The metaphors like 'blood red moon' demand
that I relax. Enjoy a whiskey sour,
and give attention to this verse at hand.
Then read the rhyme again, within the hour.
Goodbye…No time to squander on depression.
Although such words can prove confusing when
a poet's long-sequestered love obsession,
goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
But do we see spilt milk—no words withheld,
she knows he's bad, the same way, too.
He sat and waited, as the silence swelled,
then shrank beneath the weight of her adieu.
She never said good-bye—he sat alone
Her answer was the droning dial-tone.
While pondering the world of ants and bees,
A pain upon my ankle drives me wild.
A vivid picture of what fire-ants wrought,
shows swelling where my skin has been defiled
A shot of epinephrine saves the day.
I've learned the range of ants is too far flung.
The poison in that bite has ruined my day
and placed my foot upon hell's bottom rung.
I sprayed and prayed I'd cured the ant infest
"No more!" I feebly squawked without regard
for if the treatment used would be the best.’
The fire-ants formed up ranks. 'You wanna bet?
The problem of the bees (a different kind)
But if I flunk that test too, I'll lose my mind.
Sleep-drugged and dull, I watched this verse expand,
The slow propelling of my mental bug.
Forever grinding as I take the stand,
on feeling words deliver such a slug.
I rise, my muse still suffering an ache
(but knowing poems can relieve my strife).
The final words come close, prepared to take
the last step to ideal eternal life.
You have a terrific opener and conclusion. The dialog is where you really shine! In fact, I believe it's your writing forte.
To be honest, and this has nothing to do with your writing talent, the first thing I did when I opened your chapter was wince, in shock. I ask that you do something about the formatting. No line breaks make it nearly impossible to keep one's place. That is particularly important with paragraph breaks around the dialog. Making the story easy to read is an important issue; leaving it the way it is will most assuredly cost you readers.
But, back to the story. Your plotting skills are developing very well. This could be on its way to an interesting series.
When desperation does not know its fate
it's dragged behind and taken for a ride
You fold the consequences on the slate
with logic and decision on your side
The changing meter might cost you a prize
the storyline should gain what you deserve.
There is a flow of puzzle to devise
a way to counter all that we observe.
The old nag didn't make it up the hill.
Calliope fell short and that's the thing,
to give your readers something more to thrill
by questioning if fate has made it sing.
Not a single major blunder did I see.
It is, as far as I see, error-free.
A poet's long obsession with the word,
can turn a moment's madness to a flood.
No rhyme nor meter we ever heard,
will fill a gut, or staunch the flow of blood.
The 'starving artist' seems a noble breed
and battles life to build an iron will.
A poet (like the rest of us) must feed,
or his pen (like the rest of him) will still.
But where we have a wordsmith with resolve,
who won't give up their day job on a whim.
If we write verses till the problem's solved,
and learn to live with budgets that are trim.
Someone, somewhen may read the words we say
and we might live to write another day.
You opened with enchantment in the air
then let the cat sneak slowly from the bag.
The lovers' fate leaves nothing much to fare;
Their passions soar and confidences drag
Then from the light within the middle lines,
we look inside and find unbridled hope.
There is no place inside to cut and run.
No moment’s pause to stop or shed a tear.
The lovers join forever in a flash
of sweet and sour dust in which they're caught.
It's then we see the sudden wild crash
which now consumes them in the joy it's wrought.
Your observation in the final line,
needs no beguiling magic to define.
Line one: The perfect metaphor for love
Delightful, how you've shown us where you stand
a word or two to heaven up above,
starts us along a path to something grand
Line two: The music swells to full renown.
We see our way, but let's not jump the gun
we'll wait and see the climax or meltdown
Linee three: The cymbals drown the shouts of cheer.
But love's bewitching tune is all we hear.
For truth, we search both site and soul
for just a flicker hidden 'neath a shrug
And, all this knowledge just ramps up the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
When clinging to God's truth, we cannot fail,
as all is self-correcting, we have seen.
We see the Good Book's writing on the wall
and shout "The truth's right there. It's always been."
But there, with confidence so very deep
are those who know all things produce their gem,
as space-time germinates so they can reap
the joy of knowing all and topping them.
Perhaps God left the bang for us to find,
a thing to need more tossing in our mind.
You open with a snicker, loud and clear,
to keep me reading on to find the why.
But on we go, with nothing much to cheer.
We see my boring self and start to sigh.
Then, from the shadows of the middle lines,
I look inside and find a point of cheer.
There’s no chance now, for me to cut and run.
My thrashing guilt delivers one last tear.
The crisis comes but no conflicted play,
where doubts build to the ups and downs we know,
Will chilling blood come through and save the day
before it's time to smoothly end the show.
The turn delivered in the final line,
is one that needs no magic to define.
The evening’s cold. We stoke the fire
and read aloud the story's soulful sounds.
Jax wanders on. No call for Ire.
He's carried on the trail where love abounds.
The forest warms his sense of right.
While thoughts of peace expand as time/life stills,
Stay on the path for your delight
and watch as nature's song sends forth its thrills.
We reach the end. The purist page
and touch the face of peace when music ends,
I’m left askew upon the stage
the story building still as thought appends.
Delightful story ends. We're never told
just shown the forest path and we are sold.
Consumed by times gone by, that’s quite a thought.
This verse reveals a current notion wild.
A vivid picture of what youth's time brought
gross, gory and defined, but not defiled
With tenderness not getting in the way,
and unaware, at all, he was too young.
The horrors of those days could ruin one’s day
And plant one's foot upon hell's bottom rung.
Without the least regard, he flunks the test.
'What for are yellowed letters, but regret.
'It's time to clear the stage and chuck the rest.’
What is fate’s final word? 'You wanna bet?
The yellowed letter flaunts another kind
of haunting, which will never leave the mind
The metaphors like 'snowfields and clipped wings'
demand that I sit back and take my time.
The moments pass. I ponder many things.
Then read the verse again, within the hour.
Goodbye…No time to squander on loves lost.
Although such words can prove confusing when
a poet's long-sequestered zeal is tossed
but salvaged by a bright, well-guided pen.
The three lines fill the bill-- no words withheld,
she knows he does not feels the same way, too.
We sat and waited, as the silence swelled,
then shrank beneath the tone of her adieu.
She never said good-bye—she sat alone
His answer like a droning dial-tone.
Two days aboard the site, this writer's goal,
to grab us by the soul and give a tug
has shown 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’ve often seen before.
They shine there, just like beacons on the wall,
as artifacts that we are searching for.
Is that the goal, or am I in too deep?
I leap forth and I grasp that moment’s gem,
left there by you, as something I can reap
to know the joy in finding one of them.
Perhaps the words that floated from your mind,
contain another someone else can find
'Twould take at least a thousand words of prose,
to send us down this short but furrowed path.
Each stanza clears the view of smoke for those,
who hold in check the doubter usual wrath.
Examples flourish of the ways to write
for meaning and to draw from what's gone past,
without engaging in the flashback fight,
or cluttering with stuff that just won’t last.
In truth, this story/poem takes us deep,
and leaps forth here to fill the story’s need.
Each step upon the gauntlet lets the reap
a clue of where the final scene will lead.
Thank you for this sample you've defined.
It shows me how to look and what to find.
The words are few, but meanings fill the stage,
Each of us sees our own resplendent grief.
Those who know all, may feel a bit of rage,
And stir our evil souls but no relief.
Time smirks at us, we see with modern eyes.
'Builds character?' That notion is debunked.
No matter of the pressure or the whys,
the ambiance of mourning has been junked
So, stand upon our patience and our trust,
One day we'll find it's passed disspite the hitch
Contempt for memory's, and for our lust,
we bury these reflections in a twitch.
Past deeds rush in to try and make a case,
Ignoring all those tears upon the face,
A poem to one’s self. What could it mean?
Perhaps a moment's grasping for a thread.
Or maybe, just like other verses seen,
It gives the muse a rest from what's not said
You paint the questions for us, in the fog,
and drag our doubts right out there on the floor.
Those brilliant phrases break out from smog.
We think it matters not. Who’s keeping score.
Those simmering words will stay here with our stuff,
while all the old clichés are holding true.
deep down, we know that this will be enough,
to shake the doubts off things we hope to do.
One thing that you've shown us with this thoughtful piece
just letting life roll on provides release
You've done quite a job of character exposure here with the Vickie character. Tim is dumped out there with all his warts and shortcomings, but with Vickie you let her plans sneak out into the story a little at a time.
This appears to be part of a longer piece since there is no resolution. Some closure for this segment will add a lot of reader interest.
You have done an excellent job of capturing the grief we feel at the loss of a loved and loving pet. You brought a tear in reading your story and remembering my last lost loving canine. For some months, I could not abide the thought of bringing another into my life. When I did, I found another best friend, but it did not take away the pain of one I'd lost.
By George, you kept me glued to the page. You let us use our imaginations to picture the setting and to see the various characters.
The differences held by the astronauts and the ways they thought of what they believed while waiting for certain death is well presented and forces almost every reader to evaluate what they might do.
Damn well done,
Norbanus
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