences on the slate
with lots of indecision on your side.
The changing meter might cost you a prize
The storyline will gain what you deserve.
There is a flow of puzzle to devise
a way to counter doubts which we observe.
But were you satisfied to fill the bill?
Not even close—you've added one more thing.
To give your readers something more else to thrill,
you've questioned if it's sane and made it sing.
Not a single major blunder did I see.
It is, except for meter, error-free.
The season passes smoothly from your pen,
revealing pictures we have seen before.
but painted with a bright and different ken,
to keep us searching on for even more.
We find a clueless palette up above,
when Autumn's grim reality sets in,
and scatters leaves so we must don the glove,
acknowledging that Winter will begin.
But we look forward past the dreaded snow,
imagining the green of promised land,
when we can thaw At least we think we know
the time of year when God gives us a hand.
Last summer's rose is rotted and decayed;
we wait for Spring and think that 'It's delayed.'
It isn’t very often that we see
An ode to something lowly as a leaf
And yet without them, we would never be
celebrating Autumn; oh, so, brief.
You note each step that's taken by the tree,
as needed as the soil beneath its feet.
The winner clearly shown is to be me.
The leaves succumb unto their last retreat.
Some claim we’re lost in sentimental stuff,
But don’t believe a bit of it is true.
for all leaves that fall are not enough,
to shake nostalgic views of the things we do.
Why should we want to leave our stress behind?
To do so might let boredom rule the day
Stress is the price we pay when 'er we find
our smiles turn to frowns in every way.
We plan ahead and know we’ve got it nailed
until the moment's truth presents its face.
Red-faced with nerves affray, we know we’ve failed
and missed the learning tool to our disgrace
But all in all, we haven't learned so well.
Let's take nap and read it once again.
A second trip may bring home what you tell
and let my mind absorb the proper spin
But this far down the path, you may have guessed
with all that preparation, I’m still stressed
Fracturing the ancient Greek Myths by mixing in ideas of a modern setting is a great way to keep your muse awake and growing. Such an effort keeps a writer growing too.
There are, of course, opportunities for improvement, but the only one which needs to be squashed is the use of multiple punctuations as we see here:
“WHERE’S CEREBUS?!”
There was laughter. Did someone just laugh at him?!
You have an excellent idea for a story to show a strong woman taking command of her own life.
You certainly gave this story a surprising and abrupt turn with Mohit's unexpected death in the early stage of the tale. Moksha's independence was not a surprise, though it needed a bit more development.
Now, that's an interesting way to approach a journalistic essay sort of story. I'll bet that by the time you've finished reading your Mum's accounts you'll have more than enough for a full-length tale; either non-fiction or wild spun.
One thing which got my attention is that after this prologue you could either set this yarn in currents events of as an accounting from some fictional time in the future.
Nicely done. It seems as if it might be the first rumblings of a novel in the works.
Well settled in his path of verse and prose,
Tim Chiu has grabbed the oars and gave a tug
to show another tree of our life tale,
which shines a light into the hole imp's dug.
But buried ‘mongst the tidbits as we've guessed,
are names which we have never seen before,
which fail to satisfy our groping quest,
for hidden source and perhaps something more.
In truth, this tale, like water flowing deep.
Arrests the mind and prompts another gem.
For all the depth, there still is more to reap.
The sworn oath is surely one of them.
Are there still other stories in your mind?
I'll search through this again for what I find.
It isn’t very often that we see
two stanzas stand so firmly on the ground
We know, without them, we would never be
here reading this small verse of such renown
You show us truth as it must always be,
We face it as the soil beneath our feet.
The wiser for its truth will now be me
as I must also face my last retreat.
Some claim that facing truth, and all that stuff,
will make you strong, but not a bit is true.
For all the strength we have is not enough,
to shake the soil of loss off what we do.
I thank you for the powered things you said.
You made me realize, I'll soon be dead.
As a segment of a much longer story, this could be a little of this and that, with an opening for several conflicts. None of them are developed in these scenes. Could this be an outline, to help expose the characters and suspense of a novel, yet to be written?
Deb’s poignant bits of wisdom stir the flame
and makes us check the trail beneath our feet.
These old reflections posit for a name
There is no path to freedom by retreat.
Where is that path long trodden by the mass?
Those well-worn trails were built by long success.
Now, we expect to win on our first pass
but sink beneath mistakes and find a mess.
Those daily tasks may never bring renown,
but all must touch that base along the way,
recalling days gone past. (that rusty crown)
until we've found the new rules we must play.
We stand upon past dreams now, and we know,
they give a place to start and where to flow.
This is an outstanding bit of story building for such a young writer.
I'd like to pass along to you a suggestion, which I received from James Mitchener, fifty years ago. That is: to remove every word which you can, that will not change the meaning of your sentence. That includes adverbs (such as slightly which you used in your first paragraph.
It's a small step for a writer but a giant leap for an author.
Bootstraps stretch tight and snap their muddied leather,
The depressed soul ascends a slippery path
into the naked lanes of frigid weather.
His trembling, and his doubts unwarmed by wrath.
A fantasy appears to save the day
Embellishing the scattered bric-a-brac,
designer yarns to spin of this and that's.
The words sink in, "It's never coming back!"
The rainbow fills the sky, but it's no use.
Depression owns the rights and wasn't he
surprised to join the protest and abuse
instead of quietude down by the sea?
He trudged his path, looked back--the lines were blurred
between his mad descent, and cause interred
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