One of the most powerful ways to reach an audience is through the characters' emotions, and you have taken full advantage, with this slap across the bow of established propriety. Your unique rhyme scheme of repeating words further keeps us at attention as you drag us to the finish line and the final hail.
What a great opening line. You give us the tragedy in one sentence. The resolution though is not developed to show the why.
I came across a tidbit about writing a plot the other day: "If an author writes, 'The king died, and then the queen died', there is no plot, but if the author writes, 'The king died, and then the queen died of grief', the author has a plotline for a story." A plot is a causal sequence of events; the why things happen in the story. The plot draws the reader into the characters' lives and helps the reader understand the choices the characters make.
YOu've covered the subject and made your points well. The text however is not well written. Or at least it needs a serious edit for word use and phrasing. There are a large number of tense shifts and plural/singular mismatches.
A careful re-read and edit will probably clean it up nicely.
Even without action in the opening, you got us off to an interesting start through Kira's enthusiasm for the old stone house. It would be more captivating for the reader if you found a way to show her introduction to the old place through some kind of action.
That first bit of action is always the hardest. I grew up reading nineteenth-century yarns and those ingrained into me an expectation of long scene-setting rambles for my first chapters. Of course, I eventually had to scrap them all, but it was a hard lesson to learn.
We can't know, from this opening, where the story is going from here, so I don't have any notion of whether it is a project worth pursuing. You have given us something to look forward to while recognizing that the story could go almost anywhere from here.
My suggestion is that you open with an action of some kind and to scale back some of the lengthy descriptions.
Corona Warriors fight, and we all cheer.
They battle something never seen before
It sneaks into our lungs, with naught to hear,
but promises of drugs give hope for more.
We, clueless optimists, see plans appear
and send forth shouts of "Here they come again."
Corona scatters us cringing in fear,
Surrendering, but longing for a win.
Big Pharma brings us hope. It's quite a show
with tests and trials till they understand.
But, politicians finding ways to make fear grow
Impede the Warriors as they make their stand.
Delightful how you've recognized the force
who stands to take the risk for us, of course.
Rainbows show us interesting things, sometimes. Recently, here in the eastern U.S., rainbows showed us the residue of the California fires on days when we could not see a cloud in the sky. Yet another reason to appreciate and love rainbows.
Chérie Morelle speaks, that all may hear
of hot and deadly, climbing and alive.
We learn of rage, and red. But not of fear.
The fireplace crackles and the dreams derive.
The spirit of an author through and through,
with strength to flush these words into the world.
No matter of the things that others do,
nor which way round the pot ideas twirled.
As often happens when temptation rules
a winning strategy brings someone grief.
This woman smiles at all us nodding fools
I jump in first to seek her quick relief.
I find I'm falling now. My sight is blurred.
Will she someday reveal where I'm interred?
Drugged, lost, and dull, I watch the distance scene,
The slow propelling of a nowhere life.
Forever grinding. Giving us a chance,
to see our soggy dreams take one more slug.
I rise, encumbered by lust's forbidding ache.
What can I do to soothe temptations strife?
The lesson moves in close. How can I take
the path out of that short and hapless life.
One moment and that sad temptation's gone,
Its light, a harsh reality of truth.
I know I’m not the course and jagged one.
I pick the pig's remains out of my tooth.
Just then, the smell of doubt drifts in again.
It grabs my thoughts and hauls good sense away.
No further minding of that loss and pain
collecting trophies of my day at play.
Some sadness for the logic that I lost
but not a moment more on living’s cost
Poetic free-verse flows with all its thrill.
A tribute for a swirling cast of will.
What holds the current's crashing, smashing stain?
Could darkness guard our view of all the pain?
Then dawn sneaks in and buffers all our strife.
Its fingers grasp the trees, the rocks, the life,
as would a mother fighting for her young.
The refrain soothes the scene when it is sung
But now, the darkness takes another turn
to hold the fog in place. (Don't let it burn)
When nothingness descends to end the song
it dissipates to mist as things go wrong.
You've set a poem here that's just the thing,
To put my sleeping muse into full swing.
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
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