Mell W. Morris's E-Mail Address: molamell@yahoo.com

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Mell W. Morris	Critique Date
Silver Storm	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy, It has been eons since our paths crossed...I remember a sonnet about whether or not to include Macy's. Do you recall same? What have you been up to...editor of a slick poetic journal? It is so rare these days to see a rhymed, metered, lyric poem. Kudos for same. As for "pretzeled"...no notes needed. These days there are more neologisms than ever before. Just a personal thing but there is something about tetrameter that makes a piece glow and pulsate with natural beauty. One small nit and the first I have pointed out so often, I think members are planning to hang me from a high oak tree: it is brittle homage? or its brittle homage? I read it in the 2nd version which means NO comma. Sorry, Nancy, I can't stop this. Each line is reason to rejoice! rejoice for burnished birch and lying alder, layered trees of tempered glass agleam against blush winter's sky bent low by crystal circumstances. Its brittle homage, poesy pays Still, stunningly the woodland stands In pretzled stems of crackled glaze of As silver overtakes the land." I heave a wonderful sigh at the close of of a definite winner. I find you have not lost a whit of your brillance but shine as never before! Brava!!	2005-02-21 15:23:05
Politics and Prayers	Gene Dixon	Gene, Your second was still on my list...surely you know after all these years, the top-of-the-list poems are worth 4 pts regardless of quality of crit, and the poems continue downward on the list as they have received more crits. I used to never pay any attention and I always have requests to "take a look" but at the end of the month when we vote for best poem, I may have critted 25 poems but unless they were all toppers, I don't have 100 pts to put on my top piece...it's usually 18 max. Enough again. I cannot conceive of anyone thinking you or Mark would plagarize but thank you for the note lest a newbie misunderstand. Neither of you need to plagiarize!! Sometimes JoUp and I will post similar poems or their topics/themes, I should say. I find your sonnet to have perfect technicality, sad, an accurate, look at our planet/problems. The problem is not with words spoken, it lies in lack of execution of many plans. "Deep in rivers clogged by man's pollution, dreams might live while changing tides remove castles built on shameless elocution.". Perhaps it bespeaks my guilty conscience but if the Master's plan allows few shadows, fewer shades of gray, I'm not sure I have sufficient tiume to get all my orisons completed. A quite well-written poem, Gene, stimulating and evocative and I will looking and rereading this sonnet for a long time. Bravo! Mell	2005-02-19 18:30:46
Understanding Dali	Gene Dixon	Gene: How grand to see a poem by you at the top of my list and another below (which will be gone by the time I return). I've wanted you back at TPL for sooooooooooo long. a breath of fresh air, a teacher. Enough said. Ironic that with your return, your poem is Daliesque. I do not claim to understand him at a deep level. He lived and died within the parameters of my father's live. I take your piece as a tribute to Salvador, likely dubbed surrealist than any other "school" and the painting to which you allude, the "passing of time" I call it because I never remember its name. The most fascinating aspect of his body of work was he could move from a painting of dream-like imagery to one of almost photographic realism. I like this notion so much and he may have had a grandeur about him but look at the other Spanish artistes! I always envision Dali wearing a black wool cape and red satin lining. Your second stanza, the epiphany you deliver to us is filled with goodies such as "housefly eyes", mustache waxed a foot in length on either side of his nose...showing in a humorous way why Dali may have been hampered by his affectations. This is wise and well-penned and who writes as you do? Thank you for helping us comprehend this interesting painter. Best wishes always, Mell	2005-02-19 13:07:17
Abstract Ambiguities	James Edward Schanne	James: Its good to see another poem by you on my list. And the sonnet form perfectly executed but must confess to some lack of understanding in certain places. I think this high level od medication has impaired my usual brain function. Some questions are never answered...my computer will not accept the apostrophe in its in my 1st word.(?) Nor change the d to f in 4th line. Nice alliterative title, nice word play throughout. You are certainly the pundit of TPL, IMO. My perspectives have not recently been changed...thats what we want from our young poets...but then I have not been spinning on the edge of a black hole. (Dek)) Another error I cannot fix. Stanza 2 is a romp of humor and creaticvity.z James, Im going to try to get this fixed after my garbled crit. Glad to see you included Descartes nude in his barrel and "sit rodinian stoned by guile" is extremely pleasing. "pleasding to be hooked to the morpheme drips" is quite clever using a figurative part of language to imply a drug drip. (Im no longer on drip but 120mg morphine daily). Your couplet renders another pun: grab hold by the knows. Excellent. You have achieved your goal of presenting abstract ambiguities, given me several smiles, but my computer is fouled up at the moment. Best wishes, Mell	2005-02-17 12:45:52
Pondering Spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Enchantress of spring: I do not know if there's a name like callogram nor how to spell it for your wonderful poem, but it must be difficult to get the words placed where you want them. I feel I haven't seen nor spoken with you in forever. I keep trying to e-mail and have lost several (I think I dilly-dip for so long, they think I'm dead) and cut me off. I cannot use the forum very well. Whenever I'm there, nil occurs but I read a post and responses from five hours ago, try to post, and the system tells me the topic is closed. Oh, okay. I'll keep trying but I find it difficult as all things computerated are like the burning bush for me. I believe it was there and for a reason but I'll never receive a sensible explanation (for me). Oh, it nearly is printemps. We had no winter, not even a sweater-wearing day. So here we are with the sun shining in the 60's, pondering Joanne who is musing about spring. The 1st shaped stanza is an account in poetic linguistry about the empress going to the woods, and EVERYONE is talking. And it appears they are FULLY engaged in talking. The appealing mallards are chatting in spotted sunlight...a rich scene and I really like "modest hens glance over stippled shoulders." That is perfection in description but would you swear in court these hens are modest? They are the only fowl with walk-on roles but no speaking parts. Those gorgeous drakes with bottle-green glistening are discussing (Quick quacks or quips) and formulating plans of ventures near or on the pond. Allits everywhere...but I'm savoring the taste of glistenening bottle green. At times, you remind me so much of Ted Hughes, I get my latest book by him. (His only published work about his wife, "Birthday Letters", which all Plath readers own. I assume). I am in this place you have created and I never want to leave. The 1st line of S 2 is funny but likely did not FEEL funny, a-slide. I can smell the wet earth's fingers, maybe a hint of fungus, moss, mushroom, lichen. People say they don't smell but they do to me. Then I had to look up wake-robins which you explain are trilliums, and learn for the 1st time that these flowers are PURPLE. "Turn shades of violet as they shed petals--" It is when you've hit your groove in nature that we receive "hungry fledgling will flutter and" *wait-a-while weather* will glide away-- *exquisite* and again it will be spring. ...there should be trumpets here.... And I will be the glad being who is in it." Spotlight dims, bows head, walks from the stage. The audience is still traumatized and rapurated, on their feet, "encore" resounding. Names of poems being shouted; "Blue Dragonfly"..."Across the Night's Obsidian Sky"..."Buick Special"..."Splendor in the Pages of a Book"...."A Little Bit of Heaven"..."Insects and Other Tiny Nations"...."Lunar Longing"... Enter Stage Left, she reads with her smile, "By The Pond." Stage is very empty with her absence. And play over, poem to be read again and again but a bit of sorrow that the first experience is gone. A gem of a poem, a joy to my soul which hurts so badly. Thank you for giving me a reason to get up in the mornings. With complete sincerity, Mell	2005-02-16 13:19:42
Red Feather	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: What an honor! and it comes from you! your Cheyenne name must be "Shadow of Tetons"...you know how I rename all and sundry. I told myself when I started reading to stay detached, do not go in with nerve ends exposed for I know my dearest Shadow. Why must they always die? I think everything dies in comparison to the Tetons but since he was created for me, I wouldn't overly protest his visitations at my bedroom window! Small nit in the 1st stanza...I want his muscles sinewy and "fluid" in lieu of rigid. Toss it if you so desire. I really like pine trees which strained to stroke the sky and the bugle of the wild wapiti. I never knew the sound of an elk. Thanks. I like that you tell us his name after two stanzas. Using his name for the title doesn't appeal to me but I think it would be more unique as "In The Shadows of The Tetons", etc, etc. No big deal here. If I stood beside Red Feather, my nostrils would likely have flared as well, not to mention, pawing the rug. Marilyn, your descriptions are lovely and I imagine you not as "Keeper of the Gems" but "Word Woman". You know how I love words and also, unfortunately, I always tell the truth. I find two examples of catachresis in your final stanza: "esoteric" for sky, and "cayuse" for horse. I know you don't need syns for sky but for horse, ghosted pinto, steed, stallion, mount,etc. Dearest friend, any nits were for options...I love the poem, every line, and at this very horrible time in my life, "Red Feather" is a friend created only for me. I told you it resided on my bedside table. For me, there is no greater honor than having a poem dedicated to me. It is an eternal gift in the sense that it will be with me till I'm dead and then it will be Eric's. I can never adequately thank you. It is beautiful as a Wyoming sunset. All my best, Mell	2005-02-09 16:53:03
Where's a frog when you need one!	Lynda G Smith	Lynda: Your poem finally eased itself into # 1 on my list of poems to critique. I think your poems are grabbed the minute they are posted as I (almost) never see your poetry until contest time. Your title is beguiling and raises the curiosity level of anyone sensate. Your 1st line helps greatly...yes, yes, this is "once upon a mattress", the fairy tale of a real princess recognizing a pea under thousands of mattresses and pillows, etc,etc. I did not know they were beads of chamomile which are "pea-pebbled pearls." Great imagination and word choice. And your gifted writing... "...And the weight of angels, the shadows of which dark ray the remnants reveaking nothing but a stirred and sculpted Memory." I'm aware merely by reading your poems that you carefully choose each word but in line 24, did you consider "evince" in lieu of evidence? It's a nit so cast it to the winds should you so choose...it came to mind each time I read that line. In accord with the fairy tale, your ending is perfect. A frog is obviously needed to kiss and become her gogeous prince, said event restoring her faith, and proving the hypothesis you were testing, not overtly sharing same with reader. Please excuse the brevity of my review for I have enjoyed your poem word by word, proving once again you are an accomplished poet. However, when the pain meds effects begin to wane, I must lie down before I'm at the agony level. Kudos for this unusual and unique poem. Best always, Mell	2005-02-05 19:20:55
Cloudy Outbursts	Joanne M Uppendahl	HRH, Up, Emeritus: I critiqued about 3/4 of this three days ago and trashed it because I could not "enter" the poem in the manner to which I'm accustomed. I like the personification of clouds and their outbursts; I've had a few outbursts myself lately. And yet when paired with cloud, we expect rain. "Sugar-donut" clouds is an apt simile; Eric loves those powder-puff donuts, sometimes just the holes. Said clouds flick green leaves with *flirty drops,* swirl apart as steam. .......**exquisite**... That is an original, imaginative first tercet. Flick/flirty bounce off each other in the most delightful manner and while my ears are tuned, I hear the assonance of green/leaves/steam. What music you make, grand enchantress, for this reader listens with every pore and hears so much harmony, I cannot list it all. Stanza 2 is merely magnificent with ten sibilant words. I've not heard of "rain-bees" but I love the notion and that they swarm into streams and *sting streets* with .....*apian asphalt*... drizzle. How I long to see a drizzling rain-bee. Or a dazzling rain-Bea! This tercet should be whispered: "Hanging very still, slicked-back thief clouds menace winter beach walkers." Never have I seen a slicked-back thief cloud but I'll know it when I do. Oh, Jo, you love words as much as I and could play with them all day so everything else is forgotten. I miss you so much...I've had several rotten days, then I rally. (I must tell you when I cast my vote for "Reader", it wasn't on the list!) Oh, those unaware beach walkers! Like in a Japanese sci-fi movie, they know all is not right, that something too horrid for words is coming, something that judo or tai chi (sp) won't stop, something so terrible that Chuck Norris has given up kick boxing! Look! Up in the sky! Well, sweet thang, as we say here, you said this poem is 4 fun and I've had enormous fun. Thanks so much for posting and bringing a smile to my face this a.m. Not to forget to comment on the purity and beauty and spareness herein I know this is not a contender but ought to be!! L&K, Mellifluous	2005-02-03 12:45:39
A Bowl of Cherries	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: How odd that one of your lower-ranked poems showed 1st on my list today. I'll review because I love that song "Life is Just A Bowl of Cherries" and I also love a bowl of cherries with a dollop of cream. I'm not doing well here, Marilyn, on TPL, to wit: I lost three full critiques, just wham! into cyberspace. I deleted a review on "Narcissism" by Debbie Spicer because of the multitude of typos. Also, one of JoUp's pieces for the same reason and yet I know JoUp understands fully my problem. I'm afraid I'm brain-damaged; I felt a tia while in the hospital. No one told them I needed B.P. pills and I couldn't say much at all. Everyone tells me I'm not brain affected, it's the morphine that causes these side effects. You are writing beautifully now. I just saw "Through My Back Door" and it's a winner in every sense of the word but you have some strong competition as well. This one I'd call prose poetry(?) I like the format for your piece...it somehow fits. I've read the 1st paragraph and am charmed by the small-town memories. Likely most all members were caught up in the evocative nostalgia. Your details include the 1st sentence which would be a fantastic opener for a novel. (Did you see the Robert Redford-produced film, "A River Runs Through it"?) In your town, you have high school and grade school, one cop, one stop sign, no traffic lights. I'm wondering about the population because in Wyoming, I think you include livestock in the census. I told you I drove throu a place in NE Wyoming with a sign: Lost Springs, Wyoming Population 7. You segue to winter activities, sledding, skating, your first kiss with its subsequent black eye. (That is so cute!) The 2nd time he tried the kiss, he thrust and retreated rapidly but you were a different girl by then and he didn't have to run at top speed to avoid your tackle. I really like the sentence with the simile: "Life was good, like a big bowl of cherries. Then I grew up." Did you grow up or outgrow cherries? When you went back the first time, were things different? Was anything there? So often in the thinly populated areas of Texas, they disappear and kids have to find a bus to get to school. An enjoyable look back over your shoulder at what once was. I enjoyede every word. Best always, Mell	2005-02-02 11:55:02
Narcissism	Debbie Spicer	Debbie: I rarely see your poems on my list which means they are scooped up immediately. This is an unusual title and after reading your poem several times, it's still off-center, or atilt with the poem. However since I do not understand your poem, this may be the perfect title. It is the type lyric poem I enjoy best: thirty-three words of sparce writing, lean, cut to the bone. Words such as storm, downstream, torrent, fish, shore, let the reader know it is about a disaster in a river. (I had been thinking tsunami but it was in the ocean, not down-stream as in a stream, river, rivulet, etc.) You tell us that X bottled his rage, then poisoned the stream near him(?) Everything around dies as they went belly up. The storm (what storm?) taunts slaughter. Downstream, a torrent grasps its hazy wheeze. All that remains is torrid jaws of destruction and fish on a swollen shore. This reminds me of nihilism and surrealisn combined. I've always been able (well, almost always), been adept at deciphering the import of a poem, no matter how obscure, arcane, and so on. Altho I apologize for the poor crit, right now, it's the best I can produce, Ms. Spicey. I am still ill but I think if the dr. will ever lessen the amount of morphinr I take, I'll do better. I missed here but greatly enjoyed this offering from you and I hope to do better next time. Apologies and best wishes on this poem's succes, Mell	2005-02-01 17:48:03
Poetry's End	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul: I have spent some time now with your title. I read as most literists here do: the termination, demise, death, cessation of poetry. Then having read the poem numerous times, none of that fit. Aha! I say, I must have the wrong import. End might mean goal or aim here. Or it might refer to outcome, the ultimate state of an entity, or the result. I personally like the last one, result. It would then tell the reader that the aim of poetry is: To seduce the heart, living, fluid thoughts, acknowledged and distilled. And that's exactly what a grand poem will do, entice the heart into deeply feeling and replete with *fluid thoughts.* Taken into the reader with a doff of the cap and distillation. I marked "fluid thoughts" for that is a superlative phrase. You consider and think of publication of your poem for it would bestow upon the poem, acceptance and the big one, immortality. One heart's hope, in search of all others.... I do comprehend the hope of the heart; in fact, I would assume almost every heart has a modicum of hope...for something. You imply that one aim of the poet is to find a kindred heart/spirit. I believe that occurs daily when poetry is read or mayhaps I am placing my feelings atop yours. That is not my intention. I long to discuss poetry with another poet and I used to take lit classes at SMU and UD, especially poetry seminars, for that goal. I am unable to do that now but the true passiuon of a poet is not to be underestimated. I have, upon occasions when I was not thinking of caribou cordon bleu, felt the same creative spark in another, the melding of minds, ans it's lovely. I cannot imaqgine a poet here who would not relate to this poem of yours. I find it unique, I of the inquiring mind, and thoroughly enjoyed each word. Kudos, Mell-O	2005-02-01 13:17:22
Seasons and Flight	Mark D. Kilburn	Mark: There are no words to convey how happy I am to have your poem pop up on my list! Glad you are back and I hope this is an indication that you are doing well on/in all areas. I swear I read this poem published in the Denver mag that buys all your poetry; since you do not cite prior publication, it must have been similar. You hold the copyright, in any event. This a lovely end-rhymed piece in tetrameter but alas! I see you've forgotten the hours of punctuation. In Stanza 3, the it's is correct but in Stanza 4, I cannot believe I see it's cold way back. No apostrophe needed in the 4th. Picture Mell at her desk, all propped in place so she can sit up, hands bandaged and gloved, feet wrapped, face and body looks as if she held on one or two rounds. Her head is bowed, face in hands, and she's singing softly..."Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall..." I hope you find that funny because, you gotta admit, we had numerous discussions on same. I had another poet with the "it's syndrome" and I'm happy to report, he's still doing it like you!! Your poem is delightful. In stanza 1, your descrtion of the aspen trees and hummers makes me long to be there. I didn't think a hummingbird would allow a human that close; until this past year, I've always had a hummer feeder plus seed for our birds of the region. I adore the hawk-feather story and I love hawks in general but especially, the red-tailed hawk. He has a white breast...beauteous coloring. I hope Joanne Uppendahl will read this as she is a major bird lover. You use seasonal metaphors with your usual charm and grace. They are fairly predictable but as the planet continues to warm, less so. It seems winter is your least favorite season or am I inserting my own feelings? We can learn a great deal from nature...Mother Earth the best storyteller of all times. Now if we'd just work up a little trust and respect for her ways, she might survive us. You've lost nothing in your time away from the link and I am smiling, smiling to have you home. Bravo! Mell	2005-01-25 15:06:11
Reader	Joanne M Uppendahl	HRH, JoUpNatem: I thought you were bound for Alaska then read you're not going until July. I am disturbed by how confused I'm becoming. This is a disturbing sort of poem, coming from you, unlike anything I've seen you pen. The poem feels very personal, directed at one person, and I don't feel intrusive since you posted it for review, but there's a message, very strong, as to your motivation to write. I do not take pieces literally so I'm quite aware this may be about Jen writing Bea. But we know it's not. I sat up straight, smiled, checked my current smilitude in the mirror (many blows to the face during the falls), and felt smug and loved and admired for surely JoUp, Emeritus, was telling me how she longs for me to read her work. Yep, it fits. You know how I love your poetry, what I say often touches that deep-down, guarded place where NO ONE enters. Then I read the last sentence and its ending phrase, "I long to write a page whose corner you will bend." Lovely, evocative linguistry but alas! not for me. I am so deflated like the earthed balloon. But I'll keep going and coming like your poem aborning with no place to land. Again, grand word choices. You know how OCD I am and ergo, I'd die before turning down the corner of a page. Even a paperback which has been rained on and curled into unreadability, I could never turn down a page corner! I have marked my place with a tissue, my checkbook, a pencil, a cigarette (unlit), a pill bottle,....you get the idea. I was going to add tampon but thought that too distasteful for TPL. The first stanza fascinates because I've never had a poem come that way, like the birth of a child. You have made this a physical, bodily event...no going back, no stopping now. I love the sounds of "which wants welcome but will come anyway". Not merely the beauty of allits but the determination of this poem to be written. The second stanza confirms that the environs or place of the event (no place to land) matters not at all. You use a computer...when it HAS to come, a grocery list, on my arm because I have no memory now. Usually it is not the entire poem but a phrase I've wanted and cannot find. It's knowing that you read. Though I cannot hear your voice nor see your smile or scowl, I long to write a page whose corner you will bend. Fantastic and gratifying for this reader. Scowl suggests a male to me...that jutting jaw, that rugged scowl. A woman would make a moue, frown (daintily) or shrug her pretty little shoulders, at the least, pout a bit. I have a notion or two about the motivator of your poetry but my lips are sealed and my brain dysfunctional anyway. Can you tell how much I enjoyed your poem? Slightly reminiscent of the writer's blocks. This cuts to the bone, medullary, no captives taken. This is how it is for me, folks, and it can work for you, too. I think if my motivation was to please a male, it would be wet and noisy but your poem herein pleases me enormously. A treat to be read again and again. I told you I write for Seamus so I suppose I can say, me, too, but mine is a fantasy while yours is all too true. Your work is always winsome and winning and welcome to land here any time. Since you are poet of the year at TPL, many poets obviously feel the same. Brilliant and riveting. You do something to me...tra-la... MellO	2005-01-22 20:11:57
After The Wind Speaks	Lennard J. McIntosh	Len: So nice to have one of your poems on my list, a rare occasion. Great title which suggests a nature poem. Wind is your main metaphor with others along the way and it is impossible in one short review to note and do justice to all your poetics here. Be aware they are duly noted whether alliteration, personification and such. It seems the wind yet speaks to you after it has passed and you give us six or seven similes to make your points. I am also intrigued by most of your verbs which are perfect for your depiction of "After the Wind." If I may: Rail, howl, twist, swaths, dashed, peppered, blown, gush over, hunker under, and so on. You first compare the wind to a tornado...most fittingly....howl, twist with its untamed heart. (Great). Nice to the ears are the euphonious single/southern,swaths/ summer/storms. Allits like those do not ring my doorbell often. All I'm doing now is an exegesis but I see nothing to change except that if you punctuate in places, you punctuate in entirety. None or all, the Mellism of the day. "Feral charge" is an example of Len linguistry as is "ancient boreal rock". At this point, I would be thinking, Okay, okay, you never left because you work your charm and grace in vertical sheets of sleet. This I have experienced, frost and frury, gust and gale. And finally silence. Souls resting in death, lips deprived of speech, mighty men relieved of power. Simply and intricately exquisite. I feel a full blast here not merely a summation of what the wind can do. In other words, your use of symbolism is equal to Frost's (at times) and is much more obvious than his. I have a sense of your reining yourself in, playing your cards close to the chest. There is emotion here, a plethora of emotion, but it's not found in exact words...more at the feeling state on my part. I greatly enjoyed your poem and it will go on my list. (Do not get excited, I usually have about 17 pts max). I'd like to see you submit it to one of the lit mags that want nature- related work. Last but not least, I've received one crit from you since you've been here, if memory is accurate and I recall its depth of observation. Soooooooooo, if you're just hanging out, no beer in the fridge, TV out of order, you've called everyone you know and they are busy, then take a look-see at "Aleutian Getaway", my poem this month. I will be properly appreciative. Bravo! for this poem. Mell Morris	2005-01-21 14:31:57
Dialectic Diadems	James Edward Schanne	JES: I swear I have read this before: the unique ideation is difficult to forget. The allits in the title beckon the reader. And those being led astray note the "constant jaw grinding and the square pegs round to resolations"...well spoken/written. Silencing achieved by binding mouths from speaking. James, in every one of your poems, I never know if I got it per your intentions...except once in a great while, you varably wait and explain. It's quite annoying to be asked but the most likely way we understand quickly. You gotta admit some times it feels like wading in sand/mire/fen. You display artistry in Stanza 2 with the auricular rhymes, Your are a billboard for sonnets. Your ending couplet is my favorite part which you summomed for panaceas of enlarged brain. Some woefully alive.	2005-01-14 13:21:40
Boomers	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul, This is a shift from what you usually post or perhaps I've not read enough to categorize you and your work. (Don't you hate the sneer and condescension of being fit in your pigeon hole?) Your title tells us the theme and says, "That's us (we)"....redeemed by "Before TV was, we were." It would be interesting to know the average age of the poets here, something I rarely think about unless it's true juvenalia. I would correctly punctuate your poem (Kent's boy, Mickey's,'em hell, bigoty-laden, through, those, and smoke-filled)...but it's trivia. However, when you send your pieces for submission, be sure such matters are corrected. "But somewhere time derailed us, and like our corn flakes, quietly sugar coated our reality." Brilliant, purely exquisite. I find I cannot easily move past Camelot and the muffled drums of that cold November day were endured...and you didn't even have room for Nam. I think your penultimate line should be the end as it's sooooo great! What about this? "Now P&E ratios and Moneyline rule videoland, IRA's are in vogue, and maybe it's true the child is father to the man because today, "Takin' It To The Streets" means an art fair is coming our way." That's another example of trivia or really nit-nit but if I ever see an option, I'll slide it in to give you something to think about. This piece is grand and I'm interested to see any revision you might do. Bravo! Mell Morris	2005-01-12 18:19:29
These Americans	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial: There is almost too much in your format. You establish and keep a zesty aa/bb/cc/dd/ee rhyme and your meter is unforced and while not exact, it lends a cadence that I like. This is a hard-hitting piece of exposition, not a topic usually found in a poem altho I have tried political and failed. I'm curious if you are native-born or emigrated to US, not that it matters a whit to the understanding of your poem. Your first line did not affect me much until it recurred in the ending lines and by then, I was so tearful, the sentence hurt deeply. What hurts the most, however, is "I'm fighting hard to survive these Americans". That you have nailed us right where the guilt lies is painful but I cannot argue that you are wrong. Unfortunately you are correct and the text's being addressed to "your people" is affective and painful. The part of being "born again" is a passionate yet clever reminder of people who fought long before you were born and will still fight after you're gone. You've used linguistry quite well to beg your case (as in court) and terminology which rallied people before: "To be washed in the blood of the common man That we might gain the rights to a "promised land" Not forty acres, a mule and someone's else's dream BUT THE RIGHT TO BE EQUAL IN THE MAINSTREAM You segue to specifics needed to be done now and by those ready to take their places. I greatly like that you thanked the matriarchs and patriarchs who guided you and then an admonition you give to the young to live up to their heritage. I haven't mentioned your poetical devices for this is so much more than a poem but they keep pulling my eyes with their alliteration: played and pimped out politics and the same with your rhymes as well speech and preach...."leaps and strides from the dust rise." I cannot stand in your shoes but I am fervent about the mess we have made of our country and the word freedom. We started by killing all my people (Cherokee) and we haven't stopped yet. It's likely too late for February's issue of any magazine but next year, in advance, please send this to "BLACK WARRIOR REVIEW" as they are an excellent literary journal. As I'm sure you know, their poetry and prose are often nominated for the Pushcart Prize. This likely the most important poem ever posted on TPL and you know when I have suggestions, I speak up but for this jewel, there is no room for improvement. Congratulations on this accomplishment. Best wishes, Mell	2005-01-12 16:54:18
On the Grief of Parents	Joanne M Uppendahl	JoUp,Em, LL: I can think of no more somber, sobering thought than the loss of a child. And while I will suggest a title change, this reader wantd to skulk away into a corner in a corner snd be left alone. I have not experienced the horror as you have but I can relate to the feeling of being bereft, of the swift death of someone I loved. The poem for me lacks the passion I have seen before when you've written anbout the loss of Mark. This one feels held at arms length and you keep your detachment until the end. This seems more of a scientific experiment. Or a psychistric report to the JAMA. Since in your art, you say exactly what you choose, I know this is also chosen with great care. (I love the phrase: "No instant's seamed enough."). So with all the words at your command and diapatch, you title this "On The Grief of Parents". I see this manuever is to convey to a reader that this is more prose, an article perhaps, etc. This essay-like piece is highly disturbing, coming from our best poet. If I found in additional notes that Anna Kubler-Ross and come up with one more step we need to fulfill to quell th4e grief, I could understand but from you, Dumbstruck in Dallas!! I obviously missed the ferry here, mi corazon, and it would help enormously if you threw me a lifejsacket. Best always,MELL	2005-01-09 15:24:01
Nightmare At My Street	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: I saw this for the first time today and wish I could offer data on your topic bangungot but I've never seen it written or heard it spoken. I am familiar with Nightmare on Elm Street, the caricature of a character like Freddy. Many cultures have their dream/ghost-like characters...I've seen this here in foreign films and the Japanese and Chinese have fashioned dramas of this sort which I have seen on TV. I got so much realistic cultural notions, fears, monsters from reading Amy Tan about her Chinese forebears. Your poem takes a figure from your lore, the Bangungot, and you tell a superb tale in wicked metered and rhymed format. I call this form narrative poetry which I see less and less when we need more and more. I do not understand this affinity on TPL for sonnets. I thought they went out of date with the 1800's. I used to rag MarkS about this but he feels as strongly about the masters and the formalism as I do for post-modernism. I have to turn off my computer for we are having new installations today so I'm sorry I didn't get much written about your poem. It is splendid, IMO. I should not wait till the end of the contest to look around for new poems! I have learned a lot today and if I encounter anything new about Bangungot, I will forward it. Your ending in the poem is very funny: no weapon but your boxers! Best wishes in 2005. Mell Morris	2005-01-07 16:09:17
Individuality	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial: Your poem perches on the page, twenty-eight words in re indivuality. You have achieved that with format and with stated intent to another person. "let me be and I'll be" is the phrase which grabs me by the hand and grips tightly. The "let me be" implies to this reader that the other has some influence over what you will (or not) be, and watching him/her be someone else is a natural state of wisdom and individuality. This could be a conversation between two friends, a simplistic exchange or it could imply deeper waters. I'm taking the deeper waters path. Your gift for rhyme makes this piece work as well as the format, unique ideas, or like something our of the old movies: "I know! Let's put on a show!" Let us become neologists. "I'll pray and let us pray for new words to say our styles new trials and individuality." This is brilliant. This resonates with me; reminiscent of someone who has had to battle for their freedom, whether small steps to have others accept you as you are, to pull someone else to your level...sundry notions are suggested herein and I find that poet plays her cards close to her chest, it's enchanting to allow the reader to surmise the import as we will. In the nearly-five years I've been here, it is quite rare to find a poem which so reflects my ideas, gets me excited in the way of a child with a new toy, and realize I'm in the hands of a poet who will do with me what she will for I have bought into her premise and epiphany. Standing ovation! Mell Morris	2005-01-07 11:55:20
Goldie Locks Bearing	James Edward Schanne	James: This is the first of your poems I've read that begs for a second look and for rescue more than a review although I have not read all you've penned. The sonnet is a funny idea, even the title. I try to be totally honest or I do no one any good. Your spelling, grammar, syntax, form, poetic devices are always right on the money, and while that bespeaks an accomplished poet, some of your poems are tedious and boring. Goldie and the menage-a-trois is nearly unbearable but all penned in a decorous manner, tastefully executed. The fourth line of S1 does not make total sense to me but that it was added for the rhyme and meter. I can deal with heaving breasts, aroused by ectasy (sure), and even oral fixation. But stanza 2, line four causes me to stop and say, "Lips to peck sassy.?" No, I don't think so. Stanza 3, line 1: "mount the bed"?? Line 3, of which betrayals do you speak and how do eyes spread? Your ending couplet has the clumsy phrasing which devastate the poem, IMO. A redeeming factor is the humor and even before the humor was written, the notion itself. But you ask the reader to buy into your poem and and for me, it's a stretch. In the ending couplet, The bears eye her in hunger and Goldie sees the joy depart and her eyes plead their chaste. Pardondez-moi, but this doesn't make sense. "Plead her case" would make more sense. I think you missed with this one but we all do, much of the time. If you love the poem, rewrite it. I would trash this version and write the idea in free verse. The idea in and of itself is worth salvaging. Best wishes and feel free to e-mail me, Mell Morris	2004-12-25 17:45:27
Abiding Winter	Joanne M Uppendahl	J.uPand aWay: I loved the little poem, song, and forgot to mention it until now. I plan to e-mail you later so now I'll focus on your "AW". I like abiding as an adjective for winter for abide suggests to me a staying, a blanket (don't ask why), a symbol of time treasured, a constancy in one place, a remaining as in a home. You can easily see where my mind is and how one word from a poet can mean a great deal more than intended. This is a perfect example of spare writing...all extraneous modifiers removed as well as articles, ajectives, adverbs. Frog sending thin love notes upward in icy air and poet's heart returns them. I now envision giant frog sitting on lily pad croaking his love to poet who hears them and her heart returns his song. CROAK! If I may quote from Seamus Heaney's "Death of a Naturalist": "The air was thick with a bass chorus. Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked On sods; Their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped: The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting. I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it." As a boy, Seamus loved frogs so much he collected jars of frogspawn and kept them until they were tadpoles. He thinks at this scene that the frogs have returned for revenge. I am moved to post one of my favorite poems with yours for both share that deep, abiding love for nature and the music (and noose for naughty Seamus) they bring you. Middle stanza of connected haiku tells us the frog is busy now with work (you say not) but I know it is with frog spawning he toils. You say with inhalation warming and "I hear his stillness" is indicative of a bonding with frog not difficult to imagine where you are involved. I have listened my entire life but never heard the stillness of frogs. Exquisite, your majesty! Third haiku revealed something about this reader. I read this: "Cooling earth does not Lesbian amphibian dreams" Is your frog laden with an identity crisis? Is it not enough that he rises every day solely to serve his queen, serenades her with icy songs, but must abide that amphobic label?? And puting worldly burdens aside, neither does cooling earth redact his frogian dreams nor slow your heartbeat. Lovely ending that rewards as all good poems do. When we see a nature poem posted by you, I think all of us have a knee-jerk reaction: we may settle back and enjoy the world as we have never seen it. This lovely poem could be the reactions of a lonely person who communes with frogs better then with dull people (I'm not being personal) or the reactions of one with such fine-tuned ears for earth and environs, she can hear a Rana rustling under reeds or a Bufo bustling in the rushes. You've done it again and keep on doing it and while blank myself, this poem brings great joy to my beleaguered heart. And "they" wish to shut us down? Brava! to the enchantress with pen bepearled. Mell	2004-12-19 17:52:35
Stripping Fall	James Edward Schanne	James: We usually get a lot of autumn poems but this year was a dearth. Of course, we are at an all time low on poems and I have to pay people to read mine. I am becoming accustomed to your sonnet form and remain stunned at the ease with which it flows from your pen. Your poetry has made me curious about you. Stanza 1 sounds like a strip mall with peeping toms, naked beings,...the unclothed being hit by the leer from the peeper at his window. Vision climbs limbs which sow shivers in the breeze. Your end rhymes are perfect and your metaphorical choices seem apt. The veins of the mine are discolored and I think of copper's turning green. Precipitation uproots as it slows changes spinning drain. This stanza (2) is deceptively simple until I try to put words on the paper. All of your pieces have tiers of treasure which must be mined metaphorically and many of your images are a reach for me. Poets have told me I read too literally and I work on that aspect of reading and reviewing assiduously. Your poetry does not fare well with a literal poet. I am always recalling Marianne Moore's comments that a poem may be beautiful but if not understood by its readers, it is nothing. While I relate to the form/beauty of free verse, I am still awed by a sonneteer and you never miss a rhyme or beat. My especially-appreciated part of your poem is the end couplet. "A destination in not just a place but a state of being we come to face." Your destination of stripping fall of any last bounty is more than that; it is a state of being we come to face. Up close and personal. Charming and graceful as always, a little off-center IMO which makes it more interesting. I would score this one with points but of course right now, I'm getting the scores of voting poets. You send yours to Uppendahl. Keep the poem hopping, skipping, gliding. Best wishes, Mell	2004-12-15 18:16:19
Jack Frost	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: The brutal critiques of Mell Morris have caused the wondrous poet, M. Terwilleger, to add disclaimers to her every poem. Actually, this is the best meter I've seen you write, with or without my brutality, as it tends to be tetrameter in all but six lines. Lends a nice cadence to the piece. And no particular rhyme is true but it sounds sweet when it occurs. Even slant rhymes are pleasing such as pane/frame. "Healing fingers of dawn" is very nice, especially if the night is ill but it appears the light is chasing those naughty coigns (quoins). But since the coigns (quoins) are angled or cornered, I wonder why you need convex (round, circular) gleams of light to bestrow the shadows. Dear Marilyn, I hope I have you laughing by now as you can see I need a lilac bath, candles burning, and a glass of chardonnay...if there is to be a cure for Ms. Morris. You do well with that no-good, imp named FROST just as you did with his cousin Fred. It's difficult to envision his using a brush to put the imagery on your window but etch is perfect. Stanza 2, last 4 lines overflows with sibilance. Eight words with the Sssssssss sound. Lovely touch, girl. The only thing that scratched me (beside the dreaded coigns of night convexed and perplexed by the light) was the last stanza, 4th line wherein the word "soar" seems out of place as every other end word rhymes. The word makes a bounce off glow with the long O... or... "awakening glow, my spirit alack till my restless heart takes a flight with Jack." I think it's picturing you in the fur bikini that made me think of the imp's enticing you. In all fun and good-faith humor, you do create some lovely images of a silvery winter landscape of jewelled windowpane, frosty petals and snowflakes etched beside the sash, inside the frame. Very enchanting as only you can do. It is sunny bright here, in the upper 60's, but it would be nice to see the imagery you've created herein. That's always been your strongest point, Marilyn, outlining those Wyoming scenes we only can imaqgine. I enjoyed this very much and I think it shows. Best wishes always, Mell	2004-12-13 16:20:40
Black On White	Mark D. Kilburn	MARK: You really have the eye, don't you? The manner in which you lay out b&w spread makes me think of a photographer. B& W can be a metaphor for many things as well, especially in the moral sense of good vs. evil in the most simplistic interpretation. Much as I love nature, birds for us city dwellers. I've never been all that tantalized by ravens. Forever more. Quoth the raven, Nevermore. I can't even remember the poem. The winter solstice? I thought that came about the 21st. No matter that. I like "milling" as a verb for them also scrounge is right on the nose as they pick the ground for any morsel, seed, berry, whatever another overlooked. I particularly like stanza 2, line 2. The ravens become part of what you see.... "Ebon brilliance standing out in extreme definition against blinding white background." Ah, satisfying for the spirit, reminiscent of Keats...the last couplet. I always enjoy your work, Mark, like holding a mirror to something I've never before noticed. Well done as always. ]Best wishes, Mell In extreme definition Against blinding white background. Mark, my brain is milling	2004-12-12 13:39:44
Unknown	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial: I'm sure you've heard by now that I am chronically ill; it seems like years since I've reviewed a poem with your name inscribed. "Unknown"...an intriguing title for there's so little we do know. I find this an itchy-twitchy title and can hardly wait to read to what it refers. Predominately tetrameter, it has a great cadence as if a song although your piece is predominately free verse. You tell us immediately there are too many people inside us the world will never know, an ironic sorrow that brings peace to the rolling waves, that deceives us and leaves us "ego tripping..." "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio...." from Hamlet by Shakespeare The quote from Hamlet reminded me of what you're saying here: there are limits to what the reason of man may know. At least, this far, it's what I'm thinking. You relate to us in Stanza 2 that there is nil between except spirit man BUT THE SPIRIT MAN THEY'VE NEVER SEEN who calls your real world make believe MAKING REALITY OF ALL YOUR DREAMS. I just call it what it is... unknown." This is a purely exquisite poem, Latorial, the best I've seen on TPL in a long time. I find it very intriguing that when encountered by a white person, they "can't explain it" while the black person's reaction to something unknown is to "call it crazy." And what you entitle your poem is the white man's take...unknown. Obviously (to me) the spirit man, Allah, God, Yaweh, shaman...no matter the word we use for him, unknown, he is the same. And when I say "you", I mean the poet or narrator whom I do not equate with Latorial. It drives me nuts how everyone at TPL thinks if I write in the 1st person, it means it happened to me. This "unknown" is very critical to your life because the entity, whether divine or a hunka-hunka burnin' love makes your dreams reality. that's as good as it gets where I live. There is an economy of words, a brief lyrical poem that relates so much and not with a bat but a whisper. I really relate to this piece but cannot begin to say why. Congratulations on this accomplished composition. Best wishes for your success, Mell	2004-12-11 13:49:33
Out The Window I Go	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul: I guess it'safe to assume you were on the mezzanine or second floor. What a way to celebrate Christmas but boys will be...You maintain your pace here very nicely with an aa/bb cc/dd rhyme. This seasonal poem works quite well in the structure for which you opted. The piece is light and jolly, the choice of the words seems apposite and roll with the flow. It's as if the window screen jumped with you and cushioned your fall. (Note Stanza 3, line 4: its call's. Its is a pronoun, no apostrophe). Now I come to a chord which strikes a personal note with me: ""Hear's"" the lesson hard learned and the truth of it all. Since I am extremely deaf, that "rang my bell." A timely story for children and I treasure moments when elders pass down their wisdom in little vignettes. You write quite ably and I'm always glad to see your name on either a poem or a review. I am quite curious about you but I think it's rude to be intrusive. Thanks for the window ride! Best wishes, Mell	2004-12-11 12:15:12
Night Song	Mark D. Kilburn	Mark: So great to see a poem by you come on my list! Hope you are doing well. Did you notice the # of bird poems this month? I even wrote about my mocking birds. While you were gone, we changed "rules" that long critiques were no longer part/parcel so poets were not to be expecting same. We are wavering as we are lacking in reviewers and poets. If you post and get a lousy critique, you feel cheated. I have found that some poets can be bright, pithy, and helpful in two lines. Night Song is an apposite title and you write about it with subdued passion which works. It becomes a sad song when feathered friends depart and the bird feels lonely. I really like the 2nd stanza. His deja vu a calling cry, soothing song for the sighs of spring. Poet says his sad sound echoes throughout the forest and makes a perfect lullaby. You put the sound, Whip-poor will, whip-poor-will after stanzas one and three. Placed so, it becomes the final line which is a nice touch. "Moss-covered stones of envious green" and "eternal song of clarity" Nicely limned line before the closing reiteration. I've run out of steam, Mark; I only have a few hours before I have to lie down and rest. Your nature poems still sing of the glories of our planet, and we are proud of all your published poems hailing the great worth of nature. Take care and best wishes, Mell	2004-12-06 18:12:36
The Currency of Cruelty	Robert Wyma	CURIOUS ALLITERATIVE TITLE WHICH RAISES QUESTIONS IN READER'S MIND AS TO WHAT CURRENCY AND HOW IS IT CRUEL. (WILL GET OUT OF CAPS). We lived in dark; hints or husks of former tunes and you had to find your own special frequencies. This is a hellish planet you are beginning to describe...possibly more thsn a planet but worlds of planets. An intriguing phrase from Stanza 2: "wolfpacks of apathy imagine better". Robert, I have stopped and reread this poem numerous times, and I'm getting nowhere. I usually do not have problems understanding what is occurring but you've lost me. It appeared society has disintegrated into an anarchy wherein the more cruel one is, the greater his reward. Only the last stanza presents any where positive or where darkness abates or a prize of UNITY of surety occurs. I know you often pen recondite, academic work but I've not seen this type of mystic, surreal, It is magical in one sense, feels over-done in another. While you display a remarkable predilection for the use of alliteration, I think you could lose some of yours so it does not seem openly apparent nor tedious. I know your brilliance as poet; I think the problem was my inability to connecy mentally. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-12-04 17:36:08
B-Rated Love Affair	DeniMari Z.	Deni: I do not remember reviewing any of your structured poetry but I REALLY enjoy the last free-verse poems I've read. Which means several things: I love free verse and it surpasses your structured work since I don't recall any of it. I am the only poet here that feels this way so take it into account. Using a line from your poem as the title weakens same. All of the old masters, Shakespearen sonnets, Em Dickinson were numbered and printers began putting the first line as title because it was needed for clarity. Example, if you say to me, Sonnet CXVI, by Shakespeare is your favorite. If I were really swift, I would say, "Oh yes it is. 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds' is my favorite." So altho your title is a hook, I'd prefer "Left with ashes in the dawn" or "To jump over clouds" or "My body slept unwise"....etc, etc. Then what you deliver is a B-Rated Oldie, B&W, Joan Crawford in shoulder pads, etc. In the first stanza, poet tells readers that love may really be possible, even if it exists in madness, makes you rake the surface to see what's underneath and note the verbs: twist, toil, jump, crawl, bend down, sift. Doesn't sound like true love. Stanza 2 is a gut punch wherein your trust is betrayed, promises never appeared, fueled with resentment, no sleep (bodies slept unwise)...a winner. Dementia between souls reminds of stagnant air, not life. Nope, I don't believe he's the one. I do not personally know poet nor equate the love affair as her own...it might belong to your neighbor.... but the delicacy of the female is notable while he appears crass and less. I think you detail all of this very aptly until you write: "Melted down our passion till We were left with ashes in the Dawn, no sympathy, no bond Left to break- it was a mistake ....nice enjambment.... This B-rated love affair *reaped* Us bare of good senses- then forced us to hate. Excellent job. I marked "reaped" as it doesn't seem to fit. I would use scraped, raped, shaved, stripped, robbed, etc,etc. Just a few nits...the piece is a great read as is but I think a few things you'll get as suggestions are worth consideration. Most poems would benefit from a nit or two. I am quite taken with your last poems, Deni. You have the power to awaken the readers' emotions and to a high degree. That, my dear child, is called talent. Everyone can learn anything IMO, but having inherent ability gets you jump-started. I greatly enjoyed this and hope you will continue practicing your free-verse voice. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-12-03 16:50:22
Arioso	Rick Barnes	Rick, This is at the bottom of my list...you are so popular. I know some ideas about your feelings about music which are much like mine, so the title drew me in. What you say here is the unsayable so what do I say to that? Like entering the holy of holies. Like a purification ritual is required before you proceed with words. You whispered sounds of her/him into empty air and then fouled it with prayer. This reminds me slightly of my poem about re-pairing with God in lieu of prayer to him. You tell us that the sound of her is not to be heard/answered Then in magnificent stanza two, poet says he spoke the sounds forbidden into rooms which darkened. That says a great deal, however softly spoken or said or sung. A great deal of power therein and when you (stupidly) rummaged thru ruined sounds/lives the poet mistakes as hers. There is such a baring of soul that if you said you were a cannibal and longed to eat her flesh, it would fit perfectly. This is a poem that cuts to the marrow, medullary, wherein gentleness and brutality meld. Or did I take a wrong turn in stanza one? That's why I said "stupidly" TIC My favorite sonnet by Shakespeare is "When in disfavor with fortune and men's eyes" or something close to that. Anyway, he says..."and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries". Cynical as that may be, I've always found profound truth in those few words which I envision lined beside yours. Dear Ricko. mjy son is here to take me to the dr. so I will e-mail the rest. MellO	2004-12-01 13:13:05
Finale	Mark Andrew Hislop	MAH: Perfect rhyme and meter but cannot recall the name of the form. Reminds of a pantoum. The ending, the finale, the coda seems overdue. I actually do not understand this piece for how could anyone live in this misery when they have a choice? I can understand choices become difficult if there are children or illness but someone staying to torture the other person? That's what it sounds as if she's doing, pointing to each and every fault or misstep, and your saying "I can't go on like this." Then, if you've already "forsook" (love it) her, why doesn't she retreat gracefully? Actually after a bit, I become aggravated with poet because he demands she curse him in order to finish the marriage or arrangement. Then I think it's some sort of game Aussies play "to curse me then fly" ....if you would have release. That line is quite memorable but I don't know from where. I cannot believe you eschewed "surcease" in the last stanza. (By the bye, I don't assume you & poet are the same.) This site, much as I love it, has members who take everything literally and say to me, "Now, Mell, you can't think that!" Well, this has gotten on my nerves sufficiently that I will sign off. To evoke the senses in another is supposedly the aim of poetry but with the reasons I cited, it's getting next to me. Ergo, a brilliant poet/poem. Thanks for taxing my brain and I wish you'd do a few crits, too. Best wishes, Mell (I enormously enjoy your poetry as I think you know).	2004-11-29 20:58:34
Lost Magic	Kenneth R. Patton	Ken: I like this poem for today in particular because holidays elicit a wealth of feelings both good and sad, tired, troubled, and you use "magic", as in lost. Although it is not essential to the poem to know, I couldn't determine if "she" were mother or wife. It works for either one to be the "she", IMO, but I'm leaning towards the wife. One comments that Thanksgiving is not the same and poet/narrator agrees. Nothing is the same. The magic is lost. He then recalls the first time he noted the magic was absent. He sees the same look in his father's eyes. One of disappointment, one of regrets, pain, mournful? Or all the above? He notes, too, that with this final look from his father, that he has aged without anyone noticing. (That happens in my family because so many live far away and time makes a difference when you see someone infrequently) After seeing all the "lost feeling" expressions, it moves poet to think about giving her a big hug. I realize what I've done with your poem is to deliver an exegesis, which you do not need but gosh, you all need a little more cheer, drama, and jokes in your times together. Now I've really stuck my nose in what's not my business. But Ken, my family are usually morose at holiday times. There are so few of us left that the happy/good times have seemingly gone. That's the take I put on your poem, one of disappointments. But I may be projecting how my family is. Roni wrote a salute to Peggy Lee and the title of one of her most famous songs, "Is That All There Is?" That's part of my feeling about every holiday and would be a good title for yours or maybe "Send in the Clowns"? I wrote a novel here because you hit a nerve with me but I'm very happy about the hug!! Best wishes and kudos for giving us an accomplished piece of writing. Mell Morris	2004-11-25 17:00:45
verse 64 (Doubts)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: How can we be pessimistic and dubious as long as we have poets such as you? You put a positive spin on everything you write or so it seems. I incline to the moody, depressed sort of poet but right now, that comes from the pain in my life. We have become a cynical society compared to some or to our own history. Here, so much of the prized things in life are predicated upon money and "the good life." In this haiku or verse your metaphor is a spider's web for your mind, and its inherent doubts. The sounds play beautifully...I don't do much scansion...but I must comment on the long I in spider/my/mind/quiet/my as it is s spiritual sound albeit you await the web's advent. That seems more aggressive than peaceful but I take that feeling from your poetry...one of sublimity approaching actualization. Or shall I put it in the vernacular? Man, you are one cool dude! Or your ideas are. This could be a surreal dream; a phobia about spiders is quite common. We think of their weaving a web as you say "quietly stitching" and with the web, entangle another insect for lunch, lay the eggs until they are ready to spring forth. But in your poem, the spider webs trap your chances. That's a super idea and unique for me. It is figurative but a clever way to say you were entangled by (??) whatever which trapped opportunities which is synonymous with chances. This is a universal theme, Erzahl, and one we can all use to look/analyze our lives. The entire time I've been reading and analyzing your piece, I realize all the chances I lost due to whatever reason. It also builds the framework for people who rationalize. "It's all your fault!" I don't have further comments but do have sufficient poetic sense to know a good poem when encountered. I never have suggestions for change so I am of little help to you but frankly, you do not need it! Continue doing what you do so well and e-mail me, too, if you need credits. I would be honored to help. Take care and thank you for sharing this grand poem. Rating: ***** Mell Morris	2004-11-24 10:45:41
The Cabin	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I've been noodling with "Cabin" (#43 or so) but I have some ideas I think will help. When you began posting poetry at TPL, you were writing primarily narrative prose. We worked on form, getting it to look like a poem, syntax, beefed up your imagery and you bagan to pen imaginative, quite good pieces. Then I don't know if you got bored or decided to try and expand your parameters, but I started noticing a lot of unusual adjectives and adverbs which served no purpose that I could see, and that's where I think you still are. When you began, your first sentence would have been: "I walked quietly on the forest floor, covering with pine needles of jade." We see your current sentence but "bestrewn with needles of jade" is a bit over the top or pushing the envelope. Particularly, IMO, you need to lose the bewstrewed...the Globe theater burned before Shakespeare could have his plays put on there. (TIC) If someone is reading this, dear heart, they do not know our history and are thinking, 'Who the hades does she think she is?' To go on, the next line is lovely except for one word..."poked." I suggest prod or nudge, etc. "I whirled (about) to face a deer with a grand crown of antlers." We could take every paragraph and "un-fancy" it and that's coming from me, the fancier of words. Such phrases as "dulcet days of yore" are cliche-ridden and always be careful of those. I personally do not have a problem with the ending but that kind of finish is seen more in pulp fiction than than in highly-regarded paublishers. You still have to endure block, depression, to be a true poet (Ha) but I think the best advice right now is to hit the middle man, the middle bewtween stark narrative and fancy/schmancy. I would take a bare-bones poem, remove every adjective and adverb, then start over/ write and rewrite and have some one (me?) check your progress. Best wishes and happy writing, Mell	2004-11-23 16:37:13
Calluses	Laura Jeanne Dean	Laura: I just spent two hours in critting your poem and because i can only be out of bed a few hoursw, there's no way I can capture what I wrote. Encapsulated, your ability to draw forth imagery works upon the reader's senses. Your professional note, your unique descriptors give the readers a fresh look at life. The bed sequence with the touch of his callused hands on your sensory body depicts two peoplevery habituated to the other's needs. Poet seems the more imaginative of you two. Laura, I must go lie down. Your poem is a savory feast, a treasure rarely encountered, and should emerge high on the contest list. I will read it with gusto. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-11-15 12:27:09
Winter Waltz	Patricia Gibson-Williams	Patti: So grand to have a poem by you on my list! You never fail to deliver and this is, on the surface, a nature poem, a tribute to winter, an elegy to snowflakes. I like your alliterative title which paints a picture in my mind of a couple of snow faeries on a frozen pond, doing a beautiful waltz. There is a great deal of rhyme here, mostly end-stopped, no locked-in number of stanzas nor their line length. This free-verse type of structure seems to fit your poem well and gives you the needed latitude to speak as you will. "We gather here in joyous praise; of bitter nights and frosty days. By blustery winds held aloft caressing whispers sooth(e) and waft." A great amount of sibilance used here to convey your message in whispery, blustery Sssssssssssssss words. I think it genuinely unique to tell readers about winter from the pov of a snowflake. Of course all I know is what I have studied and learned and the experts seem to hold the device of personalization in high regard. Your snowflakes seem perfect for personilization but likely becaue you do it so well. I do not understand the last line of S 2. S 3 is your loveliest with a nice placement of words showing downward movement. It is also perfectly rhymed and metered. S 4 continues with placement of snow in your unique descriptive ways. The line I favor here is: "nestled together...flake to flake." The flakes tell the readers that when it becomes warm, we sadly melt but with no bitterness as that is nature's way. The flakes are gathered by the sun and they rise back to heaven, praises sung. There is a yearning feeling about the poem and as I read your end notes, I see that you live in Florida where snow is rare. We rarely see snow in Dallas but have at least one ice storm every year. Not having seen much snow nor winter waltzes, you do a nice job in writing about same. There is a comforting warmth herein which I greatly enjoyed and your revelation seems to be: And that's the way it is, so we accept our roles in God's plans. A metaphor for human lives and our acceptance of our places therein. Nicely done, Patti; a fine read and a poem to which I'll return time and again. Best wishes, Mell	2004-11-14 13:04:29
Lunar Longing	Joanne M Uppendahl	HRH Aviary Emeritus: This the last poem on my list so poets have been busy with your returning to space. I wondered what the postman/Roy would say to HRH. Some places we have had the same postman for years and he's like part of the family. Did my handwriting say anything to you? I have trouble with it just as with typing. You posted Lunar the the 8th and I posted Birdsong (at full moon) the next day. You didn't acknowledge the dedication but knowing you, little sister thought it might be for someone else. (There is but one EMERITUS). Your loving tribute to Luna is filled with poetics which as you know I hate listing. I have great doubts about my critiquing of late as well as my poems. I haven't a notion of Cassini's beams (I'm sure it's not Oleg) but I do not feel like getting up and down to look for meaning. We've had rain all week and my hips are screaming and I'll bet your shoulders, neck, and arms hurt when it rains there. (Which is often). Dellena e-mailed me that she's in Portland. I love that city with a passion. Well, dearest wall-lurkness, I'm all over except your poem. The 1st stanza has lovely allits and sounds; I love the hard C of Cassini/camera/cup/clicks. You enjamb to S 2 with two more hard C words: curious/cat and these are but a few examples of your euphony. The personification of Luna is perfect: "Luna looks away, aloof, astonished at the gall!" A nit: you have face in line 1 and facing in line 3. An option to consider...as I said, a nit. S 3 gtives three more hard C sounds...I realize I mention those overly so but they are the supreme sound for my ears. I really like Luna's watching, waiting for the call. So human and delightful, enhanced by the sibilance...I feel Luna has an affect on you as if you are gradually leaning in her direction. I feel a bond, for sure. S 3 brings the reader to the ideation that the moon's role is far from obsolete as astronauts return to use her as a launching pad in the not-too-distant future. I truly think you can lose the line "Her gravity's far less than Earth's and the cost of rocket fuel is high." For me, this is saying what is obvious, something everyone should know unless the poem is for children and the language hadn't given me that idea. I think the wondrous end line of all Luna wants is to, etc, etc should be set apart to give it the most power possible. I rarely suggest any changes in your work as it is always at the highest level. This piece is of the highest degree as well...only a couple of nits came to mind. Feel free to ignore same as I know each word in your poems are quite carefully selected. There is a difference in this poem...more sparely written...wrapped tightly but with a big silver bow in the end line. I have been trying very hard to delete more and more of my rhetoric; I killed an entire stanza in Birdsong. You make me sigh, great Lunar light, creator of ambience and lambent glow that flows right into my heartstrings. This is nearly as magnificent as you, dear enchantress. Lilacs, violets, verbena, and pansies for you. Your Nekk	2004-11-10 15:03:18
In my mind's eye.	Keith Robson	Keith: I've not seen your name before. If you are new to TPL, welcome and I hope you'll stay. Your piece has some rhymes, mostly end stopped. Your imagery in stanza 1 has some nice touches such as the day was glorious and dusk has drawn a curtain across the gold-kissed day. You/poet stores his memories of the event in the magic ledges of your mind. From aubade of the dawn, poet strolled along the beach , you with your poet's eye see tides' treasures which you again place on your ledge. Sunrise makes the sea silver lanes to the sandy plain. Now the lighthouse blinks a goodnight as you begin your journey home "with haunting luminescent light on the wavelets crowning foam stored nicely in its magic ledge of a mind's eye. The recurring end of each atanza seems like glue which bonds the elements of your poem. Part of your talent lies in your ability to describe in new words some grande elements you have encountered...imagery, the experts call it. Imagery engages the senses which all poetry aims to do. What I hear most often from the poet is what did you feel? IN YOUR POEM, I am taken by the descriptors, from dawn to sundown on the beach, and said memories are stored in an internal ledge in your mind. All I rendered was an exegesis on what your poem says as I saw no needs for changes. Hope there are more to come if this is a sampling of your writing! Best wishes, \Mell Morris	2004-11-09 12:11:54
My wretched shower	Mark Andrew Hislop	MAH: I first thought this was a nasty storm with a shower following, 'crying on you' being the simile. But as you stepped out, and looked at your reflection, I got the import. Your thoughts feel masochistic, cruel to self, and pessimistic. You mention that "she" once loved your face. Your reflection amazes and flummoxes with no shame, you tell us, with "No warning that my shower's innocence Would take both shoulders to cry upon." I think you mean this literally and figuratively. So far, this is an elusive, surreal read for me. The shower is a metaphor for sadness/tears in my manner of interpretation. Your 3rd stana is the loveliest IMO with its tears finding all the places she had kissed, and underneath you could sense those million lips of moisture, the sad tears that washed you clean. Your ending brings this piece full circle. You'll not take a shower there again or wrestle with the emotions looking at the face brings; unless the shower delivers an adequate amount to wash you away. I think I went astray in the 1st stanza and never got on the right course thereafter. It's the polished, quietly sophisticated writing I've come to associate with your work but I'm off my game today with the pain controlling me in lieu of vice versa. Last review I did of your work, your reply addressed my calling your meter "near-perfect" and requesting that I explain what I meant or to which instances I refer. I've thought about this point several times and arrived at a conclusion which I think is accurate. You are an Aussie, I believe, but have more in common with the UK treatment of English than do we. (I cannot find the poem and I cannot save this page to look it up). I think one of the words was "readily." In Texas, we pronounce the word with two syllables: "read-ly." The Queen's English would likely say all three syllables: "read-i-ly." So this word and many others would cause the line to have, say, eleven beats to me, ten to you. This poem is perfect pentameter, unrhymed. I know the disparity lies with me and my Texas accent and therefore, I am embarrassed that I called foul when there was none. My apologies. If I see any more instances or light shed on your meter, I will let you know. Metaphysical writers and poets are usually profound and bring the reader along with them so they can follow/understand. It's one of my favored forms because I must use my gray matter which is rare in everyday life. I would rather think and learn something new any day than plow through rhetorical nothings, my specialty in composing poetry! However far I may be from your meaning (?), I greatly enjoyed the write. Best wishes, MellO	2004-11-08 18:07:58
Blade In Hand	DeniMari Z.	DeniMari: Quite interesting poem, in structure, words chosen, and theme. You write very well as I'm certain you know but I am interested in why poets do unusual things. For example, your lines vary from hexameter to dimeter, your stanzas from five, five, four, six, and four. Of course anything "goes" in postmodern poetry but when ports write with determination in a particular manner, I usually wonder why. There is a great lot of overt rage and a surprise twist at the end. Your rhymes are enchanting but again, I see no pettern to where they occur. True true verse. Your title is a hook for the reader and the entirety of the piece looks orderly on the page. (Don't ask why these things matter to me; some poets live for allits). Stanza 1 tells us that anger has made consciousness insane and stanza 2 says no airing of the problem(s) ameliorates because death awaits, moving in then backwards to the floor. Nice rhymes and allits herein. Stanza 3 begins with allits of burning/bones and gives the rhymes of chest/rest. I really relate to "Nasty comments haunt Those who can not rest." The fourth stanza is what I would term perfection. You make your point but in a consequential manner. Allits, rhymes, and assonance in every line. The epiphany, which herein is that of O. Henry, is satisfying for your readers as well as surprising. Blade in hand, death can wait but not from anything he has achieved but because it's much more difficult to be alive and free where there are many people to whom we are indebted, we cannot merely rely on the good will of others but do the deed ourselves. In his stance, irresponsible is his middle name. I hope I interpreted your poem not far afield from your intentions. But you know what they say: Once the poem is published, it belongs to the readers. (Not literally but figuritively). I feel i have not helped you at all, Deni, just rendered an exegesis but I find no roiling mistakes, nothing to add nor delete, IMO. I greatly enjoyed this poem and wish you the best. Mell Morris	2004-11-05 12:26:15
Conversation between divorced husband and wife	Mark Andrew Hislop	MAH: I doubt many exes communicate in such formal but cordial style but I enjoyed the exchange, the more so because you set it in near-perfect rhyme and meter. I could not locate the Hardy poem in my collections but I do not have all his work. I especially liked the use of "jade" as I do not often see it, as in termagant, shrew, etc. I am not a literalist so I make no assumptions about the players but the husband's role is more sympathetic than hers. She seems removed, detached, unable to express her feelings. He clearly states what he wanted from her: "Try to understand that your warm thoughts, too rarely then conveyed, like sustenance denied my outstretched hand." He also mentions "But I was left in silence while you slept." And the final line haunting: "Recall: my love was all yours to command." She threw away the feelings he had for her and lack of communication betwixt them is an understatement. So whether sketched in Hardyisms or hip words of today, the problem is the same. Quite nicely done as are all of your poems. I have come to expect a great deal from your talented pen and you are of great worth at TPL. Best wishes, Mell-O	2004-11-04 17:59:24
verse 63 (Sunrise)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	ELME: Your verses NEVER appear on my list because everyone grabs them quickly and if you recall my stance about reviewing haiku: ARGH!! There are not enough words to crit. I cannot continue in this vein for I posted ny first haiku this month, combined with a lyric poem to make two salutes or toasts to my doctor. Dawn or sunrise has been versified so many times, often an Aubade or Matins, ruing the loss of night (lovers)and the beginning of the new day. This is exquisitely original, Erzahl, as I have never seen this metaphor before yours. Sunrise is the arousal of the giant Phoenix who soars aloft with wings of fire, risen from the ashes. How clever you are with imagery! Certainly the strongest aspect/facet of your poetry. And now your descriptors of the feng huang, to some, the idea of prosperity, is in keeping with what we have come to expect from you. I do not like to mention your poetics per se as that is boring to both of us but in your middle line, the sound of F (or fricative as Brenda says) strengthens the notion of fire and flight. I started marking your assonance as well on my copy and now your little verse looks like it is written in olden hieroglyphics. Perhaps on silkscreen or palimpsest or parchment. I hope the expectations we at TPL have placed on your shoulders (to post the highest quality) are not too burdensome but it does keep raising the bar or as they say today, "pushing the envelope." Kudos for yet another example of the perfection of word arrangement! I greatly enjoyed it. Best wishes always, Mell	2004-10-30 12:25:05
Boundaries	Mark Andrew Hislop	MAH: Another loverly piece which seems to roll from your pen with the greatest of ease. Your end rhyming is spot on and your meter lends your typical cadence which is lilting anf rhythmic. I like your title because we all have to deal with same, like it or not. Your choice, you tell us, is a lane of convention, the other haven for the free. Stated that way, I see little choice of consequence. I'm reminded of Frosr's "The Road Not Taken." All of this is metaphoric of free will and that man can follow the path of his election. By the third stanza, the walk in the heady air has given me a tremendous appetite. Mushrooms sauted in butter with a pinch or so of thyme...ah, man....I can think of nothing else now. Okay, no mushrooms as you are guided (?) from A to B. It requires great exercise of restraint as you stomach cries out to be sated. Your point seems to be you do not have to eat mushrooms nor borrow a horse as you've seen/done all before and you have been able to keep the experiences in your brain for facile access. Back to Frost and "The Mending Wall." There's something about a man who doesn't like a wall. Both walls and boundaries keep people out but well-constructed walls and boundaries make for peace between neighbors or in the larger ocntext, they preclude wars between nations if men can respect boundaries. Your epiphany leads the reader to the poet's insight at the ending. With creative energy, man can surmount any fence, wall, or boundary and his soul will soar in new freedom of release. I am aware I've offered no advice nor comments for change/improvement. I see none so all my review can do is tender an exegesis, agreeing with the bulk of what you've herein offered. A very nice read you've given us, and I always applaud good poetry. Thanks for thwe pleasure. (I've got no mushrooms but have butter and thyme but in my quirked-fated life, I am allergic to mushrooms...and worse.,..Garlic!! Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-10-29 13:00:32
Flower haiku #1	Joanne M Uppendahl	Dearest one: I should be going to bed...I'm at the error point I described but I must muddily comment. I have "Irises" hung over my bed so what can I say? Vincent painted with his heart as we all know and I had finished a 'color blue' poem for next month so have been paying extra attention to his blend of blues. "Rowdy iris leaves" captures part of his magic (all could never be captured) and is thus beautiful for his leaves in which I find many, many shapes. Like leaves jumping about, flinging themselves, and some are of people dancing. "cut turquoise sky in pieces," a wondrous, magical way to describe the iris of bluish purple against the backdrop of turquoise sky. I meditate for hours on the painting and I see two eagles in the mid-right section and the single white iris looks like an elderly lady with a white stole and hat, going to church for a wedding. You thrill me with the quintessential ending: "later offer gold" and one would have to be sightless to miss the rich sugary gold that grounds the plants. There are no words for his colors: the gold is a cerise with slits of ochre, trails of reddish earth. You know what I mean: there is no other color than the red dirt one finds in numerous places. When I think, I look up as most people do but "Starry Night" hangs over my desk. Talk about blue! Then I glance to my right and there's is your gold: "Sunflowers." Have I ever mentioned how much I like Van Gogh? Every where one looks in my room, they see prints of Vincent's work (two still life" I haven't noted for you. Then you see three ceiling-high book cases where Seamus Heaney at al reside. I have a square basket where current work is kept, a WOW file filled with poems which please me. Little sister, one file is crammed with your poetry. I must start a new file soon. I couldn't find this poem so had to go to All Users. I hope it goes thru because I've been losing loads lately. I miss you so much, it is an ache. Please take care. With shouts of ole' and brava!! Mell	2004-10-24 19:27:38
Digital Poetry	Rick Barnes	Rick the ramblin' man: Thanks so much for posting this at my request. There are so many billiant pieces in your book but this one is a science applied to art, the mathematics of music, the pas de deux and the one- and-uh-two. You understand mathematical theory of music (boy, would you and my son have a rip-roaring time with this subject!) and I'm kind of in the stones ages where primitive man made music with rocks and bones. It's as if you are in continual discoutsae with the people of long ago. Think of all the magnetic tones and throes given you and I really believe your role (duty) per the divine fate is to bring the message to all people. I do not take such musings and flashes of insight as I once did/ There is a purpose to all rhings... if on;y I could determine what part I'm assigned in your masreful play. Your book and poetry make for superlative meditation guides and I cannot recall if I ever to9ld you that I*n any eent, this has always been been one of my most favorite. Keep the pen and our worls spinning. If you dumb this down into so much hogswill, I'll be enroute to your abode with full armor.This makes my heart sing, Wild Thing! Enlisted and thanks from the bottom of mu hesrt. Mayul	2004-10-22 15:54:28
Finding the Muse	Edwin John Krizek	Ed: I feel incredulous (and envious) that to find your muse, you only have to call. I've never heard of this ease of summoning one's muse. One of my poems was titled "My Muse Left No Forwarding Address." "Then what have I lost?" If you find something, it requires you to lose something? Simply quixotic, exotic and grand. In the ensuing three lines, you tell your reader(s), all moments must be precisely aligned for the muse to come. The setting, the time, mood. This is frabjous as I've never thought of my muse in those terms nor read of its occurring to another poet. BUT WHEN NOTHING IS RIGHT... you see your muse in shadows feel her singing to you hear her whispers in your silent room. The conversation you have with your muse places more queries in my mind that what was written before. You use metaphore as your poetic frame. "Tell me now what secret fire can be found in the contented heart. Guide me to the ocean of your urgency." A fascinating, brilliant piece of writing, Ed. The question posed which interests me most is "what secret fire can be found in the contented heart." And the line which intrigues the most is that your muse has an urgency for the ocean. I've likewise never read that before but I feel it quite strongly, especially in spring. As if I must return to my original home to face the earthly one present the rest of my days. This is spell-binding, IMO. I like metaphysical poetry, the ocesan, the power you assign to your muse. In toto, standing ovation and makes my list. Mell Morris	2004-10-15 13:21:00
Amethystine Mists	Jana Buck Hanks	Jana: I do short reviews now as I'm not capable of longer. Purple, lavender, and violet have a great impact on my psyche so your title and references to being in these states where these colors predominate soothes my soul as well. As I've said repeatedly, lack of punctuation gives the reader little clue as to your intent...it is surreal, dream-like, sublimated, and stream-of-consciousness writing. The words are beautiful but if not understood, what does the reader take away? Sensory impressions, yes. Beauteous linguistry, yes. Let's look at Stanza 2. "into sacred ceremonial .....this is not end-stopped meaning and sans punctuation...?? whirling pools of intuition peer I innocently .....in all my experience in living, I've yet to see a sacred pool of intuition into which one might look.... winged daughter of the Owl stirring with willow wand ....and you are native american or your persona is and you use a douser's limb softly through immortal to stir the whirling pool of intuition through the sleep of immortal souls. souls(') pregnant sleep Are there souls that are mortal? With what is their sleep impregnated? Now that is a cerebral analysis which raises more questions than it answers. It is drifting, dreamy...like being forced to read Faulkner twenty-four hours per day. You come away with brilliance, senses screaming, but tedious at the same time. This is purely my take, Jana. What I've seen of your later poetry is a higher degree of organization of thought, still intuitive and surreal in part but easier to understand. Poetry is aimed at the senses no matter the form, style, etc. My favorite stanza is: what quietness (quietude?) what solitude soothes my mind as I linger here at rest in meditative cumulus clouds sensually swaddled am I by amazing amethystine mists For me, the frabjous linguistry continues but rich with import. Your last two stanzas are similarly thrilling. So, how does it make me feel? To be perfectly honest...as if I were under the influence of mind-altering substances. That's not a slap but a "high", if you will. No one writes as you, Jana, beautifully, in ethereal tones, arcane, as if life were seen through tinted glasses. I'm amazed that this is anyone's 1st poem!! Thanks for joining in the project. I think it has been great fun. Best wishes, Mell	2004-10-13 18:16:31
Tree haiku #1	Joanne M Uppendahl	Sky princess: PLBR feels poorly but had to say thank you for being part of this Memory Lane Project. Actually Little Sister started it by posting the haikus which are all beautifully you. You offered me frogs in your last review and it reminded me of something Marianne Moore wrote: If you write realistic images of your garden, the frogs will appear by themselves. Or something close to that. I see your making that happen again and again. You take words...fancy or plain...and arrange them with your little hands and fingers into the loveliness with which you surround yourself and give to us at TPL. Whether your body of work is published by the Harvard Press or you opt to self-publish, Joanne, you must make a gift of them for Bea. You will likely know when the time is right, you will intuit the age at which she will understand your poetry and I do not think many adults see the subtle parts, at least the majority of poets. Leaves with brittle stems...this sounds like someone departing in a stiff-legged way, stalking out of the room. In truth a lovely phrase for autumn when the leaves brittle or their stems do. (We still are in summer here). Now, Little Sister, her made a no-no in line two, inadvertently, I'm sure. There are NO rhymes in haiku and in Texas, limb and stem rhyme. That brittle stems are tied to boughs, scented by the wind is oh-so-exquisite and you segue to: delicate your dance. A divine picture you've painted, Joanne. Take a tree, brittle its leaves, let the wind tease its limbs until the tango appears by itself (as Marianne Moore stated). I am depleted, dear friend, but thank you for this dedication and most of all for the lovely poetry that evolved from our mutual mind-meld. Take care and best wishes with this little dancing poem. Mell	2004-10-13 16:18:55
Moon haiku #2	Joanne M Uppendahl	Luminous Laureate: Each haiku stands firmly on its own but blends with the other especially in strong rhymes such as sickle and fickle. Silver moon is big sister; Moon II is baby sister. My view, of course. Silver moon seems serious and if her task is to tinsel trees and toss coins...it is done. Now gallops in little sister moon, feckless, naughty (half-moon smile) so we readers know she's been doing something lunar but with greater freedom and joy than big sister. (My hairdresser's name is Moon, Vietnamese, and Eric and I have placed her in high status...but that's another story). "Beaming" fascinates as a word to describle little Moon II. She has become oriental and her mother Moon always told her to be the best. "Be Ming!" she would prod her. Sorry, but when I introduced my own Moon into your poem, it will be out of my hamds and into hers (small and capable like little sister's). Moon two has reflected light...just as I imagined, she is quite thoughtful and reflective even though she plays and gets naughty. (Does Miss Bea know her?) I think Moon II also likes to be called Diana when she is out hunting for things to do. Your last line, Joanne, has laid me out. (I get my morphine in half an hour, thank heavens)! "Stolen from the sun." I read this as manna...stollen from the sun. And then was so overcome with the joy of this poem, I am crying for the beauty and personalities you gave your moons. ONLY YOU! I must lie down, great enchantress, but thak you, thank you for the double treasure to savor forever. I LOVE your haikus!! Purple pansies and a sprig of chervil, Mell-o	2004-10-11 11:31:40
Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Mell W. Morris	Critique Date

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