Critiques and Revision

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  • Morgan Patterson (7/22/2014 10:10:00 PM) Post reply

    A poem about Scottish independance.

    The 19th

    We wake up and feel nothing,
    No nerves, worry or excitement,
    Gone are the ideas and energy,
    Our slumber continues,
    We cement our lethargy,

    Sinking back into the cozy periphery,
    With no control of our future,
    We revel in our misery,
    The weight of change lay heavy on us all,
    But apathy will soon have us back in its thrall,

    And so we’re left waiting,
    For the drudgery to continue,
    The poor to get poorer,
    Greed and Corruption our virtue,

    Have we picked the easy option?
    A path we deplore,
    So now this is it,
    What’s left to hope for?

  • Saiom Shriver (7/18/2014 12:03:00 PM) Post reply

    I have logged in but am unable to post a poem. Can you help? Thank you

  • Richard Beevor (7/15/2014 12:20:00 PM) Post reply Any comments, helpful words welcome. Thank you very much from Richard Allen Beevor

  • Samantha Pearson (7/14/2014 7:05:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Rotten Harvest

    I want, and therefore I need
    Instant gratification begets moralities for greed
    We trade justice for just us and a handful of feed
    Stuff coffers, but not ours, with these misguided seeds
    If only through moans be we had cut down these weeds
    Before they had sprouted into black twisted trees
    And overshadowed us with our own damaged creed

    Replies for this message:
    • Matthew Addai (7/21/2014 4:27:00 AM) Post reply

      Short but very powerful and relatable. Great piece

    • Saiom Shriver (7/18/2014 12:07:00 PM) Post reply

      While I believe that weeds too are sentient and important I love the rhyme and message of your poem

  • Terrance Tracy (7/4/2014 8:24:00 AM) Post reply

    Terrance Tracy (7/4/2014 2: 43: 00 AM) Post reply | Delete this message
    Foolish Journey
    O the anguish that hurts the soul are words spoken when one’s emotions are high, vicious accusations relentlessly expressed gave birth to a foolish journey to find some rest.

    The seasonal high humidity and heat accompany the disabled voyager on a foolish journey to what end he did not know nor care.

    With each step pain is felt in his temporal body and eternal soul, health or peril he did not care on this foolish journey to nowhere.

    One more step and then another, one more step and then another the voyager rehearsed in his mind giving no thought as to what he left behind.

    Traveling on a busy highway struggling with each step the voyager stumbled by a familiar church perhaps he should stop here, but his soul was wounded and he would not abide in there.

    One quarter of a mile up the highway he spied a bridge with grave needs for a voyager to rest, there he will sit and pray to his God to ask for forgiveness for undertaking such a foolish journey.

    Reaching the bridge he accepts the invitation of the rail and begins to contemplate the fruition of his fate, dear Lord what have I done I left behind the love of my life in this test of strife.

    The traffic was heavy and so was his soul, as the voyager sat on the bridge rail several cars stopped and offered help but all the voyager could muster was to say that he was homeless and nowhere to go; for he wanted to be alone with his Lord and ask for his sins to be atoned; he just wanted people to leave him alone.

    Hampered with physical limitations he could not take a step forward or back so he just sat there and began praying and hearing his Lord speaking to his heart that which you have done was not very smart.

    I do not condemn you so look for no stones for your sins have been atoned return to your love, the wife of your youth, for I will give you strength to endure the hardships and defeat the roaring lion that roars your ears and has caused you to be covered in tears.
    Terrance Tracy

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (7/3/2014 10:49:00 AM) Post reply

    Critiques and revision column is very useful to the extent of poems one posted and trying to use this column.

  • Mandolyn ... (6/30/2014 1:34:00 PM) Post reply

    -our street had one name-

    my heart moved like a child
    who couldn't hold it
    when you walked behind me
    but i wouldn't ask to go

    and you never picked me up
    or rushed me to a stall,
    because i paused too much
    at doorways
    hoping to go in

    you'd write
    things on your palm
    which caused accidents
    in the crotch of my spine
    as you'd bump me
    when your thoughts turned
    to her well played crosswalk

    and now, you'll never understand
    how hard it's been
    to suck on the words
    you type with unease

    to see you stand still
    in a photograph
    without me there
    to punctuate the quiet

  • Susie Marie Arviso (6/30/2014 12:06:00 AM) Post reply

    The stillness of winter in silent glory

    Lulling; calming delightful treasure

    Majestically she displays her story

    This seasonal prize and timeless pleasure

    Icicles glaze the land in crystal

    In placid, twinkling life enshrined

    A still and frozen region; distal

    That awes the eyes in a glassy shine

    Carpets of powdery white expansion

    Over the mountains, plains and hills

    With celestial, beauteous refractions

    Resonating glory in frozen tranquil

    When alas, pelting drips of snow-melt

    Will soon return new life - restored

    When the stillness of winter in quiet hope felt

    Slowly releases life's vigor, once more

  • Mandolyn ... (6/29/2014 11:17:00 AM) Post reply

    -face the other way while i pretend to love you-

    you used to be my clubhouse,
    my afternoon tea time
    in a tomato patch where you dared me to lick a worm.
    you ran to get your Fuji camera–

    i watched the walls grow up
    since then;
    your sloppy footprints trip me on the carpet
    because we can never be buddies on a porch swing
    or act like this is normal–

    my knees are in; your elbow touches the window
    creating a smudge i'm convinced is fiction
    and the rain plays inside
    ignoring all the dishes.

    oh the agony of pretending, how afraid
    i once was
    to be in the shoes of someone else
    to run after an obese cloud,
    because i needed water from somewhere else
    to top off my wounds

    i never grow around these parts–

    you rake reflections of us in the yard
    drilling holes in the stump of a tree,
    asking me if fire sounds like this

    i say it's dark
    and thunder is tight-lipped–
    i can feel it spit whenever i point at what is quiet.

    this feeling is so loud
    i won't believe in fates temper
    i don't want my feet to drag when
    we rock back and forth
    bothering the moon with our childhood tricks.

    we were another time;
    a full length day
    a better way was never showing up.

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (6/29/2014 10:17:00 AM) Post reply

    Critiques and revisions on poems is important to make it beautifully modified and fit for reading to the readers who are the genuine opinion makers that I think.

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