Before the bleak reflection from the start
raw grief arose to deftly stir the pot.
No joy presents itself to race the heart
or show the other side of what is not
Our souls all bleed a bit from time to time.
when pitiful assumptions weigh our muse
to prompt this well designed, despairing rhyme.
The ink depends on feeling what you choose.
Sadly, you’ve not found both paths across
this field of broken thoughts and frozen schemes,
have fallen victim to the scourge of loss,
and ended wailing for those shattered dreams.
This purgatory poem which you show
required a wit of talent, we all know.
No thousand word required to see what's real.
The Snowbird flies and struggles on its own,
Learning moments turns our guts to steel.
There’s more to be discovered than a groan.
Now, should a bolt of insight steal the show,
we hold to hope, or something on that track,
with all the strength we've mustered in the snow,
but there it goes and we can't take it back.
The warmth within your heart, we hear you say,
can never quite be shoved beneath the rug.
You know those dreams can never win the day.
They'll just add more to all those holes you’ve dug.
But think of how it's made through the ice.
If we can find a way, it would be nice.
This is one of the most imaginative short story plotlines I've read in a while. You've given the main character plenty of internal conflicts to keep the reader invested. The story moves smoothly along with red herrings galore to distract him all the way to the rather underdeveloped ending.
Frankly, I view this as an excellent outline for the story, but it needs a strong edit to reduce the wordiness, repetition and telling.
Only a few building sentences could make that ending pop.
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
that one reveals imagination wild.
We step into the twilight zone or worse,
then turns his mind back to that of a child.
The Witch throws questions out into his way,
without revealing that cold trap she's sprung.
He grasps the reigns and promptly ruins his day,
his foot now firmly on hell's bottom rung.
Without a clue, he's clearly flunked the test.
She's turned his shining 'Stang into her pet.
He knows the thing to do; just do his best.'
She smirks behind his back, 'You wanna bet?'
She grabs him by the mind; a thing to dread,
and stuffs this eerie scene into his head.
The humor is dry, but well done. I like the unique perspective but I found the story to be boring as I could not visualize nor identify with the characters.
I like your formatting with the blank line between paragraphs. It makes it easier to read.
A chance to meet a friend, but. at what cost?
The social distance language understood.
Communication gaps we have not crossed,
while claiming it's all for the greater good.
We wait until these months and days have slowly passed,
and sanity has finally been bestowed;
Through Wuhan flu, we've held, and we've stood fast,
amidst the news and fake-news which has flowed.
Across the vast expanse of China's reach,
you show the hopeless gasp that spread so far;
advancing to whomever they can teach,
to bow before the power of the star.
An act of Spirit takes us way back when,
Where economic suicide can't win.
Consumption by success, that’s quite a thought
this verse reveals a truth, both cold and wild.
That vivid picture of what we have wrought
gross, defined and now it is defiled
No tenderness here getting in the way,
We're unaware, at all, the traps we've sprung.
The poison in the broth which ruined our day
And placed a foot upon hell's bottom rung.
Without the least regret, we flunk the test.
We can't, b feebly squawking our regret.
It's time to make a pact and do our best.
and that is fate’s last word. You wanna bet?
The broken treaty flaunts another kind
of haunting, which will never leave my mind
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
the muse reveals imagination wild.
'I'm soaring now.' She trails behind the hearse.
The visions fly, as they do for a child.
With tenderness, the words have found a way,
still unaware, for fledging, she's too young.
She's grasped the world she built and made my day,
despite my place upon hell's bottom rung.
Without the insight shown, I'd flunk the test.
My parents only saw me as their pet.
and never knew that I had tried my best.'
Then conscience smirked and said 'You wanta bet?
Professor Q saved me by what she said
and now, I face the truth--the thing I dread
He touched her wrist, as soft as patent leather,
then whispered as her tears began to fall.
A chill descended, much like changing weather.
Trembling fears are warmed by that recall.
She'd felt alone, with nothing but her cats
inside a house with Starman bric-a-brac,
No need for all those dresses, shoes, and hats,
Her thoughts cut deep, "I'll never gain him back!"
His whisper though takes her last chance to leave.
His caring showed last night and wasn't she,
surprised that he'd, still be there Yuletide eve
or at her cozy cottage by the sea?
The Starman's season fell and tears have blurred
that path unto the time they're both interred
I know that chapter three's far down the line
to form a first impression, but it's there,
this world of varied folks, all built fine
with clarity of what is when and where.
Ah yes, that first impression, where I said
we're too far down the path to find it now.
You've shown us dialogue (a task I dread)
while feeding in examples that can wow.
That first impression gained so far along
is bolstered by a yarn worth our belief.
You show a moving tale that can’t go wrong
and needs no explanations for relief.
I wish I had a copy on the shelf
I'd read it front to back just for myself.
What a great inspiration for a story. The most amazing part of the Christmas Peace, as it's called is that both sides did start shooting again the next day and that the insanity didn't even end with the end of that war. The attempts to 'hold Germany responsible' grew into an even bigger war in WWII.
Could this current demand to 'hold China responsible' for COVID-19 grow into proof that humans are incapable of learning from their mistakes?
You have touched on a point of view that we hear little about. Your observation of less crime Is a good case in point. There are also fewer automobile accidents and accidental injuries in restaurant parking lots are now a thing of the past.
This delightful yarn has hit the mark
"I saw it on TV" was just a lark
three hundred words or less to tell the tale
and yet you left the culprits our of jail.
A well-turned story of a know-it-all
who's learned a lesson he'll always recall
A cautionary tale, we cannot win
This author shows us how to bear the deed
and spreads the salt of wisdom from within
to shake a bit of grace and fill the need
The battle though, is hardly in the bag,
as domineering voices join the foe.
They spread the word of man and wave the flag
to challenge every bit of what we know
Luke, John or Mark would roll within his grave
to see corruption capturing the Word
We see oppression rule, with much to crave)
more sour notes to come, or so I've heard.
As the Keeper of the Faith, you've held the line
The word of God lives on and will do fine
A writer's skilled obsession with the word,
can turn a moment's madness to a flood.
Once Ginger's arty notions have been heard,
we wait for Jane to staunch the flow of blood.
The 'free-born artist' seems a noble breed
and struggles to impose her iron will.
An artist (like the rest of us) must feed,
or all those arty whims will all fall still.
Will make You Laugh, the wordsmiths with resolve,
shows Jane without a job or a whim
but still with many problems left to solve,
and now, she finds her budget be trim.
This yarn could go most anywhere from here.
We know these characters will bring us cheer.
One day aboard the site, this soul,
has grabbed the oars and given quite a tug
to show a new perspective to the role,
of shining light into the holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the tidbits where they fall,
are truths we know we should have seen before.
They shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that we've been searching for.
In love, when one is buried in so deep,
and leaps forth grasping for a gem,
we know there's very little chance to reap
the joy we speak and think we find in them.
Perhaps the verse that floated from your mind,
contains one which another soul will find.
It seems sometimes that dreams will search the soul,
for truths we’ve hidden underneath the rug.
As though they’re bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the bits we recall,
are often truths we’ve never seen before,
which shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that we’ve been searching for.
In truth, I’ve found my own reflection here,
leaping forth to grasp that moment’s gem,
left there to germinate so you could reap
the joy of finding even one of them.
Perhaps with self-to-self in mind,
there'll be another here for me to find.
It isn’t very often that we see
An ode to something lowly and so dull.
And yet without it, we would never be
here celebrating things we'd like to cull.
You point to every boring sleep-inducing spree,
engaged in by backer and keeper.
I smile, to knowing it won't be me,
on Reddit 'til I face the Reaper.
No nits to be picked with this verse
Its points are delivered quite well
The viewpoint could hardly be worse.
With views though, one can never tell.
The net is absorbing what’s said,
If boring or dull or just dead.
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
that one reveals imagination wild.
'Hear me once' a plea like nothing worse.
The secret lost, cold and beguiled
With tenderness, she tries to find a way,
unaware at all of moonlight's play.
She grasped at clouds and promptly ruined her day
her foot now firmly on hell's bottom rung.
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