You tell us of a time of bitter days
All pushed aside and dulled by founded fears
No cheery objects fall within your Gaze
they're blurred out, but still don't foster tears
Where anguish crowds the conscience from the world,
a bloody hand reveals the dreaded sin.
No flags of satisfaction are unfurled
to shade the cart to hell, which you are in.
No friends aligned and nothing to be gained,
you've done your best to polish off the slate.
Leave only that which fate has deep ingrained,
and that required by nature. It's too late.
No friends you say, there still might be a few.
You need but one, and that my friend is you.
tauqeerwrites questions: "Little do we know."
We see it's not just grasping for a thread.
But even so, like so many poets glow,
this showed a vivid scene in what we read.
The question though still drifts there in the fog,
of things we think we know, and little more.
Those brilliant verses lie there like a log,
inviting all who read to write the score.
Those simmering words will lie there with his stuff,
while all the old sagacities hold true.
Deep down, we know we know. That's not enough,
to pin the pride of rightness to our view.
One thing that you have shown us with this piece
"Homer" holds the bragging rights, at least.
Short lines without a rhyme, but who can tell
with notions everywhere dispensing dread.
Tradition has it, free-verse can do well
but can we trust a single word that's said?
One glance reveals the notches on his hip.
A smile sends us tumbling to the bottom.
His smirked enhanced, he curled his upper lip,
"Unique, this is. By George, I think we got 'em."
The poet chased them all the way back home
where rhythm giggled, rhyming held his head.
Free-verse cannot soothe my aching dome
When recognizing strength and prayer as one
this wordsmith shows a path of some renown.
We try and learn that we have jumped the gun
and wait to hear God answer or meltdown
This tale could go 'most anywhere from here
and show perspective for the place of prayer.
What is that rumbling feeling? Is it fear?
Just know, it's all that holds both Earth and air
When reading this adventure and such stuff.
We know that every bit of it is true.
And yet, we know that it is not enough
to shake the power of hope from what we do.
Each of us can gains a bit from what your said,
if we allow God's thoughts into our head.
My first impression:
You have a great idea here for a story to grab your readers and hold them to the end. There are plenty of complications to keep the reader interested, without much wordiness, repetition, or excess description.
What I liked most:
The smooth flow made easy reading as you exposed the thoughts and fears.
My general suggestions and technical concerns:
Even though dialogue carries the story well, a bit of narration might help to separate the friend and the spirit. Perhaps a few more action tags such as you used in the beginning to identify the spirit.
This is an excellent story segment. I don't want to suggest that it needs much work.
Rating and Rationale:
I gave this 4.5 stars because, the story flows smoothly with only the use of 'seemed' and 'seem' in adjoining sentences weakened this vivid, and complex story. It needs very little to make it 5 worthy.
To read the mind of women, as a rule
Is wrought with pitfalls leading but to grief.
The woman smiles at Ed the nodding fool,
and jumps in quick to show him her belief
He thinks he's one who understands her ways,
and holds her in her place and on the track.
His drunken binge continues on for days.
She throws his empties in the trash out back.
She cannot take some more. I hear her say.
'I've got a plan without a single hitch.
My broken bones and teeth have won the day.'
She tossed her only empty in the ditch.
The rose she'd chose had wilted and decayed.
But, satisfaction now was not delayed.
The search for magic places that are real
leaves each of us to struggle on our own,
to find those learning moments where we feel
there’s more to be discovered than a groan.
Now, should a bolt of insight steal the show,
hold to the weed which keeps you on the track.
grab all the strength you can from hits of blow
and spin that moment's buzz, it won't talk back.
The damage from the past, we hear them say,
can never quite be shoved beneath the rug.
Those broken dreams have never won the day,
just added more to all those holes we’ve dug.
But think of all the misery you've found
and know tomorrow's high will just rebound.
As bandit flows verse smoothly from the pen,
we see those things that we have seen before.
Yet sculpted with a light and hearty ken,
to keep us searching on for even more.
Our clueless search for spring starts with the leaves.
Here, Autumn's grim reality set in.
We shiver, watch icicles on the eaves,
and try to find an upbeat Christmas spin.
We look on forward past the dreaded snow,
imagining the green of promised land.
At last, we see a hope and think we know
that spring will come with nature' warming hand.
Children love stories, or so it's been said
of horses and rescues and things that they dread.
We follow Ronny and watch as he sees
a branch for the taking, without any bees.
You point to his heroics on a roll,
and show his courage, with only three feet.
Now farmer Fred jumps in to make the goal
and save ol' Ronny from a sure defeat.
We marvel at the horse and what's to come.
But know that every bit of it is true,
then shake our heads and say "It's not so dumb",
not knowing what this wild tale will do.
The sun peeks out on Ronny's sweet delight.
The kids all smile. You know you've done it right.
I'd have given you a five for this one if you'd used some form of meter.
Here, Netty once again defies the norm,
and dips her oar into the sacred word.
We learn that poetry need not have form,
to share a message worthy to be heard.
You point us to salvation on a roll,
and show that prayers can move those trembling feet.
Acknowledging that we all pay the toll
when mumbling of loss in our defeat.
When reading of such things as "When I come",
we know that every bit of it is true.
But still, we shake our heads as if we're dumb,
not knowing that a thought's release will do.
Eternity peeks out. We hear what’s said,
and face the final truth, a task we dread.
I hear your plea to quell excessive rage
watch as unknowing witnesses decline.
No green-eyed monster here. Just turn the page
and dump the problem where our souls entwine
The wild thoughts leave little here to brows,
and will adhere to honesty and trust.
But twisted truths cause tempers to arouse
and falsehoods turn our thoughts from glow to rust.
The final thought: to leave it all to God,
is worthy of a strong respectful nod.
This was an excellent present this without disclosing the pilot's national interests. One can be sure that the Japanese pilots approaching Pearl Harbor had such a notion in their heads, just as did the British and American pilots on their thousand plane raids against Berlin. As did the Al-Qaeda pilots on nine eleven.
We open with a though, both loud and clear,
to keep us reading on to find the why.
That tale of Eden's trees and beaming cheer
shows all the same old stuff. We start to sigh.
Then, from the middle lines, here comes the fun
we see the angels tweeting, just like the birds.
No conflict here. Perhaps I'll cut and run.
In verses of this kind, there's more than words.
The crisis comes; the shadow's lost its way,
recalling all those ups and downs we know,
as youthful cravings have now saved the day
before the time to smoothly end the show.
Reminders of what's missing in this show
the final line gives all we need to know.
The used-to-haves can put us on the run
and make us doubt the truth of our own renown.
We see the cup, but do not jump the gun
while digging through the mire of up and down
That cup could go most anywhere from here.
You've shown us half-full views within the fog.
What is that rumbling feeling? Is it fear?
Let's take a moment now to pet the dog.
To figure out our lives that's quite a trick.
Pandemic spins the yarn as if it’s true.
The view through this short essay here is quick
to show the well-developed stuff you do.
Each of us gains a bit from what you've said,
You've helped me shake the fog out of my head.
Delightful, how you’ve shown to everyone
what drives your verses on with such renown.
We see our way, but do not jump the gun
while waiting for the climax or meltdown
This series could go anywhere from here
and show us something new within the fog.
What is that rumbling feeling? Is it cheer?
A lot of verses here for one to log.
I’ve wondered lately if another trick
might help me spin a yarn as if it’s true
The view through all this poetry is quick
To show the well-developed stuff you do.
Each of us can gain a little from what's said,
if we shake the fog out of our head.
In comedy, we search both site and soul
for just a snicker hidden 'neath a shrug
and knowing such a fete could ramp the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
By throwing out a laugh line we can fall
onto a path we've often seen before
with other digger's shadows on the wall
perhaps we've found the jest we're searching for.
In truth, it’s watching others dig so deep
that lets me grasp onto the moment’s gem
you left there just to germinate and keep
on giving past the time allotted them.
Perhaps the fencing lesson that I find,
needs further tossing over in my mind.
The pointed metaphor of clocks and schemes
prompts me to sit, and contemplate the power.
Attention drifts to action, not to dreams.
I read the verse again, within the hour.
Goodbye…No time to squander on lost nerve.
Although such words can prove confusing when
a poet's long-sequestered need to curve
goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
And now, I see the twist. It's times withheld
until I find my breath is rushing, too.
I sit to wait. The secret silence swells
then shrinks beneath the weight of our farewells.
Although I said good-bye—I still have more.
Hats off to 'Where is Time' right to the core.
It isn’t very often that we see
An elevation of our stash of screams
While learning at the same time that it's we
Who find out nothing works out as it seems.
You point to every aspect that we see,
and show of doubts and then of dragging feet,
producing tales which always frighten me
and watch them plan their hopeless last retreat.
When reading of 'The Blob' and all that stuff.
We can't believe a bit of it is true
for all of what we know is not enough,
to shake the fear of death from what we do.
We each soak up a bit from what is said,
unworried by fantastic things we dread.
The jagged glare of truth comes shining through
whenever we peek underneath the prose.
your verse looks past the the mud and rotting too
and turns us to the breeze to clear our nose.
Can knowing truly bring us to the light?
The nearly perfect free verse makes us think,
that truth may yet fit in, to our delight
instead of holding guilt where it would stink.
Now, reaching for the parchment’s purist page
we touch upon the poems final lines.
If left alone to ponder just the stage,
we might deprive ourselves what it defines.
Life’s gentle moments show us but the trim
and leaves what’s underneath remote and dim.
No there's a grabber I've not seen before.
A grocery bag of floss picked from the floor.
but, that's not all to keep our wits afloat
I find 'asylum' soon and maybe more
The forest throws a lifeline all can see
He ties a rope around a big, green tree.
All that floss pays off, once in the woods.
Then trees cough up the salve, some helpful goods.
The VOID now finds its way upon the page.
I wonder what this scene will really stage.
Could this be but a dream of hopeless fix?
No time has passed, it's still just three oh six.
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