Delightful, how you’ve shown to everyone
what drives this pentameter with renown.
We see our way, but we'll not jump the gun
We'll wait until the climax or meltdown
This verse could go 'most anywhere from here
and win perspective for the form at hand.
What is that rumbling feeling? Is it cheer?
Just know verse holds together stars and man.
When reading pentameter and such stuff.
It helps us to believe that part that's true.
Our view through readers’ eyes is just enough
to shake the disbelief from what we do.
I'm sure to gain a little from what's said,
if I can shake the fog out of my head.
Once again, we see the truth in the old adage about the word ASSUME. This is a well-done yarn where you describe the experience of riding on a steam-powered train; something few today will have an opportunity to suffer through. I notice that you also exposed the practice, in times past of hiring out children as farm laborers. A deed that would be thought of as criminal in today's protective society.
Thank you for sharing this powerful tale of the old man and his dying wife. It struck me as the most poignant story I have ever read. That sounds like an exaggeration, but it is not.
You see, last Saturday, my wife of sixty-one years, Bess, died after a three-year battle with cancer. During her last few months, she suffered and wasted away, much as the woman in your story. Each step you took with your characters has a counterpart in our lives. We, of course, are not on a Texas farm and our crops were business transactions, not corn or wheat. But, we worked them together. Her art was her paintings, but it fits nicely into our story, where the quilt fits into yours.
Again, I thank you for this gut-wrenching experience.
It's a shame we don't have a six rating for this powerful story.
We watch as no name stares into his bowl
but see a hint of long-gone past and now.
Still wondering at the questions and the role,
of Curls, and what the genre will allow.
A name pops to the fore from ancient Greece
but salted with another hint or two.
Meow! A black cat makes his bid for peace
despite the evil that invaders do.
Foreshadows of another zig appear.
The kiss defies those tears of early scenes,
demanding we read more. (we want to hear)
Should we concern ourselves with what Cyn means?
We guess now, of the travels back in time
and think of Stella's place in modern-day.
No help with names, as yet. We have to climb
that mountain of 'what's up' along the way.
By George, you did it. The whole story is there in only one hundred and twelve characters. You could have shortened it even more as the final word 'again' is not necessary.
It reminds me of the shortest story I've read: 'For sale. Wedding dress. Unused.'
The metaphors like 'stack the wood' demand;
I sit, relax, enjoy a whiskey sour,
and give attention to the verse at hand.
Then read the words again, within the hour.
Goodbye…No time to squander on depression.
Although such thoughts can prove confusing when
a poet's long-sequestered love obsession
Goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
And now, we see spilt milk—no words withheld
until the others see her courage, too.
We sat to wait, as the awkward silence swelled,
then shrank beneath the weight of no adieu.
She never said good-bye—she sat alone
The mob hears just the droning dial-tone.
The jagged glare of truth comes shining through
whenever we peek underneath the prose.
your story tells of fire and napalm too
and turns us to the breeze to clear our nose.
Can knowing truly bring us to the light?
The lack of rhyme and meter makes us think,
those descriptions may yet fit, to our delight
instead of stepping on where it would stink.
Now, reaching for the purgewords' purist page
we touch upon the story's final truth.
If left alone to ponder just the stage,
we might deprive ourselves of the uncouth.
Life’s gentle moments show us but the trim
and leaves what’s underneath remote and dim.
The golden silence finally has its voice
and shows us something we've not seen before.
We feel the tug of which this verse is full
the truth so which you speak shows even more
But, even though the quietood is gone
the loss is dealt with no resisting hand
the pretty words, in silence, will live on.
No need to block the ears or make a stand
First-person POV jumps to the fore
with loneliness in charge of grief and sad.
Echoes from the shouts smear on like gore
with wishes seeking what they've never had
The golden silence fills the world with prose
that's gone before it knows the way it goes.
This little segment tells us quite a lot.
To female birds, his big feet make him hot.
He'll keep their eggs up from the ice and snow
to give the chicks a better chance to grow.
The tale could go 'most anywhere from here
with Percy as the hero in the fog.
What is that jealous feeling? Is it fear?
The other males are sleeping like a log.
I wonder if a longer tale or trick
might help us spin this yarn as if it’s true.
A big-foot penguin could catch on right quick,
and be a superhero through and through.
We need a little more than what is said,
to plant the tale of Percy in our head.
While choosing that less traveled as the on
this wordsmith shows a path of some renown.
We walk and learn that we have jumped the gun
when thorny weeds and vines bring a meltdown
This tale could go 'most anywhere from here
and shares the heave load as if we care.
What is that rumbling feeling? Is it fear?
That road ties together Earth and air
We see the rock of ages and such stuff
but can't believe a bit of it is true
until we see that we are not enough
to shake the power of choice from what we do.
Each of us gains a little from what's said,
if we get over caution from our head.
Delightful, how you’ve taken on the task
of showing us all the wet-dreams of the tale.
We see our way, but there's no need to ask
for places where the tickets go on sale.
Your upbeat mood could turn from there to here
for entertainment, or to just plain bored.
I thank you for the warning, but I fear
that madness grabbed me first. My, how it roared.
When reaching for wet-dreams and all that stuff
We find ourselves more certain what to do.
Each of us gained a little (just enough).
to know the hopelessness is all quite true.
I thank you for the verse in which you show
us all some things that we deserve to know.
A lesson learned. A notion on its head.
The static crackles sharply in my mind.
It's drowned by those examples that we dread
but know that they are all we'll ever find.
Past deeds may tell us where to go from here
to see us rescued when the porridge poured.
I thank you for the warning, but I fear
the universe has not yet cleared the board.
When reading social justice and such stuff
I find myself uncertain what to do.
Each of us gains a little (just enough).
to know the leftist path is not what's due.
Congratulations on the guts to show
us something we all deserve to know.
Thanks for the update, cos. It's good to know that Space Kid does not suffer from multiple personalities.
I see no reason for confusion around the issue. "Space" seems to be an appropriate nickname for Space Kid's friends to use.
Taytum Willows is a well imagined character. You are doing fine in exposing the personality as the story unfolds. Narrated descriptions seldom work as well as letting them seep out onto the page at their own time.
Sometimes a bleeding soul may give a start
But grieving often doesn’t stir the pot
so much as joy and things which swell the heart
and show us life without the molding rot
Our hearts all bleed a bit from time to time.
That might assuredly engage our muse
to prompt an awesome story or a rhyme.
Perhaps to still the ink, but we can choose.
Delightful how you’ve found both paths across
this field of broken thoughts and frozen schemes,
and not fall victim to the scourge of loss,
or end in wailing for your shattered dreams.
We watch the story build and what we see,
drags us into a brand new world of thought
While learning at the same time that it's we
who have a chance to learn what you've wrought
What Space Kid does, we know is likely rare,
But sill it fills our head with notion's neat.
Ideas of new friendships fill the air.
Has Munch recovered from her last retreat?
When reading of Space Kid all such stuff.
We must believe, as some of it rings true.
For all of what we know is not enough,
to shake the need for friends in what we do.
Delighted, at the inspiration said,
we know it will still be here when we're dead.
You have quite a tale here, Nick. Thanks for giving us an excuse to think back at that time in our lives. A similar time in my life came about in the 1930s in woods in Missouri in the US.
You did a heck of a good job of keeping us engaged and sharing a laugh. I did notice a typo, but I don't remember where, so it must not have messed up the story for me.
We watch the story build and what we see,
drags us into a brand new world of thought
while learning at the same time that it's we
who have a chance to learn just what you've wrought
While seeing Gigi run things fair and square,
she fills our heads with notions, slow yet fleet.
Ideas of the present fill the air.
Was 1984 our last retreat?
When reading of this world and all such stuff.
We must believe some version will come true.
For all of what we know is not enough,
to plant the cautious seed in what we do.
Delightful, of the AI, what is said,
aware that it's not gone when we are dead.
An enthusiast of the East European short story, eh? I couldn't get that thought out of my head while attempting to concentrate on this article. Is this an example of an East European way to cover such a rambling, boring subject?
You certainly did do a good job of making the various points. But, frankly, I couldn't wrap my head around the question of who might be the intended audience.
As often is the case with sci-fi here
this one reveals a story wild and brief.
The Wullian's life replete with cheer
while finding ways to Earthlike sweet relief.
But, every dream and scheme comes falling down,
when fireballs fly, creating needed slack.
Please can't you see a little to renown?
Horrald needs not the praise, just numbers back?
I walk among the wizards and I cringe
But where's the goat for us to fix the blame.
Where is the magic word to slow the binge
of dead Wullians which means more of the same
A Sci-fi buff, I just can not put down
a wild fantasy of such renown
You've grabbed my muse and shook him to the core
by forcing thoughts of Gomer's naive smile
The prize of lies spreads all across the score
without a touch of caution--for the while
But, even though the fragile shard is broke
no hesitation ever holding sway.
There moves the blur of comedy to cloak
all notions of the games at which they play
Now is it true denouement at the end
or do we hold the line by a thread?
We watch churlish act sneak past the bend
And though the ox is gored, he is not dead
While laugh lines give a little sweet relief,
I'm caught by this one's message, although brief.
Awaiting what I know is yet to come,
My scrambled thoughts allow me not a word.
I ponder snow and winter (at least some)
and shudder at the cold winds that I've heard.
On second read, I see what's white and black.
I shake my head. Is it still on my shoulder?
I posit unique shapes, creating slack,
as I have done since youth when it was colder.
The story swings, and rooftops all turn white.
I think someone else may bear it better.
Up steps the one of courage for the day.
It gives me some relief to simply let her.
Without a thought intact, I trudge the snow,
my brain aspin with what I do not know.
Delightful, how you've shown love's confused fate.
while dragging us behind you for the ride
You fold the consequences on the slate
with indecision's doubts tossed to the side.
The changing meter might cost you a prize
but points well-made have gained what you deserve.
There is no flow of puzzle to devise
no counter to love's bounty we observe.
It isn’t very often that we see
a chance to elevate our grasp of words
while learning at the same time that it's we
who have a chance to learn from things we’ve heard
You point to days and clouds, not thunder’s roll.
B George, your pen as moved my trembling feet.
Acknowledging that all life pays the toll
As we dream of the soil, our last retreat.
When reading of such worlds and all that stuff.
I know that every bit of it is true.
But all of what we know is not enough,
to shake the fog of doubt off what I do.
Once more the sun peeks out. I hear what’s said
and shake my dreary muse. Is he now dead?
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