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Yearning In December as I clamber steps ricochet off ashen stones I crawl through timber’s bent brown branches find these crisscross trails once more hoist frosted boughs my arms enclose puff cold kindling to orange coals burning embers warm my fingers now I ache for phantom flowers |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Troy D Skroch On Date: 2005-04-08 00:53:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Joanne,
I just got in a few minutes ago from cutting wood and raking and burning up leaves. I made a few posts in the forum, checked out the standings -- congratulations (wink and a smile), and now I’m sitting down and sipping my favorite drink--a mason jar of ice, freshly squeezed lemons and water (no sugar). I call it a "skull buster", a term I picked up from a classic I read years ago. Anyhow, enough of that.
I picked this poem tonight, because of your use of color. I guess I can't remember you using a lot of color in your poems, except for that one where your daughter colors her hair green. LOL If Zoe comes home with pink or green hair, her and Papa are gonna have a talk. Probably not, she owns me. LOL!
Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about or even trying to say, but the "ashen stones, brown branches and orange coals", work perfectly with the "phantom flowers". You show us color and then take it away creating-what? I don't know. Just a feeling of a different "note". It's good for me anyway. But yes I like the color.
I also like the way you wrap the lines into the next almost creating new words and more energy.
And I love the poem. And then it starts working into me and I start to live in it and then oh hell, that's why I read. LOL
I have to tell you that I can barely keep myself from falling into a state of free association to try to get out what I am saying when I read your poetry. It's so frustrating to sit here and try to write with definition and structure. No it's just wrong.
Yearning
In December as I clamber
steps ricochet off ashen stones
I crawl through timber’s bent brown branches
find these crisscross trails once more
hoist frosted boughs my arms enclose
puff cold kindling to orange coals
burning embers warm my fingers
now I ache for phantom flowers
Yearning leaning forward moving toward a direction of want or need unfulfilled unsatisfied work to find or have or feel where in December I hear the clamber off stones cold stones cold gray stones the color of ash how I would love to hold them against my cheeks to make me yearn for that which I'm seeking more in life in the moment in the now show the reader my yearning let the reader hear my steps off stones bending to crawl into and under the bent branches bent like me yearning like me yearning for warmth and high sunshine as in life and always the trails crisscross back with my boughs arms enclosed around yearning working struggling for what puff cold kindling to orange coals fire yearning for fire inner warmth life bringing life to life very maternal individual feeling pragmatic or alone against the challenge of December or winter what a lovely scene warming fingers by orange coals color flares before my eyes like the fire and thoughts of phantom flowers no color and not possible in December yearning feeling of goosebumps replaced no warm yearning
words wrap into words take me with them line after line yearning for the poem to continue who do you know who wants to leave a fire sad
Ok, I'll stop right there, because if I don't I won't come back, and there is so much more to say. The images are still blending inside.
Goodnight, Silly Bean
Troy