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House of Stone On my early morning walk the light was filled with silver beads just before the mist turned to golden fingers of dawn I spied a stone house it wasn’t the house that caught my eye but the stooped old man on the porch His cloudy opaque eyes stared without seeing how the rise of sun chose purple and mauve to announce its morn Around the small house of stone a profusion of wild brambles and verdant lichen hung A few wild flowers drooped and yet groped for rain His blind eyes saw not their thirst while a small breeze toyed with his white hair With broken strings that held dust I noticed a banjo propped against the stone It wasn’t the banjo that spoke to me but the old man’s hands that danced as if keeping time The poetry of his fingers, silently strumming and waiting found their sightless way nevertheless |
This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2011-03-16 02:45:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Cheyenne, I always know ahead tf hat your poetry is going to be something very special and I read twice in order to give justice to a poem a proper critique. In this piece you have incorporated your stunning imagery once again yet I did hesitate with the order of your verses.
The first verse is excellent noting beauty of a morning stroll, really seeing it with good eyes that appreciate the view. Then you move on to the old man who is stooped not able to appreciate the view in holding a rhyme stooped/drooped. This picture is clear with chosen words of he is aged, he is blinded by the
morning beauty, but their was life before with music, banjo - and this is where I failed to r
recognize the message of this piece. It drifts for me here, his hands are dancing,
keeping time? time of the past? of what was before in his life - or am I reading to much
and the depth is throwing me off? Along with the ending he seems alive again.
Could it be the verse placement may enhance this piece and tighten up a well written
poem. These are only my thoughts and if I've misunderstood I need to be enlightened.
Blessings,
Deni