The Deaf Man nibbles closer to the bone.
Does that mean he'll be chomping through my soul
destroying secrets hidden all alone?
It seems he's bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed on me by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the bits I don't recall,
are half-truths that I’ve never seen before,
which shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that I’ve been searching for.
In truth, it’s here, with faith built-in so deep,
I find the source of every moment's gem,
the soundless poet left so I could reap
the joy in finding even one of them.
Perhaps this verse left floating in my mind,
is one of many here for me to find.
The eight-line stanzas firmly grab my muse
with sanity now hanging by a thread.
And yet, as many other poets choose,
I give my muse a rest from what is said
You paint with brushes broad, right through the fog,
no broken crayons scattered on the floor,
just brilliant phrases peeking from the smog,
as sanity defines the guarded score.
Those cups of noble height hold all that stuff,
with all those old clichés still holding true.
Deep down, we know that that will be enough,
to chase the poor man's doubts from what I do.
My muse now needs that rest or something worse,
for here, SeanFear is not deprived of verse.
The decent story idea, but the lack of a problem and resolution is problematic.
At the beginning, the brothers sit to discuss their situation. At the end, one of the brothers has revealed his plans. Nothing has changed.
In the middle, we find this confusing sentence: Jasper glance bounced about the room, rubbing his mouth as he stared out a window, to their side, into the backyard as their children played together.
Perhaps Jasper's glanced bounced about the room? That might be okay, but his glance can't rub his mouth, and it can't do it while staring out a window.
At the end, nothing has changed.
This could be the beginning of a story, but it needs some work.
This tribute to the famous Man in Black,
is like a move to bring poor Elvis back.
We take another look at all that stuff
we've heard and read and know it's not enough.
l walk among screaming mass and cringe.
For all the guitar squeals in music’s name,
it’s time to hold a weekend’s listening binge,
of all those oldies which are not same
I hear that some folks like these modern boys
But all I hear is loud obnoxious noise.
While Johnny spent his life out on the floor,
His best just doesn't cut it anymore.'
The rose he chose has wilted and decayed.
And fits right in with all the games he played.
Pandora grabs imagination's pull
and shows a path to hell not seen before.
The evil Octad's crystal cup is full
with all-time bread, that seems, may offer more
But, even though that evil deed is done
and death is dealt with no resisting hand
her flock seeks hope and finds that there is none,
but exultation glows throughout the land.
A need to slay the lamb jumps to the fore,
as Hermes plays the role of loving dad,
with no regrets at all for so much gore,
and nothing left from past times that he's had
Bob County grabs Pandora by the nose,
and shows us how this wild version goes.
The EasternWindow glows with rising hope
as early morning grabs for its control.
Where stands the trust, if following a rope.
Contrition hangs its head to claim the role.
We see the crumbled scraps of blatant fear
all scattered on the trail to moving on
and know we've dropped the ball to what we hear.
Are all our dreams just myths, of what we've won?
No purity in vows we should have kept,
above all else, clean up that foul reward.
Upon your knees, deflect the tears you've wept.
Reclaim the path your conscience set you t'ward.
While selfless king may be her rightful claim,
such actions on hope won't make is so.
It's only truth, in deed and in the name,
which turn the sod and let the flowers grow.
Unfailing love without the hidden strings
will sweep away the scraps and what that brings.
My first impression
You have a good idea here for a unique adventure. There are plenty of complications to keep the reader guessing for a while. It doesn’t have as much of the usual wordiness, repetition and excess description as most of us use in our early attempts at storytelling. The 'telling' style gets boring after a few pages.
What do I mean by telling? Here is an example of an opportunity for improvement, which may be worth considering:
The first task she got was connected with the kitchen where the chef needed a helper to tidy the room, or Elijah thought he did. (Even with the interesting phrase 'Elijah though he did', the author is telling us her first task rather than showing us through her (or someone else's actions) After six days of cleansing the most dirty surfaces Annabel had ever seen the chef said she irritates him, so she was sent to a girl who asked for another kid to help her with washing dirty clothes and sheets. The girl’s name was Susanne.(Here, you name Susanne. It is good to identify a character as soon as practicable, but here you told us here name. Would it work to just mention the name when introducing the new task?
Consider tightening to something like this:
The first task, in the kitchen, where Elijah thought the chef needed help, cost her six days of cleansing the dirtiest surfaces Annabel had ever seen. The chef, only irritated by her efforts, sent her to Susanne, a girl who asked for help washing clothes and sheets.
It's your story, but I think it will help if you avoid passive voice and eliminate as many unnecessary words as possible.
This segment grabs my muse and shakes its core.
The opening brings an unbranded smile.
The prize defies all logic and much more
The dream evaporates in ruckus rile.
But, even though the fragile shard is broke
with rude confusion clearly holding sway.
There moves the blur of doubt in which to cloak
all notions of the games these children play
Now is it true denouement at the end
or do we hold the story by a thread?
We watch the terror growing past the bend
And though the dream is gored, he is not dead
She floats in her surrender's sweet relief,
and knows that her respite will be but brief.
The Drak prepares for battle, damn the rules
This winning strategy could be but brief.
Here come the readers; all those feeding fools
dead sure they've found a new and budding leaf.
But, when their growling hunger steals the show
they make a mad dash down the other track
and all those strong resolves begin to flow
out through the door into the trash out back.
When all the strength and courage ebbed away
we turned to face the music. No, we ran.
That broken promise lost for one more day
when tossing those rejections in the can.
We writers see temptation gathering round
and settle in to see what's yet to come.
with expectation high, of what we've found
and forge ahead to hear the beating drum.
It seems you had an idea for a character to be revealed rather than explicitly described. That's a good approach, but here, the spelling and grammar errors undermine the story being exposed. We all have edit issues to deal with in every segment of our tales. Give this a polish and post it again. You may find better ways to draw the reader in.
We feel the salty winds; life's stinging spray
those tortured limbs, so twisted, torn and scarred;
with powered search for something more to say.
life sentries stand as Noni's silent guard.
She clings to rocky hopes. We don't know why.
Her tangled roots mine strength from strongest soil;
Those grotesque arms of fate reach for the sky.
Now, final words resolve her lifelong toil.
The Twist jumps in to take us by the hand;
It leaves us gasping in a rippling cheer.
You turn the yarn from good to simply grand.
Congrats upon the story we found here.
No regrets for her misdirected ways.
We see a tale with power, and it stays.
The metaphors like 'stop and see the stars'
prompt us to sit, and sip a whiskey sour.
Attention drifts to feeling lifelong scars,
then read the rhyme 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 for love's reserve
goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
And now, we see spilt milk—no words withheld,
until she knows he feels the same way, too.
He sits and waits. The secret silence swelled,
then shrank beneath the weight of her adieu.
He never said good-bye—he sat alone.
Her answer was the droning dial-tone.
You've done well as showing us the rainy day and the uncomfortable trip to the bank. I like the way you exposed us to the crowd and took advantage of hearing as the primary sense and the annoying sounds of phones, baby crying. You placed a good picture of the scene in our minds.
Nicely done. My suggestion would be to break the story into paragraphs to put a bit of white-space onto the page to improve readability.
Here, busybutterfly stirs up the flame
and make us check the trail beneath our feet.
This old reflection posits for a name
There is no path to freedom by retreat.
We see this path, long trodden by the mass.
That well-worn trail was built by long success.
We stand expecting wins on our first pass,
but sink beneath mistakes. My what a mess.
The merciless attacks won't bring renown,
but all must feel the heat along the way.
Our failure is the pathway back to town,
until we've found the rules by which to play.
We stand on past mistakes though, don't you know,
They give a place to start, and then to grow.
Premeditated murder in their gold,
relentlessly their ruffles multiply;
face their frills and step into their fold;
it could be said each spring, 'I live to die'.
I brave the bludgeon of their buttered-cup,
pure innocence of spring that they portray,
for fluted frills I offer spirit up,
platoons of petals bear my breath away.
Are Iris, then, the witness to my death?
They know I only knelt for yellow kiss.
'A suicide!' declared the Baby's Breath,
'She gladly went the way of golden bliss!'
While Roses write the rhyme of thorny kill-
they leave a dearth of death by Daffodil.
Reviewer's innocence tossed to the wind
I search for bits left hidden 'neath the rug.
Perhaps I’me bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed on me by all those holes I’ve dug.
106
A toe in the water
Cinquains?
I feel the fire
an iron fist of verse
with stresses and Iambs aligned
What's worse?
This five-hundred-word segment gives the readers lots of information without 'telling' them anything, nor resorting to flashback.
There's no way to tell how this might fit into the overall storyline, as none is exposed. This segment, on its own, does a fine job letting the reader know where the story is heading.
Reviewer's innocence tossed to the wind
we search for bits left hidden 'neath the rug.
As though we’re bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed by those reviewing holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the bits that we define,
are truths we thought we'd shucked forevermore.
Some shine there, just like berries on the vine,
reminding us of things we're searching for.
But hidden in your essay, strong and deep,
are minders of some long-forgotten gem,
showing we can grow and we can reap
a long-lost joy in finding one of them.
You left that secret dangling in our minds,
like one of those rare awe-inspiring finds.
This is a nice idea for a story segment, but you've certainly taken on a tough assignment for yourself writing in the second person. It is very difficult to keep the reader's interest with that style. Here, you've not only taken on the second person, but you've put it into the present tense as well.
It's not surprising to find other issues slipping up, too. The story opens with 'a person' who is later referred to as 'they'
I'm really impressed with your trying an approach that is so difficult. I'd recommend you start with either first or third person past tense. Try this tough stuff later.
All the best,
Norbanus
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