In comedy, we search both site and soul
for just a snicker hidden 'neath a shrug
and knowing such a fete could ramp the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
By throwing out a laugh line we can fall
onto a path we've often seen before
with other digger's shadows on the wall
perhaps we've found the jest we're searching for.
In truth, it’s watching others dig so deep
that lets me grasp onto the moment’s gem
you left there just to germinate and keep
on giving past the time allotted them.
Perhaps the fencing lesson that I find,
needs further tossing over in my mind.
The pointed metaphor of clocks and schemes
prompts me to sit, and contemplate the power.
Attention drifts to action, not to dreams.
I read the verse 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 to curve
goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
And now, I see the twist. It's times withheld
until I find my breath is rushing, too.
I sit to wait. The secret silence swells
then shrinks beneath the weight of our farewells.
Although I said good-bye—I still have more.
Hats off to 'Where is Time' right to the core.
It isn’t very often that we see
An elevation of our stash of screams
While learning at the same time that it's we
Who find out nothing works out as it seems.
You point to every aspect that we see,
and show of doubts and then of dragging feet,
producing tales which always frighten me
and watch them plan their hopeless last retreat.
When reading of 'The Blob' and all that stuff.
We can't believe a bit of it is true
for all of what we know is not enough,
to shake the fear of death from what we do.
We each soak up a bit from what is said,
unworried by fantastic things we dread.
The jagged glare of truth comes shining through
whenever we peek underneath the prose.
your verse looks past the the mud and rotting too
and turns us to the breeze to clear our nose.
Can knowing truly bring us to the light?
The nearly perfect free verse makes us think,
that truth may yet fit in, to our delight
instead of holding guilt where it would stink.
Now, reaching for the parchment’s purist page
we touch upon the poems final lines.
If left alone to ponder just the stage,
we might deprive ourselves what it defines.
Life’s gentle moments show us but the trim
and leaves what’s underneath remote and dim.
No there's a grabber I've not seen before.
A grocery bag of floss picked from the floor.
but, that's not all to keep our wits afloat
I find 'asylum' soon and maybe more
The forest throws a lifeline all can see
He ties a rope around a big, green tree.
All that floss pays off, once in the woods.
Then trees cough up the salve, some helpful goods.
The VOID now finds its way upon the page.
I wonder what this scene will really stage.
Could this be but a dream of hopeless fix?
No time has passed, it's still just three oh six.
The Writer's Block has failed to still this pen.
‘Twere me, I’d just be grasping for a thread.
Or maybe, just like other writers seen,
I’d give my muse a rest from what is said
Jamus finds the questions in the fog,
of broken words still scattered on the floor.
Those brilliant phrases hide within the smog.
We think it’s 'writer's block'. Who’s keeping score.
Those simmering words will stay there with our stuff,
while all the old cliches are holding true.
deep down, we know that it won't be enough,
to shake the doubts right off all those things we do.
One thing that you have shown us with this piece
A little every day provides release
Before the bleak reflection from the start
raw grief arose to deftly stir the pot.
No joy presents itself to race the heart
or show the other side of what is not
Our souls all bleed a bit from time to time.
when pitiful assumptions weigh our muse
to prompt this well designed, despairing rhyme.
The ink depends on feeling what you choose.
Sadly, you’ve not found both paths across
this field of broken thoughts and frozen schemes,
have fallen victim to the scourge of loss,
and ended wailing for those shattered dreams.
This purgatory poem which you show
required a wit of talent, we all know.
No thousand word required to see what's real.
The Snowbird flies and struggles on its own,
Learning moments turns our guts to steel.
There’s more to be discovered than a groan.
Now, should a bolt of insight steal the show,
we hold to hope, or something on that track,
with all the strength we've mustered in the snow,
but there it goes and we can't take it back.
The warmth within your heart, we hear you say,
can never quite be shoved beneath the rug.
You know those dreams can never win the day.
They'll just add more to all those holes you’ve dug.
But think of how it's made through the ice.
If we can find a way, it would be nice.
This is one of the most imaginative short story plotlines I've read in a while. You've given the main character plenty of internal conflicts to keep the reader invested. The story moves smoothly along with red herrings galore to distract him all the way to the rather underdeveloped ending.
Frankly, I view this as an excellent outline for the story, but it needs a strong edit to reduce the wordiness, repetition and telling.
Only a few building sentences could make that ending pop.
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
that one reveals imagination wild.
We step into the twilight zone or worse,
then turns his mind back to that of a child.
The Witch throws questions out into his way,
without revealing that cold trap she's sprung.
He grasps the reigns and promptly ruins his day,
his foot now firmly on hell's bottom rung.
Without a clue, he's clearly flunked the test.
She's turned his shining 'Stang into her pet.
He knows the thing to do; just do his best.'
She smirks behind his back, 'You wanna bet?'
She grabs him by the mind; a thing to dread,
and stuffs this eerie scene into his head.
This story is one of the best responses to a prompt that I have seen on the site. Of course, it's been here for quite a while and others must have given it recognition before now.
I liked the way dialogue opens and draws us in, a little at a time and dialogue is where this tale shines. You bring us along, piece by piece, unfolding the story until the end is inevitable and the readers feel as if they've figured it out on their own.
The humor is dry, but well done. I like the unique perspective but I found the story to be boring as I could not visualize nor identify with the characters.
I like your formatting with the blank line between paragraphs. It makes it easier to read.
A chance to meet a friend, but. at what cost?
The social distance language understood.
Communication gaps we have not crossed,
while claiming it's all for the greater good.
We wait until these months and days have slowly passed,
and sanity has finally been bestowed;
Through Wuhan flu, we've held, and we've stood fast,
amidst the news and fake-news which has flowed.
Across the vast expanse of China's reach,
you show the hopeless gasp that spread so far;
advancing to whomever they can teach,
to bow before the power of the star.
An act of Spirit takes us way back when,
Where economic suicide can't win.
Consumption by success, that’s quite a thought
this verse reveals a truth, both cold and wild.
That vivid picture of what we have wrought
gross, defined and now it is defiled
No tenderness here getting in the way,
We're unaware, at all, the traps we've sprung.
The poison in the broth which ruined our day
And placed a foot upon hell's bottom rung.
Without the least regret, we flunk the test.
We can't, b feebly squawking our regret.
It's time to make a pact and do our best.
and that is fate’s last word. You wanna bet?
The broken treaty flaunts another kind
of haunting, which will never leave my mind
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
the muse reveals imagination wild.
'I'm soaring now.' She trails behind the hearse.
The visions fly, as they do for a child.
With tenderness, the words have found a way,
still unaware, for fledging, she's too young.
She's grasped the world she built and made my day,
despite my place upon hell's bottom rung.
Without the insight shown, I'd flunk the test.
My parents only saw me as their pet.
and never knew that I had tried my best.'
Then conscience smirked and said 'You wanta bet?
Professor Q saved me by what she said
and now, I face the truth--the thing I dread
He touched her wrist, as soft as patent leather,
then whispered as her tears began to fall.
A chill descended, much like changing weather.
Trembling fears are warmed by that recall.
She'd felt alone, with nothing but her cats
inside a house with Starman bric-a-brac,
No need for all those dresses, shoes, and hats,
Her thoughts cut deep, "I'll never gain him back!"
His whisper though takes her last chance to leave.
His caring showed last night and wasn't she,
surprised that he'd, still be there Yuletide eve
or at her cozy cottage by the sea?
The Starman's season fell and tears have blurred
that path unto the time they're both interred
I know that chapter three's far down the line
to form a first impression, but it's there,
this world of varied folks, all built fine
with clarity of what is when and where.
Ah yes, that first impression, where I said
we're too far down the path to find it now.
You've shown us dialogue (a task I dread)
while feeding in examples that can wow.
That first impression gained so far along
is bolstered by a yarn worth our belief.
You show a moving tale that can’t go wrong
and needs no explanations for relief.
I wish I had a copy on the shelf
I'd read it front to back just for myself.
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