This piece had a wonderfully poetic Haiku quality to it. You lovingly wove substantial content & heart-felt resonance into a small, compressed, condensed literary package. Nicely done.
In an already wonderful piece, the last lines were spectacularly stellar:
"Taste my hunger
For your tantalizing promise"
Powerful, and then some. Sizzlingly delicious. Thank you for sharing.
Powerful, though it made me feel deeply uneasy. (In that most uncomfortable way.) But, sometimes, feeling uneasy is exactly the right response, in context - as it was here. Thank you . . . and then some,.
Engaging. Raw, in that good way. With profoundly potent juxtapositions. You present clear (and present) options. Black & white. Like a Chess board. My very favorite lines:
"Start a war for what you want
Love’s no easy ride"
Powerful stuff. Thought-provoking. Thanks for sharing . . .
I found this piece to be quite moving - in a dark and somber way. Your words enabled me to connect (soul-to-soul) with the fallen soldiers, so much so that I searched to find the painting by Kathe Kollwitz that inspired you. Sadly, I was not able to do so . . .
Sometimes I read a piece and know exactly what charmed me. This one caught my eye/mind. I read it several times. And enjoyed it. Not sure why. Perhaps because I felt I took a brief, brisk journey with you.
I found this piece quite refreshing. It worked on a number of levels. The structure was solid. The imagery was crisp and direct. And, like a profitable parable, there was meaning underneath that shined through.
I've read everything at your Port and enjoyed it all, most particularly this piece and "Missing You." I assume that you do not have to be told that you have a way with words. Your writing strikes me as well-structured and well-thought out. Among my favorite lines:
"I look
Always
For your name
Printed somewhere
In automatic size ten
Arial"
Crisp. Taut. Precise.
In "Missing You," I liked:
"You’re not the girl who chewed on her reading glasses
And talked in dramatic ironies"
Great imagery on the surface and soaked with meaning inside, like a large natural sponge right after it is pulled from a bucket of foamy water, splashing meaning all around.
Well, I've said too much. But visiting your Port seemed to coax the words from my meandering mind
What a wonderful, self-induced cascade, rolled back into itself. Like bread-dough, well-kneaded, by a muscular Master Baker. Ka-pow. Ka-pound. Ka-knead. Ka-roll. And pound, again. You are a well-crafted wonder, and then some. And how I enjoyed your literary efforts! Thanks . . .
This piece had such a wonderful poetic quality to it. So lyrical. And the imagery of the doors (as a metaphor, I assume) made it all the more engaging. I have just one suggestion that you may feel free to ignore, for I would not change your work by even a single word. But, in reading it several times, I tried to imagine where the pauses might be. Below I have used your very words but with "breaks," that I seemed to hear in my head, as I digested various phrases that you wrote. I make no pretense that this is where the breaks should be. (You are the artist. I am merely a passer-by.) But I hope the fact that I took the time to read and re-read this piece multiple times will be taken as a compliment., for that is how it is meant.
I wish I could
walk through doors
that change
everytime I enter.
Then maybe
it would make sense,
my emotions are
like different doors,
you never know
what is on
the other side.
But be careful
of which ones
you open.
I hate having
this sense of fragility.
Everyone I meet
I feel like I need
to give them
a book of my life
I've read your five Lake poems. Engaging works, all. But this one stood out. It bristled with life and hope. Exhilarating. Like a brisk morning walk on a chill-dawned day. Thank you for sharing.
I usually just review poetry, but when I saw the words "The Product Placement Edition," I was intrigued. So I played along. I'm glad I did. (Baited. Hooked. And reeled in.) I found this piece quite clever. It moved well. The interplay of the characters was winsome, and the last line was dead-on, made-me-smile, perfect. Kudos to you.
This was absolutely breath-taking. Everything that a well-crafted word-journey should be. Twists. Turns. Eddies. Side-streets. Your wonderful first four lines set the tone, so well:
"When I think I am doing
something of importance with gusto,
like trying to garden pompous
flowers in a stately fashion"
I know those "pompous flowers." They never really appreciate the love you give them. They are the cats of the plant world. Give them everything, and they want/need more.
Well, I loved this piece. But, in the spirit of transparency, I must admit that (many, many years ago) I lived within minutes of Siesta Key and very much enjoyed going there. (I was among that cult-like group that clustered early evening on the smooth-sanded shore to watch the beautiful sunsets, and I saw quite a few.) But back to your literary effort: You word-painted a lovely sea-scape that flashed me back in time to re-enjoy those wonderful moments. For that, I am both grateful and appreciative. Your way with words is substantial. My tickled mind can attest to that..
Deeply personal. Yet not maudlin. It suggested a strength, foundation-like, upon which to build. Like granite. Or well-poured concrete, strengthened with re-bar. The final three lines present a clear choice. A prevocational utterance. Nicely done . . .
I have always admired people who know the story of Sisyphus. Why/? Because the story of Sisyphus is the story of life. Real life. Facing struggles. A life that is lived, in "real time." Where things go wrong. And people are hurt. Or disappointed. Discouraged. Etc. And you have used it "well." A high compliment, indeed. (Like the ancient Catholic "High Mass" in Latin.) I can not offer higher praise. "Sum laude." Good for you . . .
This work offers a lovely symmetry. A look back on itself. Like a mirror. Facing a mirror. Into infinity, or thereabouts.
The echo of the lines . . .
"O to drink the wine of forgetfulness
to look back and never remember this day"
. . . made me wonder: Was it "true" irony, truly? Or was it a deliberate attempt to recognize the fact that the "wine of forgetfulness" leads to a different way of remembering things, differently?
Hmmmmmmm . . . Now that's a thought.
No matter. You have righteously delivered a lovely literary tid-bit that got my mind working (ca-chun-ka) and my creative juices running.
Thanks for that . . .
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