Troy D Skroch's E-Mail Address: tdshiker@yahoo.com

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Troy D Skroch	Critique Date
Revolution	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, I couldn't agree with you more. The hypocrisy in this country has come to "torrid manipulations of truth spewed loosely by the ungrateful." Without a doubt it is becoming harder and harder to go out into the world each day and keep a smile on your face. It starts with the news coming over the alarm clock, then the TV, then you get the visual pollution of all the billboards etc...and pretty soon your teeth start grinding. This war being sold as "patriotic" is total crap that is killing thousands of innocent people and that is lining the pockets of the "three piece suit soldiers" and leaving the wounded of both sides to look forward to their under funded VA hospitals. I better stop soap boxing. They rant and ravish ignorant crowds desperate for a cause atop creaky bleachers that will one day topple – brought down to their knees by youthful disbelievers serving the democratic right. This is such a great stanza. When will this happen? I'm so waiting for the democratic party to get back some continuity and start representing and protecting the people of this country again. You put these "ignorant crowds" in the "creaky bleachers", what an image. The youthful "disbelievers". I like the word "disbelievers" here, poetically speaking, because so often we hear about the "believers". A great way to freshen the line. I know now that day will come. Separating this line out gives it even more confidence. The hypocrisy hound will howl teeth snarled, fear-struck while the youth unite uniformed with patriotism positioned with poise ready in the wings. Great alliteration here and a great visual image. I love it. In terms of writing with political content, I think you pull it off very well. The strength of this poem and its title make it stand out and beg to be read. It should be scribbled on every wall in the country like graffiti. Best, Always, Troy	2005-05-01 22:17:46
SEDONA (revised)	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, You have so many poems on the list I've decided to take them a couple a day like an overdose of vitamins. Ok, bad humor. Actually, you write so well, I find it difficult not to comment on all of them at once. When I think of Sedona, I think of Sedona Arizona. I love the state, especially the Grand Canyon, which I've hiked to the bottom of numerous times, traveling latterly and staying for extended periods. Yet, they say that God created the Grand Canyon, but lives in Sedona. That being said it's not hard to believe that you would go their with your love, even though it was "unknowingly doomed". That is sad. Your first stanza wastes no time starting with energy using alliteration to create a fast rhythm slowing it down a tad with the word "solace". Very nice and balanced. It really feels alive. I like the writing of every line. =] I stand in grey shaded by your might,-----------it's almost as if you've lost some of your light, I like this description eternally bound in gold leaf gratitude to a love for which I may never write justice. I like this second stanza, but I don't understand it. Let me try and don't be offended if I muck it up. It is not my intent. I see you with an overpowering figure. One to which you are bound "eternally." I believe this means marriage, I'm not sure, but it's my first impression. I don't understand "gold leaf gratitude". I'm missing the reference, yet I'm not asking you to explain yourself. If this is in fact a marriage, then, perhaps, this may be a the symbol of a wedding ring, or even a type of veil or head dress? The love for which you may "never write justice" can go either way for me. I think of it as positive in some regards, but negative in others. The foreshadowing of the "grey", or the might taking away some of your light makes me feel that this is a negative reference. If so, it must be horrible, if you "may never write justice." That's why I am pausing. Good writing is never going to be easy or line up with everyone's life experiences. If I wanted everything easy I should go driving and read road signs. Your words pierce me still, ferried through canyons of time calling me home to the birth place of our unity unknowingly doomed. Yes, I am going to stick with negative. "Pierce" to me is not a good word. I think of it as being stabbed in the heart or eye. I like the "canyons of time calling me home to the birth place of our unity", that reads very well. "Unknowingly doomed" leaves me sad that things didn't turn out, but glad that it wasn't bad from the beginning. At least there was some happiness. Awe struck we were, bound by Rapture's ripe glory as the valley of radiant red-----------I like the "r" sounds here in "Rapture's, ripe, radiant and red" graciously adopted our love. Beautiful ending to this poem. I like the word "adopted." It's almost as if, even though the relationship was doomed, the love still lives somewhere in Sedona. I write my thoughts out for you in order to let you know how I'm thinking through this poem. That is the only way I can truly give you any suggestions. Well written and a thoughtful read. Best always, Troy	2005-05-01 21:53:45
Adda	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, Please go inside before I come and get you. LOL! First of all this poem picks up movement and intensity through it's progression. I see the wind starting in the morning. The morning puddles rippling, the sun rising. And it keeps building and building. Look at the descriptive words you use here. stubborn gale bending trees rippling Puddles twisting hair untamed force soaring sun scowling howls body shivers clutch their nests leaves Somersault The list goes on but, why restate it all. This poem is written to match the intensity of the storm. Great description! With all of your descriptors you create a rhythm. This is no accident. This is the violence of nature on paper. You use alliteration in "soaring sun", and "shivers". I like the image that even in the soaring sun you still shiver. Irony. You also use assonance in "scowling howls" as well as emphasis on sound of "b" in "blatant", "brooms", "brambles" and "bruised". Hey, all I'm trying to say is that you're working to maximize the impact of these lines in a poetic fashion, which, by the way, is excellent writing. =] "Horse inarticulate voices that ravish my mind." This is cool stuff right here. At first I thought you threw this in to trip up a mook like me, but knowing that you are not the accidental writer, I came to the conclusion that "horse voices" would be "inarticulate" and I keep hearing the sounds of panicked horses in a wind storm and it is troubling and makes sense that it "ravishes the mind". What a sound that makes your heart pump fast and want to help but can't. Brr. And "horse" works so well considering that this is a plains type of storm. Bravo! Wow. In the last stanza the sword metaphor is used brilliantly in how you support it with words like "thrust", "swarthy dust storm" (I imagine the dust storm like a pirate) "pommels" and stance "stance". Yes this dust storm is like a marauding pirate that you take a stance against, fight against, and still it "whips" on. Whipping the trees, birds, leaves, horses, dust and even the air itself. Now that is a storm! Marilyn I've never been in a storm like this and would have never imagined how powerful it was until you gave me this vivid description tonight. You must be a strong person to live in Wyoming, at least in Wisconsin we have trees to hide behind. LOL! Actually, when I lived on my parents farm I would run to the top of a hill behind the house and meet the oncoming thunder storm as it came across the valley. There is something so wild about that. I imagined the storm as an oncoming army! A cavalry charge. You could see it coming and hear the thunder. The thunderheads full of lightening. Then the wind would start and soon you would be pelted by the rain. It was remarkable. Fortunately I was too dumb to care if I got struck by lightening or not. LOL Another example of your fine writing. Take care, Troy	2005-05-01 21:17:24
The Problem With Angles	Mell W. Morris	Mell, I've been busy trying to catch up on critiques and after I read your post in the forum, I'm positively ashamed of myself for not commenting on this poem. Let's get something straight first so that there will be no misunderstandings between us as we start this journey. As a person who has basically walked out of the woods after ten years of building businesses, family and taking care of a few tragic events, there is nothing I can say to improve your writing or grammar. And my thoughts tend to appear disjointed and my leave you puzzled as to whether I should even be hanging around the site. LOL! Hopefully, I can make you smile once in awhile. I can't tell you how many times I read this poem just admiring how you get away with using some of the words you do without losing the flow or balance of the work itself. That gives me a clue as to how internalized rather than manufactured this work really is. Writing like this has to come from feeling, emotion and vision of experience. In other words, it's not a fake. LOL! Not that many poets fake a poem, but I've read a lot of poetry about really big or important moments that were born more out of fantasy than heart felt experience and observations. In this case you are writing in the first person. So you ask how could you fake a poem about yourself? Well, by not knowing yourself, or letting things like ego, agenda, denial etc... write the poem for you. It happens all the time. There is a huge disconnect going on in the world. Ok, I'm rambling again and stating the obvious, I only say these things because It's the first thing I look for in writing - honesty. This you have in your outlook of the world and self. Honesty: A+ HEHE! The second thing I look for, is if I can hear your voice. It's difficult and sometimes takes several reads before I think I can hear the poet reading the lines back to me. Sounds weird, but I know you know what I'm talking about. If you lay the words of a poem out in the pattern of a wheel horizontally, then run a line through it's center vertically, so the wheel itself is centered on the line. Now it looks like a top. Spin it. LOL! Magnificent! The poem swirls into your likeness and I see you writing the lines almost as I'm looking over your shoulder, but amazingly enough you feel the audience and say "yes I will read this to you. Please quit peeking and take a seat." LOL! Having done this so many times, I don't even think about it. Everybody does this in some form or other. Well, maybe not. LOL! Ok, so what the hell am I trying to say. Well, your voice is amazing in it's (I mean its) clarity. Voice: A+ Ok, so now that I can hear you in your sincerity, I look for balance. I won't expound, but you could take this poem and set it on a high wire without fear of falling. Balance: A+ I'm afraid that I'm starting to loose balance here and turning this into some sort of text book analysis of poetry for crazy self taught mooks like me. LOL! I've been learning from you though. Let's just get off the subject for awhile and share a poem that I've been reading. The visualizations for me are wonderful (you'll have to teach me a new word for wonderful). The poem is called, "First Rule" by Maurice Kenny. First Rule stones must form a circle first not a wall open so that it may expand to take in new grass and hills tall pines and a river expand as sun on weeds, an elm, robins; the prime importance is to circle stones where footsteps are erased by the winds assured old men and wolves sleep where children play games catch snow flakes if they wish; words cannot be spoken first as summer turns spring caterpillars into butterflies new stones will be found for the circle; it will ripple out a pool grown from the touch of a water-spider's wing; words cannot be spoken first that is the way to start with stones forming a wide circle marsh marigolds in bloom hawks hunting mice boys climbing hills to sit under the sun to dream of eagle wings and antelope words cannot be spoken first I've been reading an anthology of Native American poetry and this just jumped out at me. The poet stays so focused on images inclusive to that ever expanding circle. And "words cannot be spoken first". You must look not speak. I love it. And now that I'm vision is primed we must look at the first stanza of, "The Problem With Angles". We'll talk about the title later on. Note: I copy and paste so I can see what I'm doing, not just to fill space. LOL! I am a thin, defined woman with sharp edges and I know who I am and where I am going. Since there are starting parts to each life, I like to envision mine with a canny duende at the door You start in the first line with confidence in your description, "defined" and "sharp". It is such a strong intro that it automatically pulls me into the poem. It makes me sit up straighter. The voice is clear almost commanding of self. I love the self assurance of, "I know who I am and where I am going." Yes, you've got my attention and I know this poem is going somewhere. Let's see if you can back up the statement. Wow, we are going to start at life's door. You describe or envision yours with a "canny duende". I see you having a thoughtful, humorous charm and I smile. Now I go back in this stanza and hold this up as a transparency against your confidence and "sharp edges". This makes me smile for two reasons. One, you've balanced the strength of your intro with that canny charm and I don't continue reading thinking that it is possible that you're describing yourself as a bitch. I threw that in for shock value. LOL! Two, you set it up to transition fluently into the second stanza and pull it off still smiling, because you see me sitting here trying to pronounce "duende". LOL! Actually, it is a nice word. After I get my brain functioning again I will be able to run with you. I bet you're a hell of a scrabble player! and a smiling angel perched on a lampshade. God made me of Himself, another work of art like many found on common ground, in fens or pocosins, near grasslands, high and low lands, Transitioning smoothly into the second stanza I'm greeted by a "smiling angel". I've actually seen finials depicting angels, but I see this angel more as your guardian angel or welcoming angel. Don't be to hasty to meet your welcoming angel. LOL! You still have things to teach me and are over qualified. In the next two lines of this stanza you say "another work of art like many found on common ground." In some ways I think of this as meaning that the best people come from humble places, but I believe that you are saying that your experience is a shared experience found everywhere. This "common ground" experience, I believe, I've been looking at in the case of my parents and will remain happily in denial. or lone as a wife on a widow's walk, looking out to sea. God completes molding His last angel of the day and places her on the ledges near the nacreous gates. He tells her to play The first line of the third stanza chills me. It's just so sad. Wait a second. Are we opening the door to a new life in this poem. Just a minute. Are you starting the next life the way you want to be, without angles?. This angel the same angel in the beginning and in the end. This description of loneliness, because that is how it has to be? Opening the door back into life? I have to stop this. Just let me continue not knowing. I can think about things until I get loopy. Perhaps, that is why I've only published 4 poems in the last 4 years. God completes molding His last angel of the day and places her on the ledges near the nacreous gates. He tells her to play her harp for the one who knew she was coming here and whose halo fits squarely---------------------Amazing. You tie together angles and angels and yourself the synthesis of these two. The halo that fits squarely. Oh, Mell that is genius. Wow! This is the point when I start feeling that this poem is alive. Ok, Mell, one more try. Forget everything I was feeling or thought I knew. I just think this is amazing writing and expression. As you open the door to life, on that day you are welcomed by an angel that keeps you in the world. On the same day that you open life's door, God is casting the angel that will greet you as you come through death's door, the molding of this angel you meet in your new life takes a life time to make. The third angel, yourself, since you are made from a part of God, is described or related to people from everywhere, since the experience is not exclusive, only the experience of starting that new life. And that can be viewed as being lonely or like a dream, which is still done alone. You pull all of this off describing yourself and the experience of living and at the same time overlaying this poem with the timing of the creation and appearance of these angels. And not excluding yourself from this status, but telling us that the problem with angles is that the halo doesn't fit. Unbelievable! LOL! You said you had a canny charm about yourself- well there it is. I feel that I've completed my time with you this evening. This poem makes me feel better. I see you not opening doors right now, for you've opened so many, but sitting in a room of pure glass looking in every direction. Mell, you've given me something to think about for the rest of my life. I will never forget this poem. I can't. It's almost as if you've restated a fundamental truth for me. Thank you. Best, Always, Troy	2005-05-01 20:31:12
Plug Up	Dellena Rovito	Dellena, Are you telling me to build an ark? Is there some flood coming from the a plugged cosmic mop sink. I hope you don't take offense, I just think the image of that is kind of funny and ironic all at the same time. On a serious note I think of this as there being so much "filth" in this world today that the sink in essence has become plugged. Oh, wait, I have a bunch of coyotes outside howling. Not surprised, it's 1 am. It's pretty neat though. I know, I'm rambling and you don't like long rambling critiques. I just thought I would share that quickly. As I was saying. What if the hand that cleans the universe just got sick of our wars and exploitations of the world and set the mop down covering the drain where all of these things "need to go". As they keep pouring in the mop sink sooner or later it must overflow. All of the wickedness comes running down on us and away we go. How about that for a wild guess? It's actually what I feel is happening here. Well written free verse departing a serious wisdom told in a light hearted way. I like this poem. Best, Always, Troy p.s. What happened with the second chicken?	2005-05-01 00:23:03
The Thought Of You	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy, Hi again, it's good to back online after vacation and all the getting ready and getting caught up. It's also nice to read more of your poetry. I am going to make a suggestion though to try to protect my eyes in the future. The font is very hard for me to read as my resolution isn't the best on this monitor that needs replacing. It's very classy though, but for this reader proving difficult technically. Also, I will admit that I am partial to poems that are as loving as this one. The vacation I took was with my wife and we have created memories after many sunsets and sunrises. Both so intoxicatingly beautiful. "The Thought Of You" The title evokes a thought of remembrance in my mind immediately. It's been awhile since the last time that I thought of you. Let your image dance with me across my mind, The verb "dance" lends itself so well to thoughts. How often I forget and remember and forget and remember and then finally capture the thought in almost a dance fashion. Thinking is such a dance. For me this works very well. The fact that the thought dances across the mind suggests that it is evoking remembrances in the mind of the first person. Let's take a look. Let your image dance with me across my mind, waltzing in places where only we knew. These lines dance as the writer dances to places "where only we knew". I as a reader would like to see some of these places, I think it would bring more color to the dance and really reinforce the coming lines. I inhale your memory, take it up deep into my lungs and exhale there within your shadow. You refresh me; allow me to breathe in time as only you could These lines are wonderful. Bravo! So very romantic that they steal my heart and warms it to. My breath deep and deliberate, the rhythm of desire. It warms the whole; my spirit, my heart, my soul. I am pleased that I have loved you; thankful for the experience of you appreciative of what remains forever These lines are so confidant and assuring. Nice alliteration in "deep and deliberate" and rhythm in the repetition of the word "my". The lines read smoothly and wrap together well in this inhalation of such a delectable memory. So eternal in theme and thought. The ability to light my heart by your memory, so much so that I still glow in the thought of you. What a perfect ending to a well crafted poem. To "light" the heart with memory and bask in the glow that it makes you. Very nice and appreciated Nancy Best, Always, Troy	2005-04-30 22:30:49
Night	Helen C DOWNEY	Helen, You keep popping up on my list, in fact you are all over my list of poems to critque tonight. Oh, and I forgot to comment on the title to your poem "Moon Dancing". It works so well to blanket the poem in the night with the moon overhead. In fact the title initiates the dance much sooner than I originally thought. My mistake, please forgive me. Speaking of night. This poem, again is well crafted and romantic, in the sense that night is such a romantic time. [My favorite time is night... It is attentive and understanding...] This is so true. Night wraps us like silk and when you are in it, it is all around you. It erases the busy images of the day and waits to hear your thoughts and reflections. The perfect listener is night, no matter the temperature. [There's nothing quite as relaxing as it's gentle murmur... Of the rain in the midnight blackness, Or the rustling of the dry leaves And the crackling of the bare branches.] Here you bring back to me the memories of when I was younger and broke and sleeping on my parents screen porch. Just lying there listening to the rain fall and drip. I can't think of a more comforting way to fall asleep. And night sounds are great. The mystery of the "rustling" leaves and "crakling" of branches. Neat. [Besides the stillness, Stars still twinkle above.] You move from sound to "stillness", the stillness of the stars. The night sky’s chandelier. You use the sounds of "s" in this transition very well..."blackness, leaves, branches, besides, stillness, stars, still". Nice alliteration. [And the loneliness persists. You're not here... But I still have the night before.] A persistent loneliness. The missing of another. The last line is brilliant in its logic. "I still have the night before." Bravo! A perfect ending and a testimony to well crafted poetry. Again, best, Troy	2005-04-30 21:58:40
Moon Dancing	Helen C DOWNEY	Hi Helen, I don't believe that I've read or commented on any of your poetry. This is a beautiful poem and after just returning from a very romantic vacation with my beloved, poetry such as this catches my eye. What an invitation. The "hunger", the "sweetness", the "wine tinted lips" - intoxicating. The idea of this love feast between two so giving and receiving is utterly romantic. To "devour the moments" of a gentle time of love. Excellent support of the metaphor. The dance after the dinner, so to speak. So light, as wind, in the wind. The closeness before the "thunder" that strikes when all the emotions are aligned perfectly for this most deep sharing experience. When "love over flows". When it can no longer be contained so great it is. And you end the poem perfectly with both the reflection of the love and the confirmation of love. Very nice. Very beautiful, honest, heartfelt writing. I am partial to poems such as these and rarely miss the opportunity to support them with positive feedback. A friend once asked why I enjoyed love poems and I told him that in today's world we have to appreciate love where we can find it. You have my applause! Well met, Troy	2005-04-30 21:33:40
The Times	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, I been reviewing all night and came across another of your poems on my list. Wow, more great, sharp, thoughtful writing. The title, "The Times" when set against the unborn, makes me think of "these times" and I find myself agreeing with a lot of what you are saying in this poem. At least what it speaks to me. It's funny how different responses can be to the same poem. I love the idea of sleeping and waiting to be born into just the right time for you. Why come into a world that lacks the passion of decision making it used to have before a bunch of crooked politicians took over? Why come into a world where achievement is not seen in the quality of a person's ability to think and reason, but in their ability to hit a golf ball? Why come into a world that cares more about American Idol than the elderly standing in line to get basic services they need to survive and keep themselves from the death spiral. The insurance companies use that term, based on age income to describe the probability of one's life expectancy. They call it the "death spiral". Why come into a world of death spirals? You use alliteration and assonance so well in your writing, my favorite being, "hollow hounds that pound mute sounds". Great auditory effect here. I especially like "tin tides", to me I see a sea of vehicles. The following lines, wow! "romance times raging- revolutionary raw, ripe and ready to revive our insides," this is great crafted writing! Sleep now sweet child unborn unexecuted- wake in Tomorrow’s time Your time to live free wide-eyed and in wonder of what is and will be. This stanza makes me want "Tomorrow's time", yet I feel an underlining irony in "to live free", based on what that is becoming to mean, to me, in this world that includes "death spirals". I am ever optimistic that "Tomorrow's time" will come however. I apologize for jumping back and forth, but I kept seeing things that I liked and wanted you to know that I appreciated your writing. I think you direct style is wonderful and doesn't waste words. I like free verse. I think it's less like a crossword puzzel in its possibilities. You writing is very good and I enjoy reading it. Thanks again, Troy	2005-04-30 19:51:00
Half	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, Wow! This is excellent! What a powerful statement! I've been married for eleven years and can't imagine getting a divorce. It would destroy me "after giving my all". Half is not enough! Who can give us back the time and the emotions spent? I see people I know getting married and divorced and I can't imagine the economic scars, spiritual scars, family scars (both immediate and extended) and the emotional scars. It's so not about "half". If you have nothing left of that life, what is "half" or "half" of nothing? I'm pretty sure I might take my life if my wife left me. Thank God she is on every level the most beautiful person I know. This is really good, and shows the world your wisdom. Thanks again Latorial, for another great poem, Troy	2005-04-30 19:20:57
Hanging Tree	John Dean	John, Loving a woman can sure get a guy in trouble. You told me once that you were a song writer and now I see why. This tale sung to music is simple yet moving in it's description of such an unfortunate event. As a song writer you only have so much time, at least for this genre of music or type, to deliver as much story as you can and keep your audience. First your setting is perfect for a hanging. The lightening and thunder and storm foreshadow this event. You write this so well I can feel myself standing in the torchlight watching. Brrr. The love interest is stated just enough to give us a mental picture of what happened. It's not overdone like a lot of songs tend to be. You bring focus to the tree and the rope. It does beckon. And the men curse him before the hang him. The then you bring in lightness with the angel to offset the occurrence and balance the poem. I like the fact that you write "twenty men" instead of saying "the men". It's more descriptive, perhaps symbolic of something, but most importantly it lets us know that this man has no chance of escape. And the chorus is a marvelous redemption, describing the individual in spirit with the spirit of his love. The twenty men gone never to disturb this perfect sense of heaven again. I think you accomplish everything timely, musically and poetically. Great read and song, I hope you sell it, publish or produce it. Best always, Troy	2005-04-30 19:04:48
A Life Borrowed (adult content)	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, Hi, my name is Troy, you critiqued one of my poems so I'm trying to give you some feedback on some of yours. I see you've been busy this month. First of all this remarkable writing and expression that wastes no words in it's description of what to me is a horrible and abusive relationship that shows the female persona as little more than a sex object and the recipient of both mental and physical abuse. The first stanza wastes no words, cutting to the point. "lies slipped in the milk," Makes me think that from birth some of the things that we grew up believing are not so or don't turn out to be how we expect them to be. I really like the line when I think of it like this. "dictated by commanding ego demanding my silence ass tits and tears." This is just so sad and unfair and unloving that it blows me away. "ass - tits - tears" creates a rythem and when I put it perspective of the stanza taken as a whole it delivers a stunning blow. Again excellent writing. In the second stanza I become aware that this is a situation of remembrance where "searing imagery festers" filled with "fierce glares and forced compliance". Your strong word choices really drive the poem. "the maggots have taken you their prisoner and the earth consumes your lack of humanity," These lines are incredible and serve some "poetic justice", at least in my mind. "I lie hear awake Breathe heavy and stir knowing dreams are never safe or secure." Even after the resolution of the relationship, if you can call it that, one still can not feel secure. Audrey, you waste no words in making your point. This is good and troubling writing. I love my wife dearly and a poem such of this makes me both angry and sad. I can't imagine that this was easy for you to write. I hope that this is not a comment on something that has happened or is happening in your own life. Best Always, Troy	2005-04-30 17:56:11
About Love	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, I was just cruising around the link looking for pick up lines for my friend Mike and thought I'd give this a try. eyes meet your fur top on your beautiful black boots my heart topples camouflaged by your loving Ok, that was really bad. I think that love lends itself well to trying anything new. I mean, what a great subject. I think the syllable structure of this form of writing forces a certain directness at the beginning and in the end. Your words: eyes meet a smile lights up my heart skips a beat at the sight of love Well, maybe, but don't you think that the structure forces you to get into the poem quickly, allowing you a brief rest during the 6 and 8 syllable lines, then bang, you have to end it with two syllables. It's very artful and disciplined. Unlike me. LOL! Actually, this is a very effective communication, way to pass memorable events, etc. Good for you to try and succeed on your first attempt. It's always a pleasure talking with you. I wish we had a chat room where we could play around with structure in real time. I know that the forum is great for that, but when I have time, nobody is around and you can't address the questions in the now. Maybe we do have a live chat page and I don't know it. Perhaps, I should use ICQ or Yahoo messenger. I better go to work. Now! LOL! Again, a pleasure, Troy	2005-04-24 11:15:24
A Bird in a Pear Tree	Dellena Rovito	Dellena, First of all, how are you doing? It's been awhile since we talked. I noticed last month that you posted a poem and took it back off the list, or at least it disappeared from mine. I just didn't get to it in time, I guess. If I remember, it was pretty straight forward and a little painful? Secondly, the vacation was a success. I was so tired when I got home I took a 13 hour nap. LOL! Thanks for the advice BTW. I will try to post a trip report in the forum. Ok, I got a hot tip on this poem last night in the forum so I had to come and see for myself this proud rooster in the tree. Now, please don't laugh at me, but I think this is so romantic. In fact, I think it's one of the most romantic and humorous poems I've read in a long while. How like the male is this rooster, running "hell bent for election", crowing as he goes. And the woman symbolized by the pear tree, fertile and embracing. Just humor me in this line of thought a little longer. This rooster can't be caught, but he will remain until he goes away, if he's not chased. The ironic thing is that he, if I've read this correctly, is resting in the tree and is in a sense already "captured". What a great relationship this rooster and pear tree have. It's almost a mutual understanding of what they are in this poem. This poem is well written, full of movement, a sense of humor, romance and love (at least for me) and ends with the unanswered question of "how long will this rooster stay in the tree". Ok, ok, now that I've read way to much into this, let me tell you that those big red roosters can be kind of nasty. When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time on the farm, my grandfather had a red rooster that didn't like me very much and would jump me at the slightest provocation. LOL. Like, if I came anywhere near him, he was immediately offended. Eventually he was turned into soup. The Polish roosters, the ones with the big feathered heads, never gave me any problems, but then I'm part Polish, go figure. I really enjoyed this slice of life. It was perfect for this windy, cold Wisconsin morning. I hope the rooster is still hanging out in your pear tree, but don't turn your back on him. Have a great day, Troy	2005-04-24 09:49:04
Light	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, This is so nice, so beautiful. Just listen to yourself! How soft is the morning sun on the eve of a beautiful day. Softer than the smell of tea and the first touch of the lips to the hot cup? Softer than the sound of the humming birds making their early rounds to the feeder outside of my window in the flower beds. I think so. High noon sun! As high and bold as the tops of the mountains! And the twilight. What a perfect day of light. Written so well. Check out how you use the "t" sound in this poem. The hard sound of "light, twilight and sight" and the soft "t" in "soft and tops". And look at all of those "s" sounds "so, soft, sun, lucent, tops, stunning and sight". A very poetic visual showcase! I just got back from vacation. I might add I was thinking about you in your fur bikini when we landed in OR. LOL! We had a great time. When I get caught up I'm going to post a trip report in the forum. It's good to hear your voice again! Troy	2005-04-23 22:48:26
Yearning	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I just got in a few minutes ago from cutting wood and raking and burning up leaves. I made a few posts in the forum, checked out the standings -- congratulations (wink and a smile), and now I’m sitting down and sipping my favorite drink--a mason jar of ice, freshly squeezed lemons and water (no sugar). I call it a "skull buster", a term I picked up from a classic I read years ago. Anyhow, enough of that. I picked this poem tonight, because of your use of color. I guess I can't remember you using a lot of color in your poems, except for that one where your daughter colors her hair green. LOL If Zoe comes home with pink or green hair, her and Papa are gonna have a talk. Probably not, she owns me. LOL! Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about or even trying to say, but the "ashen stones, brown branches and orange coals", work perfectly with the "phantom flowers". You show us color and then take it away creating-what? I don't know. Just a feeling of a different "note". It's good for me anyway. But yes I like the color. I also like the way you wrap the lines into the next almost creating new words and more energy. And I love the poem. And then it starts working into me and I start to live in it and then oh hell, that's why I read. LOL I have to tell you that I can barely keep myself from falling into a state of free association to try to get out what I am saying when I read your poetry. It's so frustrating to sit here and try to write with definition and structure. No it's just wrong. Yearning In December as I clamber steps ricochet off ashen stones I crawl through timber’s bent brown branches find these crisscross trails once more hoist frosted boughs my arms enclose puff cold kindling to orange coals burning embers warm my fingers now I ache for phantom flowers Yearning leaning forward moving toward a direction of want or need unfulfilled unsatisfied work to find or have or feel where in December I hear the clamber off stones cold stones cold gray stones the color of ash how I would love to hold them against my cheeks to make me yearn for that which I'm seeking more in life in the moment in the now show the reader my yearning let the reader hear my steps off stones bending to crawl into and under the bent branches bent like me yearning like me yearning for warmth and high sunshine as in life and always the trails crisscross back with my boughs arms enclosed around yearning working struggling for what puff cold kindling to orange coals fire yearning for fire inner warmth life bringing life to life very maternal individual feeling pragmatic or alone against the challenge of December or winter what a lovely scene warming fingers by orange coals color flares before my eyes like the fire and thoughts of phantom flowers no color and not possible in December yearning feeling of goosebumps replaced no warm yearning words wrap into words take me with them line after line yearning for the poem to continue who do you know who wants to leave a fire sad Ok, I'll stop right there, because if I don't I won't come back, and there is so much more to say. The images are still blending inside. Goodnight, Silly Bean Troy	2005-04-08 00:53:53
An Escher Life	hello haveaniceday	Barbara, Don't accuse me of writing the world's best critique. And of punctuation, I add my own in as I read your words, so I'm afraid I can't help you there. You're probably wondering by now if I'm good for anything. LOL! Well in all honesty, I read for content and how well my interpretation of that content is communicated. I say "my interpretation", because I will never truly know what you were thinking at the time you wrote this poem; however, I hope to come close enough to celebrate your writing with you. First of all when I glanced at the title of this poem on the list I was reminded of the painting you allude to in the poem. Let me be one of many who will say that you couldn't have picked a better image or metaphor to title this poem in. I think we all get trapped or feel trapped in this image at times. I try not to stay there too long, or perhaps I'm always standing at the bottom of a new stair that leads me to another? You never really know. It helps to smile a lot, though, the path may be difficult and usually the wrong one. When temper's lost its steely fight, and sadness' yet to sink its biting grip, only a strobe-lit moment in between what was, and changes in the wings. In this first stanza you place me between anger and sadness comparing it to a the space between a strobe lit moment. That works well. For, you, just like a strobe flash, have but a quick moment to consider what was before the "changes in the wings". Yes, this works and is fresh. Consciously or unconsciously you associate really well. And how well you place emphasis on the "s" sound in this stanza and how well that sound works for the ear. "S" appears eleven times and serves to add a certain fluid feeling to the beginning of this reading. I also think "steely fight" works well with "biting grip". OK it's time for me to stop using the word "well". LOL Pardon me as I indulge in a laugh at self. For some that moment goes for years spent straddling a multitude of fearsome choices, weighing without measure, taking breath and solace from mere pressure. I feel a sadness in this second stanza, a feeling of panic and helplessness that comes from always searching for the right answer. I see the person having lived this moment repeatedly so often as to take "breath and solace from mere pressure". Others leap to grasp the closest shore of rocks, thinking of strength, a solid floor to regain balance, but below the shifting sand belies again new tremors in the land. The first line of this second stanza reminds me of the people or person who is always "right" in life. "Strength" can be such an illusion or lack permanency or be simply unfounded. To me, you do a great job of symbolizing this here. That flash of truth is wary news to some one's love will darken others' sunny days... so tangled and enmeshed this Escher life, where trudging any stair will lead to strife. I like the idea that the "flash of truth" is "one's love", while it darkens "others' sunny days". You reinforce the irony of this in the last two lines. Excellent writing! Most think this inner tragedy well hid with smiles and bodies dressed just so to bid the world a safe illusion, wrong - we see who are the singers of this song. How right you are. I'm working on a poem called "The Plastic Rose" that attempts to highlight the fact that many live in a pseudo glamour world that lacks the love and sensitivity they attempt to portrait with their bouquet of plastic roses. To quote you one last time, "we see who are the singers of this song." Barbara, I think that this poem shows intelligence, creativity, sensitivity, as well as balance and a great use of poetic device. The rhyme used is hardly noticeable, working "well" to move the stanzas, rather than distract from them, as it should. Again, as for punctuation, I just don't know, I didn't see any problems with the line breaks though. Overall, excellent writing. Best, Troy p.s. Thanks for being patient with my sense of humor=)	2005-04-05 22:18:03
Judging By the Cover	Mell W. Morris	Mell, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to stop by and say hi. This poem is so well penned with such a clear voice that is serious and smiling at the same time, I couldn't resist the urge to say something. This comment I usually only use to impress Brenda with the depth of my response, but throwing caution to the wind, without spilling my water glass on the keyboard, I must say, "you are so cool!" LOL Sorry, I just thought I'd give you fair warning that you are reading the words of an emotional rather than an intellectual. HEHE! I will try to respond now to your writing and keep my roguish humor in check (by the way, I really do hear your voice smile=). And now on to the title. Judging By the Cover This of course directly relates to clothing or the lack there of described in your poem, but it also raises the questions, "is there some sort of correlation between the clothes and the writer?" or, more importantly, "what lies beneath the cover?" Also "cover" can be thought of as the cover of a book of writing. I just like the title, it's clever in it's possibilities. I find it interesting in which clothes writers chose to wear when they put pen to paper, transforming ideas to words. It is fascinating which clothes people choose to wear. Hey we all have our favorites. I only wear one type of blue jeans. Yes, I know, I'm unrefined, but I have a good heart. I actually save certain items of clothing and "retire" them to my closet. I still have the shirt that I met my wife in. My favorite sweat shirt that I built my house in. Ah...I wish they still fit. LOL I also view your reference to clothes here as a reference to the writer's voice or their emotional state. Don't you find the whole wide of reality analogous and full of multiple meanings? I think you do, but then I thought you were an Eskimo after I read one of your poems. Enjoying scandals or sandals, Norman Mailer refused to shed his old, common- man threads. For a formal, important event, perhaps as recipient of some grand award, he wore tee shirt and baseball cap. A few might find this And I just think that's great. Was he saying that the clothes didn't make the poet or exactly the opposite? Was he just being honest? topic unsuitable for William Blake since he was often seen in the nude in his garden, pen and notebook at hand. In a fit of originality, he called his green retreat "Eden". Writing unclad could mean a free spirit, in touch Yes, well, writing in the nude. Oh, how I do remember an experience, let me describe the event while remaining clothed. I once was of the state of mind that I was going to go unclothed for a day, at least in the house. So with the good intent of cooking a lunch and reading a book, I set out to accomplish this very "in touch" task. With lunch on the table I went to attend to some music, turning back I could see quite clearly that my chocolate lab, Sunshine, was helping herself to my tuna sandwich and chips. I let out a loud yell and chased her through the house, balls out and slapping, and through the door only to meet the lady who reads the gas meter. For a second I thought she was going to pepper spray me, as meter readers often carry those sinister little metallic tubes of eye burning agony, unfortunately she was the one who got the eye full. I shut the door quickly with a blink not a wink and a quick smile and left her laughing all the way back to town to tell her friends. There's just nothing you can say in a situation like that. LOL! All I have to say is, "free spirit my ass", no pun intended. God bless the nude poets and worshipers of the sun, but count me out. with his inner child, "Piping Down the Valleys Wild". Plath wore an apron after she wed Ted and life was exciting but Kitchen mitts on her hands precluded further writing. Good writers may appear any time, not by creed nor couture bound. "Kitchen mitts on her hands", that's a great way to say it Mell. I just like that a lot. Clothes make the man some say but for me it's all about the sound they bring. Poe with bells and tinnitus, Hopkins with his shook foil and the spoils of Heaney's poetry...going down, down digging, digging, no matter their rigging. But oh, how they sing! What a perfect ending. There's so much more to talk about and celebrate about your writing here. Your words, so carefully chosen, build lines that wrap themselves together-fluidly, thus, raising stanzas that transition with a smooth rhythm to complete the whole of the poem. All this said, I'm better for the experience and left wanting more. Thanks Mell and goodnight, Troy	2005-03-30 00:59:40
Whirlwinds and Tornados	Kenneth R. Patton	Kenneth, I'm not laughing at you right now, but I'm laughing at me. My house seems to have the same problems as your own, but I prefer your metaphor over anything else I've read describing the emotional roller coaster ride I take through life's park each day. My emotions run the gamut From playful whirlwinds that ruffle my hair and steal my hat To horrendous tornadoes that seize me with a deafening roar and hurl me about Laughing as they careen off leaving me for dead My day was going fine today and then I almost had to fire somebody. It started as a whirlwind and ended as a tornado. The funny thing is that after I was ready to "do what had to be done", I found out that the circumstances on which I was going to fire this employee were completely wrong and it was my wife's fault. LOL The supper table was hopping tonight. Regarding your poem, the whirlwind transition to tornado is so accurate in symbolizing how fast the state of one's emotion can change. All I'm trying to say is that those winds blew both ways for me today. LOL After the wind ride I felt drained and left "for dead". Unfortunately for me The window is either open or closed The door locked or off its hinges I have no screen or storm cellar I just take my chances I like how you couple the whirlwind metaphor with the metaphor of the home keeping everything personal symbolically. It works well together. A natural progression of thought. This stanza just cracks me up though. I got to tell you, the last line, "I just take my chances" tops it. It's really how I feel most days. Still, it beats the alternative Of course, the alternative is boring and lacks emotion. I wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks for taking the time to write this Kenneth, it provided me an opportunity to laugh at myself. Maybe I will take your poem to work and put it under the glass on my desk. I imagine you are an expert kite flier, lol! Goodnight, Troy	2005-03-29 23:26:06
The Vow	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, I've always try to write my honest impressions, especially when responding to your poetry. Well my first impression is that this is beautiful, both visually and in it's intent. I just like it. LOL Boy I'm really being "deep" here. LOL Can't help it. Let's look a little deeper, though, at the risk of being completely wrong, but pulling back so as not to get to close to such a personal work. In order to do that I will think of my wife as having written this about me, even though the possibilities are endless in terms of how this relationship could be viewed. Your title, "The Vow", brings to my mind a life long commitment between husband and wife. Something that is viewed sacred by both parties. This could also refer to many different things, but the point I guess I'm trying to make is that you chose this word, because of it's connotations regarding serious commitment. Missing him won't explain away this craving for syncopation his heartbeats in me Isn't neat to love somebody so much that the state of remembrance, brought about by their absence, is not enough to sate that longing to be again close to them. You state this eloquently. You just need to be with that person forever. I see this as reflecting back to title. the common denominator of twice my likeness absent from my flesh alive in my spirit My wife and I are so close in our relationship that I take the meaning of this stanza literally. Whether we are separated or not, I can feel a spiritual connection to her. I could almost tell you what she ordered for lunch halfway around the world. LOL longing won't bring him back to me now so I spread these wings realizing the vow The spreading of the wings shows movement and freedom, but the vow is still realized and kept. Personally, I didn't need the last line of this stanza, as it goes without saying, but poetically it works well. Beautiful exact writing. Thank you Latorial, Troy	2005-03-29 23:02:12
The Sea and Me	marilyn terwilleger	What about me? Can I come please! This poem is so alive, so full of gusto and movement. I can feel the sway and the spray, hear the gulls and rest in the peacefulness as well. I know, if you take me for a ride in your boat I could catch fish for supper and swab the decks when the bite was slow. I could stand at the bow and yell "land ho!" But this isn't about the sea is it? That’s why I have to stay home on this. My interpretation of your poem here is that you are using this seascape as a metaphor for life and everything laid out so perfectly in these three line stanzas symbolizes that for you. Perhaps this is a combination of both? It's ok, I'm not prying or out to solve all the mysteries of the poetic mind here, just spend some time with you, that's all. The Sea and Me I see the title as directly relating to life. The sea serves so well as a metaphor for this because it represents an adventure and it's deep and mysterious and emotional and beautiful and...and we can "feel the breath of sunshine breeze." Life is beautiful and full of sunshine. It is also full of "tumbling waves". You capture this so well in your poem and what's more you respond to it with an attitude of "fascination" willing to meet the challenges and accept it's beauties. Bravo! I'm flying to out to Oregon in 3 weeks and am going to drive the Pacific Coast Highway to Long Beach taking in Redwood National Park, California's northern coast, Big Sur, Santa Barbra and a few drinks in Long Beach before I fly back to Wisconsin. Can't wait. I will think of your poem both literally and symbolically on the way. Thanks for the images Marilyn, Troy	2005-03-29 22:33:44
A Walk in the Woods Before Winter	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, It's a hard time for me right now. Julie, my wife, has the flu. She's hurting, and unfortunately I can't share the pain, but I can hold her until I must go. Oops, what am I saying, I'm the "boss", I don't have to go anywhere. LOL! In fact, tomorrow I might call myself and say I'm not coming in. HEHE! I don't often miss work, by the way! She's sleeping now. I've given the kids their bath, cooked supper, taken care our chocolate lab (my daughter Zoe named her sunshine) lol. I remember my grandfather and I used to drive by the church on Sunday and he'd look over at me and wink, saying, "the good go to church and the bad have to work". LOL I work in all conditions and all climates, when I tell my employees that I think they are intimidated. So be it. It's better to wear out than rust out. I'm feeling disjointed. BTW I'm still wandering around in the year 2000. It's tough to find a lift to the present, but that's ok. Somehow I feel more eternal this way, even though I'm bad. LOL Anyway, I picked this poem to talk about tonight. This is a cold scene. I'm imagining the rocks, cold and huddled close together or, perhaps, spread out and really freezing. I feel the wind burning your cheeks cold as the kiss of the dead man. I don't like the line, personally, and it feels reached for in some ways, but that's just me. The brushwood saluting after the dead man's kisses is to light hearted to work together, even if it is a military reference....Drinking in the creek would be better if you tied it to the cold of your experience. Hey! Don't think I'm being harsh here. I'm just tying to show you that you are trying to write poetry here rather than write poetry. You know the difference. You are being honest, but you are not quite being honest. It's kind of funny to see you do this knowing how smart you are. LOL Now, have I picked on you enough. You can pick on me anytime. But then...but then you quit acting like the virgin on the late night date and your voice appears, your intent appears, your strength comes forward---you appear. I like this for the irony and contrast of you. This is what I'm reading for: "I want to photograph you with my soul." That line is so good Joanne. I'm attracted to powerful lines, I must admit, half the time I have to tone down my writing to get anyone to read it. LOL It's so fun spending time with you. Yes, "I want to photograph you with my soul." What a universal, unlimited, perfect line. Drink it in. Root into the cold wind, stand against the dead man, gather the rocks to your bosom, feel the cold, assimilate it, take the hand of the reaching branches and raise them up to face the agony of winter, let the creek run through you, grow with the cold black water, it's all in you and you've tattooed it to your soul in that cold crystal clear moment of memory, of writing this poem, let the wind blow around you, through you, streaming deeper still with the stream washing you, knowing you, and you hold the world around you and breathe in the next step you take on your walk in the woods before winter. Beautiful! Just think, I could be watching a reality t.v. show right now where a man has to run through a swamp infested with alligators, or somebody is trying to be the next American Idol seeking the security of a million insecure faces beaming their desire to be the next American Idol, but no, I lay frozen to the ground before the coming of winter watching you rise above it all tearing the fabric of my world apart with your writing. Ah...That's just fine with me. Goodnight Silly Bean, Troy No, that's not quite right, Goodnight... No, I still like Silly Bean, Stay warm, Troy	2005-03-23 22:00:14
Dancing Flowers, Eggplant's Dirge	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, It's been awhile since we last talked and I've started to miss you. LOL I can't help it. So I decided to go back in time and comment on a few of your poems. It's interesting to look at your writing past and present and feel for the changes good or bad. Most times the person doesn't change, but the cosmetics of their writing does. Meaning they learn how to state something in different ways. This can be more "poetic" or just distracting. It really depends. When a person first starts writing some the best pages or poems they will ever write are right in front of their eyes. Their true intent. Their most honest expression. And sometimes you only see glimpses of what's to come. Now, perhaps you ask yourself why I care? Why did I travel back to October of 2000 to read your poem? Why would anyone take the time to look for clues into another’s writing unless they're doing a thesis on somebody who is famous by publication? The answer is simple. I've worked 29 of the last 30 days and I'm bored to tears with solving and satisfying the selfish human questions that are thrown at me everyday. I want to actually learn something. Not that I'm prying into your personal life. I want to learn more about heart felt expression. It's important to me as I consider it an eternal language. I see it as the bridge to forever in this moment not forgetting. I crystallize my self in this and it protects me from the mundane and bizarre dogma I wade through daily. It recharges me. It's my armor. And by the way, if one has any ability at all to feel another's writing they don't have to run to next great "writing" seminar, they just need to be sensitive to their self and the person or people that are right in front of them. It's analogous. Let your very being sing out and project you both through your silence and words. Wrap yourself in this and never be sad or afraid as this gift you give to yourself will keep you through all pain and carry you through and beyond existence. If some of the people I deal with would just stop and listen to the line in this poem "I smile my name", how my life would improve. I also think that you've drawn me into your poetry, something, perhaps the stars, lined us up for a time. It's no coincidence, but that's no matter. I intend to make the best of our time. Let's move on. "I smile my name", did you understand the implications of that when you wrote it or did it just appear? Was it as if you reached for it and it was waiting to be written? It has the feel and power of the language and expression that you referred to in the last critique you wrote for me. So simple sounding but complex and powerful. Beautiful. And hugging that line close the little bug scuttles back under the refrigerator no longer praying for salvation, but living it. LOL I do love the farmers market. Goodnight Silly Bean, Troy p.s. If you need me I’ll be wandering around in the year 2000, just leave a message. LOL	2005-03-22 00:10:38
Alignment Cues	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, It's been awhile since we last talked. It's good to see your writing again, even if it scares me just a little. I'm glad I don't have a gun in the house. LOL! First of all, as a reader, because I still don't understand what a "critique" is, I want to support your writing with my first impressions; the most honest feelings I can give back to you before I start "intellectualizing", another word that I'm not sure I like. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I want to try to write my first impressions of your poem before my consciousness took over. Try to hear my voice and be patient with the broken thoughts and run on sentences. Thanks=) Alignment Cues The title makes me think of putting a piece of furniture together, a roll top desk for example that has small pins that fit the top to the bottom; how an archer stands with his feet and shoulder parallel to the target; how I shovel snow lining up the end of the shovel just right. "Alignment Cues" brings the image of a pool stick to mind and the holding of it just right. Latorial must be aligning something here. Bringing something into focus. Showing something that brings something into focus. --for too many dead poets-- Latorial dedicates this to dead poets? What does that mean? Is this hinting at natural death or something more tragic like self assisted slayings of the I. I remember two of my friends who shot themselves 6 months apart. It was a bad year. One of them was a poet. I think of Virginia Wolf, Hemingway and Jack London. I don't know where this is going. What are we aligning too? I read on. I listen and my ears ring to a silence so noisy that my inner child can't even dream of places she will go people she'll never know or the best sex a woman ever had Listening but can't hear. All is silent, so silent that I can't even dream, the silence is overpowering. What can this mean? Contentment? No, I think not. It feels lonely, profoundly lonely. To not be able to visualize the places unseen, or people unknown, or best sex to be had or dreamt of. Perhaps the first person voice can't see beyond the time present? Perhaps it's a comment on a state of mind of somebody else. Yes, perhaps this is commenting on the state a person reaches after life does something to them or they lose something or they are just tired? I don't know. I read on. They call it crazy so don't go bringing any guns home for safety or sanity because some days I'm not afraid to die "Crazy" This is a state of craziness. So crazy that guns no longer intimidate, because there is no fear of death. There is nothing to live for so why should the narrator or the person the narrator is commenting on or the state of mind the narrator is commenting on be afraid? There is no safety from the insane? But what does this have to do with poets? What are poets? I see poets as people who look hard at life. Who observe everything to the point of, of what, of burning out. Is this poem about poets who have focused so much on life that they've in some way burned out their own? I don't know. And what of the title. What are the cues to align to? Is it the cues to align to or the lack there of? I don't know. Latorial, I'm not sure I can be exact about my thoughts concerning this poem, but it does make me think. It's always a pleasure to read your writing, because you do it so well. Best, Troy p.s. Sometimes you call me Tony, but you can call me Troy. LOL! Take care and thanks for being understanding to my somewhat unorthodox approach to this poem.	2005-03-20 20:24:06
That Time	Regis L Chapman	Regis, This read left me in a state of introspection. I gather from your additional notes that you are changing some of the things about you or your state of mind that you don't care for. It sounds like you are succeeding and I'm happy for your accomplishment. Bravo. I applaud anyone who improves their state of being through meditative reflection and careful decision making. On to your poem. it's just time... remember? My Time Yes, it is Your Time, as it is My Time as I write this, or shall we say, it is Our Time. From the capitalization of "My Time" I get the feeling that it is your time for something, and from the rest of the poem this means- a time for change. letting go, this is the time to stop struggling I see you trying to "let go", in effect to "stop struggling" against self. events are lining up again coincidence an old friend long ignored for what it is a guide that has caught me up here we go again the chance has arrived again lessons I caused I like these lines a lot and "coincidence" is no "coincidence", it seems to me you are saying that you have been in this position before. Perhaps, not in the position of change, but in the position of doing things that you are seeking to change: "lessons I caused". we stand looking at each other everything is a mirror again lessons becaused and be damned if I haven't been running from my self for so long pride has caught me up again I have schooled myself with an endurance of avoidance and lies a deception that was once far stronger a preponderous endurance of lessons will serve a different purpose now... Our Time Yes, this is a condition of your own making and is a repetition of behavior. I derive this from "everything is a mirror again"...."running from self"....."schooled myself with an endurance of avoidance and lies" I like this line a lot, "a perponderous endurance of lessons will serve a different purpose now...Our Time". I see in this you using the energy of the past to join self with that past creating the "Our Time". That is very powerful. Remember? "The Five Colors Blind The Eye The Five Tones Deafen The Ear The Five Tastes Dull The Tongue" So true! So true! I set aside my skin, my tongue, my ears, my eyes the reflections aren't in charge any longer------------great description of becoming unencumbered! serve the servant a tin plate of justice youmewe, just it- so be the lines are growing in size as I type and the needs I have shrink----------------------------realizing that what we need is not that great to less stop fighting skins are falling off at last chips on my shoulder what a brain, I think leave it lay in the corner of a room remember the lessons, then catch up with your pride close the door none the less and the I.... so long sought, when across these lives has arrived---------------------------------------------Wow! Talk about reinventing self or abolishing it! These lines are wonderful in how they visually show change. So, to Be a God, blessed it's odd but nice Awesome resolution to change. To be your own God, how confident is that. To be in that state. "it's odd but nice" LOL That's just great!! it's just time... Remember That Time? timeless A perfect ending for this poem that's not really an ending at all as it is "timeless". Thank you for your honest writing, what a powerful experience. I will remember Our Time, Troy	2005-03-18 03:22:24
PROMISES	Edwin John Krizek	Edwin, Such beautiful free flowing writing full of communicable beauty and the feeling of life. I don't know how else to say it. I have to work slowly through this just to pick up the sound of your voice and appreciate the emphasis of the lines. Calm seas, calm skies. Wind blows from the south. Spring will come tomorrow. I am sure. The repetition of "calm" kind of sets a cadence for the poem in it's short line free form. These four lines work well together to further establish that rhythm. God, how I long for spring. We're gonna get 12 inches of snow tomorrow. I wish I could be "sure" it's ever going to come. Promise me this… Happiness floats like sea gulls in the ocean air. You can fly in your dreams. You can dream when you sleep. I really like the sound of "You can fly in your dreams. You can dream when you sleep." That's gorgeous. It's amazing that you can sleep, dream and fly all at once. I really like the way you turned this phrase. Promise me this… Find peace when you sleep- the peace that poets seek- the final knowledge that life is good. How true is that. I wake up every day telling myself life is good. I even saw that on a hat the other day when I was hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. Maybe, somebody is getting the message. Promise me this… The world has a chance to be right. The mountains are right. The sunlight is right. The moon rises full tomorrow. If night comes without her it promises only darkness. Yes if only life could be as simple and right as the sunlight or mountains, but beautiful in it's complexity. I see the moon without night as a warning for not keeping or accepting these promises. If we don't believe that life is good, we will never sleep peaceful and fly in our dreams, nor will we seek the truth of that same said goodness in life and give the world a chance. I like the repetition of "Promise me this", it works without becoming demanding. Great read, great vision, I enjoyed reading this Edwin and look forward to more of your writing in the future, Troy	2005-03-18 02:02:50
Damn	John Dean	John, Damn fine writing. I'm just getting the critique machinery out of the barn so to speak. Noticing this poem earlier in the month (it kind of jumps out at you), I’m finally ready to address it. Right damn, now. LOL Ok, ok, I'll stop the damn joking around. Mechanically, the five stanzas are well written with noticeable emphasis on the word "damn" that drives the poem all the way to it's conclusion. The rhyme is well constructed, and being consistent with good rhyming poems, is only noticeable in how it adds to the work rather than being a distraction. I don't have time for rhyming works that "stretch" the senses in an attempt to connect lines. Damn this page that stares and mocks Blank paper lies like ghostly skin This pen a knife that hovers still This ink like blood so deathly thin The first line of this first stanza feels like writer's block rage. I've had that problem a few times myself. I enjoy the comparison or simile in the second line, of "blank paper" to "ghostly skin". Nice. Followed by "ink like blood", I like that a lot. Damn this chair that holds me here Immobile in a frozen dream This room that fills with restless thoughts With silence like a silent scream Yes, stuck to the chair staring at the blank page with a mind full of thoughts in the quiet, screaming "silent" room. Nice use of alliteration. Damn this melancholic moon Reflecting old words gone and lost A face that once returned my smile Accusing now, a hostile host In this third stanza I get a sense of time by mental reflection. The writer remembering lost words and ideas that use to come easy in the moonlight. Now the moon has become "accusing" by association, almost mockingly so. The writer's frustration is not lessening. But wait, the poem within the poem, the poem not written is coming. Damn this earth for fighting back Reclaiming her entitled share Of lives, a payment now in kind Her dues to question if we dare Bam! Wow! "Dam this earth for fighting back", taking "lives" as payment. "Dare" we question this. Are we questioning death here? Is it possible that you are commenting on the fact that it doesn't matter what goes down on the page, the end result for the writer and everybody is the ground anyway? Is there a sense of despair as well as anger in this poem? I'm getting that as a reader, but have no idea as to your intent. I say question death and anyone who calls themselves "savior". LOL This is way off the subject, but a friend of mine just called Jesus a serial killer in one of his poems. I had to laugh. Sorry. Thank you for your patience. Damn me and damn this stronger force That brings the paper back to life With words that write themselves in blood No need for pen or ink or knife The last stanza is interesting in that a "stronger force", "brings the paper back to life" What is this stronger force that gives us will, even though, as you said, the earth will claim us. How can we live on, work on in the face of this possible despair. What is it? Dammed if I know. The last two lines of the last stanza really stand out for me and I think are genius. With words that write themselves in blood No need for pen or ink or knife Our "words that write themselves in blood", because each breath we take, takes toward the promise of earth, hence, the act of living is the real "blood" poetry. So damn the paper, pencils and chair. Hmm, I've had fun reading your poem John, and couldn't agree more, even if I'm agreeing with my own interpretation and not your intent. I can't help that. As a reader all I have to bring to the table is my set of experiences. There will be the synthesis. I can only thank you for writing and giving me the opportunity to gain from it. Thanks again, Troy	2005-03-18 00:19:05
A Leaf Blooms In Maine	Rick Barnes	Rick, I've read this poem so many times I have a headache. LOL That's just me being obsessive. First of all your writing is excellent. Great word choices, balanced, reads well, etc.... The content is where I see the genius of this work. First I read it as the observer seeing a leaf budding out to early in the spring and then almost suffering the fate that more cold weather brings. I get to see that in Wisconsin. Just when you think it's spring-bam, 12 more inches of snow. And we are going to get that tomorrow if the weather man I've been watching isn't just drunk or something. LOL But of course that's not what this poem is about, that's just the metaphor you used brilliantly to bring out the deeper meaning in your poem. Very good, time appropriate and above all communicable in it's reality and believability. Also very subtle and smooth in voice. Again, as I believe, good writing. Anyway, I take this poem and apply it to, lets say, an individual that is an overachiever; a person who's natural talents drive him or her to "leaf" out a bit to soon because of overconfidence or ignorance or false belief or whatever. The point is that they moved along to fast and got themselves in trouble. But, they're in luck. I think your stanza below saves this individual, whether it's a lover, teacher, friend, family member or just somebody who cares about life. Very touching. Had not your glance Found it there And warmed it Welcome to this world It's the last stanza that I really appreciate, because to me it says the author of this poem sees beyond the original character and has the ability to empathize with other similar situations. I derive this from the first line of the last stanza. That same leaf is somewhere leafing It's the following lines that give me some of the clues that I've struggled with. Not leaf as we knew leaf But leaf being leaf after leaving, When leaf no longer leaves. No I was wrong. That "same leaf is somewhere leafing". "Not leaf as we knew leaf," meaning not the state of the leaf we originally see at the beginning of this poem, but that leaf being leaf "after leaving." So it's about leaving, moving on into new ground. Oh that just fits. Duh, you would have thought I could have figured it out a little earlier. So in the last stanza you describe that leaf after it has left and no longer "leaves". Wow, what a play on words. I'll be reciting this tomorrow when I'm shoveling snow. Beautiful expression man. Loved it. And probably got it all wrong, but hey forgive me for my out loud thinking, and fill me in if you are not opposed to my asking. This definitely goes on my list. Thanks for your patience, Troy	2005-03-17 23:15:05
Especially in spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, After reading this poem I broke into a big smile of being happy for you!!! Amazing. You have such a wonderful voice when you sing clearly. And see how loved you are!! I don't know what else to say other than this poem feels so good=)=) Troy	2005-03-15 08:49:09
Remaining Superior	Mell W. Morris	Mell, I thought I read somewhere that you are from Texas? Northern Minnesota is wilder than a Texas rattle snake race. LOL Ok, ok, I'm the only one laughing at my bad humor. I've driven to Thunder Bay many times. I especially like to make the drive at about 2am in the morning when the moose are hunting cars, camouflaged in fog. It is actually considered a dangerous road to travel at night and is one of the loneliest night drives I've been on. After you leave Silver Bay it seems like there is nothing at night. During the day is another story. There are 6-7 state parks along that route as well as the Superior Hiking Trail. When you get close to Canada if you look way out into Superior you can see Isle Royal. Plus there are a ton of rivers and waterfalls you can pull over to view. Gooseberry Falls is amazing. I'm planning to take the family up the North Shore this fall when the leaves start turning. Now to your poem. First off I like the title. A great play on words with a meaning that nobody is going to argue with you about. I think that Lake Superior will always be “superior”. I just love to walk the polished stone beaches in any weather. The whole wild, cold, rocky coast along that drive makes me feel small and threatens to consume me unless I stand up to it’s strength. A very poetic place indeed. In the first stanza you write about the sun setting and “a play of light and shadow steals my breath”. Are you seeing the sun setting in color over a hilly terrain, valleys cut with shadow, or are you seeing the sun setting over lakes and forests where parts are encased in shadow and other parts are still streaked with sun.? And into the night you go, which I touched on already. But we haven’t talked about the Gordon Lightfoot song. Isn’t that a haunting song. Being that I’m from Wisconsin I’m very familiar with the ballad, but it always gives me goose bumps when the cook tells everyone that it’s been “good to know ya”. Brr. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a storm on Superior, it’s amazing! The waves hit the rock walls on the North side hard enough to send spray up more than a hundred feet. Mell, thanks for getting me excited for the colors this fall, and giving me the goose bumps. Did you know that if you fell out of a boat into Superior that you would die of hypothermia before you could swim 100 yards? Of course that is, if you were an Olympic swimmer. If you weren’t an Olympic swimmer you would drowned before you reached 20 yards. Brr. Thanks again Mell, Troy	2005-03-14 20:09:26
Through The Pain	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Hi Nancy, I like your poem. Your rhyme and repetition carried me through the four balanced stanzas forcing me to think through the progression of some of the windows in my life. When I was little I would watch the rain bead up and run down the outside of the window. It seems like yesterday, but many years have passed. I've stared out the windows of hospitals, airplanes, stores, homes, cars, boats, trains, churches etc,...to include the windows of my eyes. And each time observing past, present or future. Yes, your poem captures the idea that time is a window showing us that progression in it's narrative fashion. As you move us through time the title of your poem is a constant reminder that "pain" will always be with us. Sometimes I think that life has an awful lot to with minimizing pain. And maybe that's what you are trying to tell us. That life is full of pain, and that gets harder to deal with as we get older. Perhaps you are asking us to view life through the window of pain, hence making us more compassionate and understanding to everything and everyone else we experience. Maybe I should combine both of these ideas and then perhaps I get closer to your intent. Very intelligent and well crafted writing. Thanks Nancy, Troy	2005-03-14 18:43:07
A Captive Bird	marilyn terwilleger	marilyn, You know what? It's good to know that he loves you. And I bet he's beside himself to see you upset. I go crazy when I see my wife upset or sad. I automatically blame myself to the point that she yells at me to "quit it!" LOL You have to hold onto that love and know and believe it's there even in the quiet times. Even when it's hard. Even though it's somehow unfair you do it for yourself and for him. I remeber the tragedy of my brother's divorce. His wife found the grass to be greener on the other side of the fence so to speak. When he told her loved her, she told him that love was not enough. I'm haunted by those words. I talked to him every other night for a year. He would hear her footsteps and her voice even though she wasn't there. And she wasn't then. I can imagine that your loss is infinitely harder. Love is what makes us cry and keeps us from crying. It's beautiful. Love. marilyn, your poetry and metaphor communicates your feelings of loss and sadness almost to the point of tears. It's heartfelt for this reader. And when it's your time to fly--fly high. Take care, Troy	2005-03-11 00:38:12
She-Who-Dreams	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, This is madly beautiful to the point that I need a chaperone to be here with you tonight. Oh my goodness you've completely given yourself over to these three stanzas. I'm fascinated, in awe, and somehow understand the relationship I see here between you and your writing on a completely emotional level. And you know what, that's how I like it, I don't want to think anymore. LOL If you had any idea of the poem I've been working on you might understand what I'm feeling right now. I better slip back into one of my other personalities before I compromise my sensibilities. "Calls clouds to tumble their soft tears on her waiting face for parched fields of grass" Oh, Joanne, we are thirsty to the point of tears for new knowledge and emotional fulfillment, if we could only do this and be refreshed; turned green again, watered by life each day of our existence. And we can, even if it is only in our dreams. I remember running to the top of a high hill to meet the coming of a storm on my parents farm when I was velvet buck. And just standing there watching the thunderheads move across the valley, waiting for the wind and admiring the lightening. The wind would hit my face, the rain would wash me and occasionally I would feel like I was about to be electrocuted. LOL But I was alive. There's nothing like an outdoor shower to give you that feeling and quench the thirst of your ground. Weaves threads of weather’s whirl and stir into night, then makes quilts of stars. Yes, the transition to night. A quilt of stars to blanket over us now that we've allowed ourselves to receive the blessings of the rain, the tears, the love of life. Resting in the starlight we receive the gift of the moon. Only then, spirit mountains chant pale moons into the palms of her nimble hands. This stanza is amazing. "Spirit mountains" to me belong to the dreamscape, but also symbolize all the lives that came before us in previous generations. The moon is their gift, their way of saying "good job baby bird, remember to keep your mouth open. LOL This is special living writing. I'm impressed and happy for you. It was an experience to read and that's the highest compliment I can give. Joanne, I’m tired to the point of tears. I really must sleep now. Perhaps, I'll leave my body later tonight and in ethereal form visit this again. when the rain is a long time coming always remember it's good to be loved by your poetry, Troy	2005-03-01 01:49:27
Lessons	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel, I read this poem over and over and over and then sat and looked at it for a long while trying to understand the beauty of the last stanza, then it hit me or "slapped" me awake. In the case of the parents, the ones who are supposed to be "kneading the clay" and nurturing the life, they don't exactly do that. They seem more pragmatic attending to answering the problems of life rather than "living" or teaching their son or daughter to live life "wild with gladness, drunk with dreams". My father taught me how strive toward a worker’s world of peace For example, the above two lines give me a feeling of apathy, seeming to channel away energy rather than concentrate it. No playing in the flowers are leisurely yard work for this dad as you go on to explain. But it's the last two stanzas, the third thought, that really ties it all together and completes the poem wonderfully. Something or someone really wakes up the son or daughter. "Slaps" them awake. This almost feels like a reference to this person's second birth. Good word choice even if it wasn't your intent. Then the poem goes on to say that the someone or something teaches the person to attend the "light", the positive, the life in life, so to speak. The last stanza shows the completion of the person and completes the poem. The person is complete, because they know the difference between living life and surviving it and the last thought is complete balancing the poem perfectly. I think of the master potter bringing life out of the clay as I read. Beautiful. and listen for the sounds of life that bubble up in kneaded clay What excellent, balanced poetry that reads "cleanly" and fluently with impact, at least for this reader. Thanks, Troy	2005-02-24 23:41:55
Open Your Eyes	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, Here we are again. How is it that you can attack a problem so from so many different angles and do it freshly and creatively each time? Open . . . your . . . eyes They are not there All of those people Why would they care That you haven't been liberated, Educated, spiritually emancipated That the only thing you feel is . . . hated The first line of the first stanza is a command to be read slowly and with authority. The voice doesn't have to be loud but strong. I sense that. When you say "They are not there" I see that as a generalization given to describe the masses of uncaring whatever the race. But yes I would agree with you there. It seems to me when I drive to work and reflect on what people care about that social justice is not high on the list. Everyone keeps giving the same rhetoric and lip service about how people should pick themselves up by the "boot straps" and get on with it. Yet at the same time, those same said people will go out of their way to make sure that those people only go so far. If you are not gifted these days or understand how to educate yourself or find a support network, it's tough. Hopefully, you're not "hated," but I live in Wisconsin and usually everyone gets along except the Polish who like to drink and fight. LOL I just happen to be a part Polish; a part which took me years to tame. LOL Yes, "hated" perceived or real it's the same thing and takes years to remove. Unfortunately people will always find a reason to hate somebody. Open your eyes That's not opportunity "you see" Just another quick flick, I mean fix a more mental slavery Phat Farm, Sean John The limos and the "bling" You see, that's where success takes us When we're good at anything I really like the implications of these two stanzas. I read them in two different ways. First I see you alluding to the material things that many of the successful "role model" or famous African American people buy to try to shake that feeling of not being successful or hated or just "less" because of their color. In part I feel that is the "mental slavery" you are referring to as well as the perception of not being equal. Put them together and there are not enough toys in the world to make a person happy. I also read these stanzas and apply them to the country in general. How many trips to the mall or the fashion store do we need to make. My word, the marketing and competitiveness of this society has enslaved the whole country. We have grown morbidly obese on name brand everything, yet the elderly are on waiting lists to get assistance for their basic needs. Here's something that really gets me. I drive by a casino every once in awhile and the parking lot is always full of people, but when I try to raise funding for charitable events people make me feel like a beggar. Too many of the right words Never get played, read or heard But we're still writing and reciting We figure it's better than fighting To survive, to stay alive, Marking territory we've been denied, Don't look surprised We've learned to thrive on lies Wonderful lyrical lines. When I read this poem the first time I thought it was a rap song in a way. Maybe you've written songs or raps I don't know, but with your intellect and abilities you could sure write them. But you are right, many of the words that people need to hear are somehow excluded or glossed over. With time however the message keeps coming out and eventually popular sentiment changes. I also sense a certain cynicism in the second stanza. Unfortunately, when something or somebody is abused they tend to become the abuser later on if the opportunity presents itself. Hopefully you are not encountering that in your plight, because not matter how wrong the people were that started the fight, the only thing that people remember is what they can see. If in fact this is an issue in the fight for equality, it can be your own worst enemy. I learned that early on after I punched kid who had hit me unprovoked. My father made me apologize. I kept trying to tell him that I didn't start it. That night I was so mad at my dad I cried. It wasn't until many years later that I was able to understand what he was trying to tell me. We're so busy waiting For those acres and the mules That we can't find the time To stand up or grab the right tools Tools of power: revelation and knowledge Financial freedom and college If we don't possess the land Then slavery really isn't abolished OPEN YOUR EYES Open your eyes Open your Eyes These last stanzas are how you "hit back" so to speak. And it's tough to get people to make a decision to try to better themselves when they may not realize the fruits of their labors until their children are bigger or their children's children are bigger. It's unfair if it is direct result of discrimination, but unfortunately it's the way it is. Changing it quickly is like spanking an elephant. In the mean time some people will commit to change or bettering their position if given a chance, some will give up and look for the easy road, and some will just plain shut down. It is a difficult situation. One bright point is to remember to love each other and everyone else enough to enjoy the life we're given. Overall I loved the lyrical style of your voice. It just seems to drive the message home. If your words were being rapped we would all be better off. I would really like to hear your poetry in your voice. If you ever have the desire to do a recorded reading I would sure like a copy. And of course would pay for any costs, shipping, etc... Oh, and what is "pulpit shot calling". It sounds like hypocrisy or something akin to that. I hope I didn't bore you with my response. I enjoyed the read. Troy	2005-02-24 21:51:39
Reunion	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, Ok, Ok, I'm better now. Sorry I went crazy in that critique the other night. I kind freaked out after spending time with your last poem only to refresh my screen and see it posted under a different title. I'm going to try to reformulate my thinking into a couple of questions for you. Do you believe that once a poem is communicated or shared with another living person it is in effect "born"? Do you think of a poem as a living entity? Do you think that by revising a poem you have in effect taken it off life support and turned it into alphabet soup? I mean doesn't the poem kind of become like Frankenstein after you've communicated it and then decided to take it to the operating room? At the minimum it leaves scars or does it? At what point does a poem become a poem? Is it crazy to view the mind as the womb of the poem and see the actual birth of the poem being the point those thoughts are communicated to another? It is crazy I guess. From a historical perspective I think of it like this as well: No second, no minute, no hour will be repeated. The state of your mind, at the time of your writing, can not be duplicated. How then can you actually revise a work? I know this sounds weird and doesn't promote healthy thinking, but after taking that walk with you in the woods and committing myself to the images mentally and actually seeing the world you described and more (the more came from cross referencing some of your other poetry), and then to have it edited, somehow seemed wrong to me and caused this reaction. How's that for a run on sentence. If I could just keep my thinking consistent I'd be alright. Oh, shoot, I just looked at the additional notes. LOL I think I wander over to Brenda's for another dish of crow. LOL Whew! I'm glad that's over. I'll never react to revisions again in that manner. I sorry that you had to be the mental bystander to my private argument, defense and somewhat bizarre resolution. But you know what Joanne, listening to my diatribe may be a once in a life time experience. "God I hope so", she says. Let's talk about your poem. Wouldn't it be amazing if it were true. If in fact, one of the gods, would give us an all day pass to grandma's and we could be about 6 or 7 years old again. It's a tearful thought and a good one. Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. Yes the kitchen, never the living room until night. That in my experience was the only time the TV ever came on. In the kitchen we would play slap jack, roll out cookie dough, cut Christmas cookies, make potato bread or cake and I would get to lick the spoon or beaters!! LOL That was the best. Grandma would even cut my hair in the kitchen. In the morning the smells of pancakes and Grandpa's coffee. And stories about everything from what was happening in the garden to what the neighbors were up to (it was a very small town). LOL The kitchen is so full of life and you bring it the page so well. The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. Around the table all of you squeeze in with runny noses. Your stocking caps, jackets and boots hung up or piled on the floor in the entry. Strands of sweaty hair stuck to foreheads, the result of having too much fun outside using snow shovels for sleds. Irregardless, everyone's eyes are admiring the cups of hot cocoa. Grandpas are not supposed to curse! At least when little ears are listening. Neither are fathers I've been told. From an artistic point of view I really like the look of Red Devil and how it fittingly ties in with Grandpa's cursing. Just the observation of crazy bug. The next two stanzas are very private and I won't intrude. Ok, just one thing. If you remember the poem I posted last month I used the phrase "we stand before the house of memories". Doesn't it just feel right to associate memories with being in a house. So much time is spent there and your mind is kind of like a house. I just like that you opened the door to your memories is all. Ok, yes, I'm going. Sorry to keep you so long just got to slip into this next paragraph quick there we go. Thanks for the cocoa. And Joanne, this is living poetry. And out into the rain he scuttles cursing the bees and being careful not to step on the howling tree frogs. troy bending light into our thought womb child laughs are born we birth the world - it is ours rainbow slapped with happiness we fly toward the sun and breathe life leaving it up to the breezes	2005-02-23 00:51:53
Perfecting Praise	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, This poem says to me that everyone serves God in their own way and that your way is through writing; it's how you return God's love. This is a beautifully honest piece of writing. I will never question the intent, motivation or sincerity of your poetry. I guess I never have anyway. I myself am sometimes sincere and other times a "screw ball". Isn't there a verse about people like me in the Bible? I like that you address children, men and women in your poem excluding nobody. I also like the two biblical references you make in "Joseph" and "David". Two of my favorite Bible figures. I guess that's all I have to say tonight. Goodnight Latorial, God Bless, Troy	2005-02-22 23:18:13
Rights	Mark D. Kilburn	Mark, I've handled guns all my life and don't own one. I don't need one or want one and I think, even though it takes a finger to pull the trigger, hand guns and these damn assault rifles people are piling up in their basements should be regulated to the point of extinction. I was always told that a gun was a tool. Today a gun is glamour. The average gun guy or gal has between 20 and 100 firearms that they never use. By the way I had two friends shoot themselves and one almost got me on his way to wherever. They used shot guns, like it matters. Anyway, getting to your writing. Well, what can I say. Strong, well written, pointed, communicable (drawing on known references) and full of irony right down to the closing line. I can't remember if a hand gun was smuggled on to the plane during 911 or if they just used box cutters. If they used a gun then I would assume we have the right to kill piolets as well as presidents and public speakers. Oh, they were terrorists from the Middle East, so probably not. Oh well just a thought, I'm trying to stick up for my "rights" you know. I'll probably get in an arguement at work tomorrow over guns now. LOL Thoughtful read, Troy	2005-02-22 22:23:36
Red Feather	marilyn terwilleger	marilyn, Did I see you post something in the forum about being on a hunt for a man? I have to tell you that when I started to read this poem I didn't know where you were going with it. I was thinking that it should have been titled "Red Feathers", but then I regained my composure. Wow does this gets me going. I'm ready to go to battle right now. Your descriptive wording is excellent throughout. I particularly enjoyed some of the following lines. "His skin glistened like burnished copper in the dawning sun" What a strong image this is. "He squatted at the root of the grand Teton mountains and surveyed his world." Cool. What a visualization. And I love the use of the word "root" here. "If you gaze into the night when the moon is nude and stars blink you may see him astride his cayuse, his midnight hair flowing behind him as he gallops across heaven's path, with spear held high above his head, ready for any ghost in the esoteric sky." This is precious. What an epic read marilyn. Jeez, if I was Red Feather, I would want you to write my poem. I'm just going to stretch into the poem a little deeper mentally and associate some of the images quickly with my own thinking. i am standing to the dawn of my last day encouraged by the chanting, the war paint, the beautiful mountain vista, muscles tight with the anticipation of conquest, the breath of my horse, electrified air, the spirits are close, a cold prickling feeling all around me.... Yes you capture his excitement to go to war and tie it off nicely, empowering him through his people and the Tetons. I can feel his heart racing as he rides to engage in the battle and feel it beat it's final beat as he lies dying. Letting his spirit escape to the sky. Even the mountains can't "root" him to the world. Nor can the promise of manhood. He's just to perfect to let live. You immortalize him in the end though, at least giving him a chance to "save face," so to speak. Excellent writing and a truly enjoyable read for this unorthodox critiquer. You must know a lot about the west. I bet you live in Montana, Wyoming or Utah. I was recently to the Tetons. Awesome. Thanks marilyn, Troy	2005-02-21 02:08:50
Stranded at a Signless Crossroad	James Edward Schanne	James, Nothing like being stranded, lost and tortured all at the same time. A physical metaphor or personification of thinking. In some ways a maze or perhaps an attempt to follow each of the paths. Bread crumbs in the labyrinth disappearing. Bread crumbs to symbolize that which guides us through the maze of thought, life problems or just life in general. The bread crumbs as well as the paths, the old paths, old thinking, disappearing. Or perhaps the old paths marked the way out. Well they're gone now. Tough shit Jack. No, I don't think the old paths were the way out. I think that they are what brings the poem to the crossroads so to speak. Working into the third line I feel the pain of searing visions. Don't know what happened but assume it to be bad trip down old path and like the path I see the melt, the liquefaction coming to the point that I'm almost drowning in this symbolized liquefied history framed by dark halls. A dark mood, but gone, perhaps draining away and then. I really like this... "feeling the way fingers wonder backwards" I get some great mental and visual effects here. I picture a person standing under an overcast sky in a featureless world; their feet on the only dry spot, all else is a consistent one inch thick pool of darkened memories. The crossroads is a crossroads but the paths are infinite not just restricted to 4 as my mind was trying to trick me into believing. And the person tries to move forward but like fingers without the guidance of sight seems to pull back considering, not wanting to touch the ...what. Reminds me of an old Flash Gordon movie where these dudes stand around a stump forcing Flash to stick his hand into it's hollow. There would be no problem except for some nasty little biting creature. HEHE The hand warns the mind but alas the memories are gone. The mind is puzzled and even at a loss for speech. But it's worse. The wolf is at the throat of this individual. The wolf, the memories, the trauma. This is total break down. No there is no choice here. This person, personification of thought, this whatever is toast. What's interesting to me is the last 2 lines written in the first person. If this individual is in fact going in to do some introspection at this point I think it's a little late. No in the end I view this as an observation, whether of a person or thought process I don't know. My final thoughts are: This is a well crafted piece using complicated metaphor and personification to show the transition of a person or thought process over time that ultimately ends up stranded and devoid of options. I see this as an observation of another person or an internalization. I enjoyed the imaginative use of language finding the word selection to be fitting and in some ways refreshing. I do not discount this piece as being a matter of sophomoric word manipulation, rather the work of a good writer that I don't fully understand. Thank you for letting me think my way through this even if I missed your intent. I love the complexity and insanity. Goodnight James, Troy	2005-02-20 21:11:38
With A Certain Humming In My Ears	Mell W. Morris	Mell, I enjoyed the humor and beat of this poem. The stanzas working together to complete the thought ending perfectly and with "gusto". LOL Excellent strong writing. Yes I love your insanity man. And I guess that by defintion we're all crazy. Fine with me, keeps things exciting. I wonder if just by exsisting you are indeed living your "full-blown" psychosis? HEHE Not a "critique" just a few comments I thought to add as I drifted by today. Don't start eating your pencils and take care, Troy	2005-02-20 16:28:53
Paper Planes	Jesus Manuel Lopez	Jesus, An excellent tribute to personal memory written honestly with a free flowing style as light and airy as the plane held in your son's hands. It's very revealing to stand between the generations watching your child, remembering the past and wondering how the future will play out. I have a nine year old son and find myself talking about things and thinking about things that happened before his time. It brings about a whole host of feelings as I play the part of the bridge. I compliment you on your choice of details and chuckled when I read "the secret tear" remembering the secrets of my plane building past. I think you transistioned time well, not only bringing the past into the present but actually stopping it at the tip of your pen with the last stanza--beautiful and powerful. The simple complexity of life. On an emotional I find myself feeling the loss, finding humor, being parental and applauding your personal management of such a difficult subject. I don't think that it's an accident that your brother perfected the paper plane either. I see that as a metaphor for his feelings regarding a sense of freedom and I love it as an overall metaphor for this poem. I've been flying kites lately. LOL It's been about four years since we talked last, good to see you again, Troy	2005-02-20 15:14:37
Becoming Spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I do not think it's fair to treat your writing or the reader like this. I don't believe we can simply edit a poem after it has been communicated and return anything but a tranquilized facsimile of the original created and shared moment. Poetry is more than the manipulation of words, I trusted that you knew this and almost lost what little mind I have left when I chanced upon your revision. Shame on you Joanne M Uppendahl. HEHE That was a little harsh. Honestly, it seems to me like you took your original work and flattened it out to be mounted in an old dusty botany book or something. And it tastes like you had to force yourself to do it. It's almost like it's been abused in some way. I'm calling a social worker right now. Are you ok? Why are you falling into the trap of the linear mind here and becoming explanatory in your writing. That's not how we think anyway. That's how people think that are afraid. They build structure into everything until they have nothing but a bunch of upside down images of themselves clapping in mindless applause. And when they finally find their perfect manufactured reality they stand around preening their egos until the stench of their cowardly selfishness makes me feel like I'm ship wrecked in one of those fascinatingly huge liquid manure tanks. Yahoo! Now I'm talking like a Texan!!! I hope you know that I wasn’t directing that comment at you by the way. It’s just that I get a little excited once in awhile. I actually drove 827 miles yesterday. LOL I guess I liked the original. I'm sorry, give me a zero. This is probably going to drive me back into anonymity for awhile anyway. ...now mindless and mildly depressed he slips back into the semi-comatose state of slumber warding off bad dreams by pondering the coming spring as seven more inches of snow fall on the shivering tree frogs huddled beneath his window. t	2005-02-20 02:02:54
Pondering Spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I like that you start this poem with an action. To "step into" the woods. It shows commitment. Mentally I'm standing in front of the woods. A curtain I often times part to a private wooded solace I choose to call "the place where I am." Into the woods to ponder spring. The humid smells of regeneration and birthing of new vitality all around you sending out the poem to the reader. And the "rutted mud". How can we have spring without mud. We step gingerly over those old footprints, tire tracks or wash outs into the forest; into the prime and fertile forest; into a place of quiet, of mystery, of hope, of moistened eyes realizing the beauty of all that is around us--and at that moment we knowing that we are not alone. That the woods is filled with life, that it is so symbolic of life, that it fits so perfectly with our pondering of spring. It is here that spring can be spring untouched by the pavement and concrete and unasked for noises that accompany us through most of our day. We tread lightly with reverence, a deep felt primordial respect for something that chooses to share if we'll listen. And move on acclimatized to the moment trying to figure out how to fit back into it without intellectualizing the experience and failing our own test. Breathe, look, listen be refreshed and share in the joy of drakes and hens. Wonder about their day, their feelings of adventure and survival. See the dappled sunlight lighting our path, feel the mud, sense and smell the coming of flowers. And then you say "and wait-awhile-weather will glide away --and again it will be spring and I will be the glad being who is in it" A+ You passed your own exam. Built the poem to the point of the answer. That is clever Joanne. HEHE Now that you are trapped helplessly in my dungeon of critique I can attack a few things. Like where are the 2000lb red eyed, horned, winged, yellow bellied, howling tree frogs? Actually, after reading several of your poems and extending into the personifications of nature you use so well, I have to combine your works to truly appreciate how crafted you really are. In other words, only by melding the whole, do we get the opportunity to celebrate the beautiful expression of this artist. There's a much larger piece being written out of all of this that combines your emotion and intellect into the purest form of communication, one akin and even closer than the holding of hands--poetry. You make me work so hard sometimes Joanne. And he fell asleep beneath the airy howls of the red-eyed, horned, winged, yellow-bellied Washington tree frogs, Troy	2005-02-20 00:50:17
These Americans	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, When I read this poem I think of my own struggles with "these Americans" and I'm not tied to the blood lines of Africans. "These Americans" for me equals corrupt politicians, as you state, corrupt corporations, as you infer, and an oppressive attitude that tries to restrict and create barriers and hurdles that are for many becoming impossible to navigate. And for many were never navigable to start with. Because I’m tied to the blood lines of Africans I’m fighting hard to survive these Americans Because I’m tied to the blood lines of Africans I’m fighting hard to survive these Americans Because I’m tied to the blood lines of Africans I’m fighting hard to survive these Americans I love this line. I pasted it over and over again because it is like a chant. It's musical. It's strong. It really drives the poem well. 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 or somebody else's dream But the right to be equal in the mainstream To go to college, get the job, make leaps and strides To be an asset to my people and from the dust rise Your writing has a heart beat that's undeniable. It's almost Biblical sounding. "from the dust rise" The matriarchs and patriarchs who guided us Didn’t get us here to be left here by us Wow, this just about jumped off the page and leveled me. What a strong, intelligent and powerful statement. Extremely motivating and passionate. I love it. I'm going to make sure my kids understand it. Latorial, you are a passionate writer. This poem has the strongest voice of any I've read this month and sets a high mark for strength of conviction. It's poetic structure, accents, rhythm and above all--honesty, have made it both an educational and inspirational read. Thanks for sharing, Best Troy	2005-02-06 03:52:59
After The Wind Speaks	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, Wow, such strong writing. I can appreciate the fury of a good winter storm being that I live in Wisconsin, but I don't think I could have captured the feeling of a harsh cold blow coupled with the silence that follows in a form so defined and driven as you have. The first stanza is great. To me it says "behold I am the wind and am mighty. You will not forget me.!" Going on to say "I am the terror of the tornado, the charge through spruce, the rage of November, remember me even when I'm as still as a corpse." Great use of words and phrases to associate like "ancient boreal rock", "single southern terror", "tempestuous", "and from the gust and gale cannons". Good stuff for this reader. I feel like I'm in Middle Earth all of a sudden trying to cross the mountains. LOL Or strapped to the wheel of a ship. Strong, hard fighting feelings. Maybe I'm just violent. Comes from living up North. LOL Great ending. Strong lines exemplifying the silence that follows. And it quiets the poem down like a dying wind. Good use of poetic device. A real strong piece of writing. Bravo. I enjoyed the quality of your work. Thank you, Troy	2005-02-06 03:16:58
Yearnings Like the Lake's	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, When I saw you depicted as a frog I knew that it was some sort of subconscious cryptic way it was a message to the Poetic Link to try to free you from the frog spirit Redeyestickytongue that's taken hold of your psyche. The manifestation of your desire was brief, but to construe it's meaning in any other way is a risk that I could not take. So, now freed of my janitorial responsibilities and with a new life goal, at least for an hour or so, as that seems to be the limit of my attention span as far as goals are concerned, I set off to determine if this frog spirit was influencing your writing or possibly doing your writing. HEHEHE!!! And kabamo pow here it is. Proof before my very eyes. I passed through woods today. -----------------Redeyestickytongue Poems leapt from bent branches; ------------------Joanne wisps of fog called my name, ------------------Redeyestickytongue wandering crows sashayed ------------------Synchronizing Early in the first line of this stanza we see the frog trying to gain control of your mind. By the time the second line begins Redeye is probably perched on your head content that he's winning the mental navigation. Wishful shivers up my spine. ---------------Joanne (wrestling for mental control) Fir branches silvered with rain ---------------Frog (we see images of moisture) bowed toward break of day. ---------------Joanne (using image of light in response) I reveled in road’s surprise ---------------Both (power struggle) This second stanza is another boxing match and the struggle seems to be intensifying. Curves winding through glories of ---------------Joanne (frogs don't use words like "glories") green, but as an observer ---------------Joanne (Joanne is in control but I see foreshadowing) apart from creatures of earth ---------------Joanne (separating) with limbs and hungers like mine, -------------Joanne (redefining) Here you are clearly throttling Redeye with an ancient form of self exposure posturing currently being researched by the Department of Homeland Security. How clever to use lines personifying our president to fight back against this little green terrorist. Yearnings like the lake’s for her -------------Frog (here it comes big time moisture simile) translucent, fingerling streams. -------------Frog (more moisture, Joanne is in trouble) Clouds dropped white faces to lap -------------Frog (she's on the ropes) at likenesses in water. -------------Frog (ka pow Redeye takes over the frontal lobe) It's obvious that this frog spirit has a few tricks of it's own. Tonight, the moon will glimmer --------------Frog (this is the end of our heroine) the lake and swoon to songs of --------------Frog (Redeyestickytongue is about to howl as frogs do) early frogs. Owls in trees will --------------Joanne (on her feet throws the image of owl) throb with fervor I long for. --------------Joanne (finishes the last line apparently back) Wow, I thought the frog had you, but you remembered to bring out the big guns by using natural enemies of the frog. Bravo. I think if chant these lines before you go to bed and when you wake you'll be fine. "Owl, snake, pesticides make frogs sleep never wake Owl, snake, pesticides make frogs sleep never wake Owl, snake, pesticides make frogs sleep never wake" Remember, before sleep and the first thing in the morning. You have to do this 13 times, for 6 days, starting on the night of the year's third full moon. When I'm in Canada deep in the heart of the Queens land. I try to wake early. One of the images I retain is that of the reflection of the clouds and tree covered shorelines in the water. The water is so smooth and the reflection is so perfect. It's the illusion of the world looking back at itself. I am reminded of this by your line: "Clouds dropped white faces to lap at likenesses in water." A real quarried, cut and polished gem. I want to see the day continue. Sigh. What a warm slice of life taken, perhaps, from a cool morning stroll followed up with a hot tea, cider or coffee and good chapter of what's worth reading. Well done, great expression and...and then the killer tree frog Redeyestickytongue attacks the window pane with his long poisonous fangs blowing the whole moment. LOL Now that I've satisfactorily destroyed my credibility as a plumber I must to sleep. Best, Troy	2005-02-06 02:08:45
Cloudy Outbursts	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, This made my night. The rain droplets coming to flirt and dive into streams and rivers as bees, leaving the streets stung with moisture. The clouds with their slicked back tops lingering to menace the walkers. Sometimes in the winter when I go to enjoy the beaches I long for a quick shower to make everything fresher. Many times the rain shower comes and the sun is still shining. It only lasts for as long as it takes to read your poem and it's invigorating in much the same way. Very good use of poetic device- a rare find of images. Thanks, Troy	2005-01-26 23:04:53
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