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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Tony P Spicuglia	Critique Date
Crooked Shadows	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, I have an affinity for fog aberrant weather, so this immediately draws my attention. It sounds much like a “screenplay” I wrote with a couple of buddies in High School, no it wasn’t video tape, it was 8MM…. anyways, you had me hiking into the “brume” of mystery. Crooked Shadows – When begun, one did not think this was what it is, but that it was something different. After reading, one realizes the title fits well, not only the passage of mist, but also the character of the weather pattern itself. There is a hush about the forest when phantom fog creeps in and whelms the leaping sun. – So well put. I often, here on the central coast of CA, have work on the peaks, and as I drive the roads towards the sun, I can see exactly what you speak of, the creeping fog hiding the sun from those areas that it conquers. it is almost a surreal example of forbidden love. It crawls between mountains hiding from light and dims heaven's torch. – Nice choice of words “dims” and “heavens torch”. The timbre it adds to the description sets the a part from many other “fog” related poems. Taunt (taunted or taut?) trees accept their fate and celebrate a veil of brume while swaying in unadulterated rhythm. Listen.... – “unadulterated” adds a sort of “virgin birth” type innocence to the “veiling” by the fog. It says, listen, it is a new sound, but listen, the “prayer” contains feelers from crypts as well as heaven. it sounds like a prayer, soft with a persistent flair. – “Persistent” is a powerful amplifier. It speaks, softly, and the conquering occurs, silently with quiet tenacity. Excellent. Too soon night invites a dark indigo cloak upon – that tweener time, of royal to past indigo are always times when I feel alive. I can absorb a palpable moment, when we wait and listen for the next step into the forest. the scene and splintered – An apt descriptive of light, streaking into the foggy forest. beams of light slither as – (Oooh I like slither, beams of light – or fog, slithering) a curled moon lies like a silver sliver in a navy sea of sky. – yea, you had to use Navy, and now it is incumbent on me to pretend I like this line/verse. No, no, don’t tell me you picked it without a thought to who might read it, … by the way, nice segway. I stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp and feel – (another great descriptive, “mountainous pomp”. I feel it ba-bee!!). my heart pump as I watch in dread crooked shadows – the crooked, the shadows, the true personality of the night, with “heart pumping” and life musing, and the hesitation goes on….. come...and now...sine the sun my muse is dead. – I had to work on this one, for “sine” has specific meanings, the sun is waning, the fog is winning, the moon is reaching, and “sine”, the sun, the muse is dead, and what has that to do with “sine”. So I looked, and learned, the sway of the sun and moon is a circle, made up of (2) arcs, one seen the other not seen. As the wane the reach the “sine” (ordinate of the endpoint of an arc). Excellent, and now I have a new toy!! Thanks Marilyn.	2005-04-26 14:24:59
Two Sir Isaacs for a Galileo?	Thomas Edward Wright	Thomas, I consider myself somewhat adroit at puzzles, analogies, mixed content, and other- non essential preservatives, and I have tried, surely I have tried, but your indexing is beyond me. I can presume to note what this is about, but I would be “untruthful”. I can, however, share what I’m thinking when I am not figuring out what it is you are saying, and maybe, that is the truer purpose to begin with. Two Sir Isaacs for a Galileo? – considering the existential properties of both men, their abilities to characterize the real world in idealistic terms, I am not sure I’d make this trade. However, as we all know, there are a lot more Sir Isaacs in circulation than Galileo-s, so the trade may be lucrative, no matter the intrinsic value of scientific contributions. We’re trading Famous Historical Science Figurines (it's Monday). In amongst Henry’s nervous systems sits This little man who Henry really is. – We are left scratching our heads as to Henry. He may be any of many famous Henry-s or he may be just a common trader in scientist commodities. At any rate, I’m going to pretend he is Henry VIII. He at least can be traced to “doctrines” that affected the world, well, so can Henry Kissenger, Thomas, this is too hard. Let’s call him Manny. Manny sits inside Henry making certain Henry is. – Manny, the only famous Manny-s I know are all ball players, Rodriguez, Mota, ect. .. ect… ect… hence, the trading of figurines,… - and/or cards…? Henry has doubt spilled on his shirt. When walking-talking-Henry dissipates into the ethereal, Manny will go to the Kingdom of the Father, - Of course, the ID of Henry becomes the soul expectorated- that is, the figurine of Henry will be devoid of soul when Manny leaves, and empty hulk, without substance, a white washed grave stone, or is Manny the real loser? Where he will eat with other Mannys after water polo? – since Manny has gone to the Father, and eats after water polo, does that mean a horse’s Manny goes as well? Henry is confused but I assure him this is doctrine. He ordered take-out in response, nothing quick and easy, But Kung Pao Chicken and Spring Rolls with White Rice. – Henry must be really confused, soulless, and probably quite jealous of Manny, who gets the real promotion. One day all the Mannys will be together in the Kingdom? – Is it not a done deal? Can their really be a morbid destination for those who do not embrace the doctrine of abandonment/promotion, and Mannys- why them? I open Einstein’s mouth and drop in his headache medication. – Einstien never really had these problems, he believed the the foundations of quantum mechanics, which easily can be made to fit the pre-manny leaving Henry, and the post-manny leaving Henrys. It is simply the properties of energy and matter conservation at work. Big Ben bongs and the Queen flies by. – “Bongs”, high on life? I wonder why my daughter has trouble With an acute angle subtended by an arc tangent to the line Connecting the two points. Pass the rolls. – here we have a real problem, balls, curvatures, arcs, strings, but ROLLS? Please. Manny? – See big Ben, and the polo crowd. He has Darwin in his mouth, about to neuter. The air is fresh. I jiggle Bach's box. It's warm to the touch. – Darwin would understand Henry, Bach’s clavier would only be warm to the touch if his Manny still plays. Anyway. Thomas I feel I have missed the big picture, and am quite, irritated at that. Correct me severely, tell me the nuances I have missed, and I’ll read it again enlightened, almost as the penance for…. the Pope dying and doctrine being affected by, Mannys?	2005-04-26 09:44:03
Plug Up	Dellena Rovito	Dellena, this poem is so replete with poetic justice that it assaults the senses as much as a nasty plugged up sink does. However, that said there is a certain commonness to this that will draw anyone who has ever struggled with technology, to read and think, “glad it isn’t me”!! The mop plugged the sink and nothing drained down. Incoming water spilled out and over. – The nightmare, to stop the bleeding, let us not expectorate and reduce the moment to dyke leaking, and finger stopping, all out recourse. An abundance of dirty water was flowing out into the universe without any boundary. – Although there is a commonness to this situation all of us can bond with, I wondered at this line, and the lines to follow, and decided, (yes with my unaided introscopic minds eye), that there is something more going on here than just a nasty sink overflowing. Maybe you are “embellishing” and that is really what this is all about, but I’m going to have some fun anyway. It sounds as if the universe had collapsed to a singularity, and finally the “stopped sink” explodes…. and here we are – the flow into the universe. (not exactly right, because the “bang” would have actually created the universe it is flowing into, but that is far to advance a mathematical theory for me to condense down to “stopped up sink” analogy. Seeping into everywhere gravity leading the force on it's downward course. Everything in its path swept along with the flow and away we go…. – so, as the universe expands, the stopped up sink has become the mighty Mississippi – and the flood causes such destruction and despair, but wait.. in the flow, as it wanes, as it is… transformed, has brought new fertility, and “away we go”,… the earth, is born, as the wheat is harvested. And the watcher, writing, wonders when next the sink will become, an obstacle to creation, or, shall we say, the vehicle of creation?	2005-04-26 08:06:30
Unexpected	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, having twice (a miracle I think) run into love at first sight, this piece takes on new meaning. I have tried to write to the overwhelming ambiance of that moment, but I don’t think I have done so with the subtle pomp and circumstance that this poem elicits. Unexpected – I think, had I read a title called “Love at first sight” and the poem had only one line or word, it would be “Unexpected”, for in that word is a powerful tale. Excellent title. Cataclysmic KA-BOOM! Earth sound surround, love takes flight on a humdrum night. – I like the rhyme, it reinforces the power of your first stanza. I have known many people who have never known that “moment”, and they could never understand the power of your first stanza, walking in, and he/she is there, and the air is rare. Excellent opening. Fortuitous startling love blind unbothered begging love- There is certainly “providence” in such a meeting. The response to such an invasion of passion, suddenly found, releases the inhibition and indeed insists “love me”, for anything else and we are the beggar looking into the windows of a five star restaurant. drawing me enthralling me to stand fearlessly exposed and free to the possibility of he. – Your choice of verbs is passionate, “drawing”, “enthralling”, “stand fearlessly”, and your choice of nouns makes love a delight, “exposed”, “free”, and it all leads into the “subject of desire” – “of he”. The resultant subject is so completely modified by the time we really see him for the first time that, we feel what you did when the moment occurred. A beautiful tribute to love, and not only love, but the redemption of the soul associated with such instantaneous transformation. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece.	2005-04-26 07:51:16
A Bird in a Pear Tree	Dellena Rovito	Dellena, this is as delightful as any piece I have read in years. The story itself keeps one reading, but beyond that each reference is impeccable within the poem!! You “by name” told us where the Rooster was from, (except a Rhode Island Red Rooster is actually a type of rooster), but you did not identify the city for which he flew, leaving us all to place him in the city of choice, for a romp in the pear tree. We can of course take the roosters leaving and arriving points and place them anywhere we wish, and there is the “playfulness” of this verse. In your first stanza, you portray the “character” or roosters, and particularly the “pride” that this particular rooster takes in himself. We feel we know him, - excellent – “and he crowed long, at dawn and on…” wonderful bellicose sounds!! You use and reuse such great colloquialisms: “He flew hard and he traveled fast” “as if his very life was at steak. [chicken]” – wonderful play on words “squawking flourish” – absolutely stunning!! “nestled beside the pear tree” – not a partridge, but a rooster will do!! “Higher and higher skyward” – wonderful assonance “The bird had landed” – not an eagle, but a rooster will do!! “the rooster may stay- till he goes away” – great ending rhyme. Dellena, this is a keeper, as good a piece in this genre as I have ever read!! Great!!	2005-04-25 12:24:27
Fits and Starts	Kenneth R. Patton	Ken, this is a nice fit, to coin a phrase. There is an uncertainty about it that is overcome by the assonance within the poem itself. It is as if you are telling us something, but then denying us the pleasure of response. I like it. Fits and Starts – One would like to think this is about writing, when, in the end we find out this is about “access”. Great dualism. My writing comes in fits and starts Random waves of crashing Don’t ask me inspired or not thoughts – It would be interesting to read an essay from you on your writing “fits and starts”. Personally I write from where I am, no matter where I am, and it keeps it fresh. Dry periods occur when a person can’t take where they are, and make it “directive”. I think this is what you are saying, in so many words. For me the strange and saddest part I’ve limited access to my heart – I spent some time rereading these last lines to see how they fit with the first part of this poem. This piece has the spirit of a Sonnet, and so I took your opening six lines as the “problem” and the closing four lines as the “solution or cause”. Then why, I ask, has he “limited access to his heart”? Most poets would say, that, to write, the heart is “repetitively” transcribed. I guess, what strikes me in this “ditty” is that, because of the tumult which surrounds your writing, you find that you spend little time listening to the inner strains that emanate from within. You write the grand and noisy, but find that often it does not reflect the properties of you heart. An interesting piece, and although I may have missed the mark, I enjoyed the verse. Thanks for sharing.	2005-04-25 11:47:37
Herzog	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel, in approaching this piece, it required additional reading by me. I presume that you are writing, as many believe he did, to the greater satirizing of the world, rather than precisely to the character “Herzog”. In that grander scheme, the choice of Moses in itself is an indication of the “redemption” that Saul Bellow believed the world needed. That said, there is enough of Saul in Herzog and Von Humboldt Fleisher that an accurate, (to one who has never met a person) mosaic can be pieced together of his personal travails, triumphs, and search for peace with this world, Judaism, and God himself. In your work, I think you did an excellent portrayal of the man, not Herzog, but the man who wrote Herzog. “Bellow against” what a fine metaphor to the entire works of this man. Although I had only read two pieces by him, I read Humboldt's Gift before this critique. I think, that although I have not read Sholom Aleichem, my research on your poem led me to order several of his works. ( I thank you for the discovery). Your “rarified air” certainly characterizes the men, “character and author”, for what is normally left as an external “whodunit” is internalized and given life aside from actions. Far more a matter of thought, than most the trash young people read these days (if you can get them to read). The “trace of light” in “darkened caves” is such a fine metaphor, for the searching in my life, as well as the characterizations by Saul himself. I wonder, (even though there is a resolution of sorts in Herzog, I am always left with the thought feeling that it is an uneasy truce with life), if such a resolution is the probable result of most such searches, including my own. Lastly, of the cemetery, the “shield” against the “din”, there is a simple feeling, when I read this verse (many times), that he would have sanctioned the piece. I can hope, without the propriety of future’s sensitivities, that someone might write such a piece concerning me. The craft is much different, but I understand the search, and you wrote to the man, and his mission, well. Alas, I wonder if Von Humboldt is closer to the majority of us than we like to feel. Excellent piece!!	2005-04-25 09:59:53
Your Passion	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, I can scarcely deal with the quality of the poetry this month. I read a verse and seldom say “nice”, it is always, wow, or powerful, and your verse is no change to that. This “Passion” holds so much in so few lines/words that a novel could be written from the residue. Your Passion – Here we see, there is to be “passion” and we are to watch the keeper of such. Already I feel drawn to the substance of someone, I do not know whom. I welcome checkered silence Sky over-brimmed with rain And the way you Speak my name – I didn’t stop at the lines above, rather rolled it all into a ball for there is an essence that you create, of loss, tears, and yet salve and quenching. It is such an odd symbiosis that I feel at once “loved” after a fashion, and yet “forlorn” in need of that love. I need the passion. When through the willow flits a bird And spangled sun shatters blue Dreams of love Begin with you – The visage you create, of sun against a powerful, cheerful sky, and of a “bird” (you speak of bird, not of birds, symbolizing loneliness and aloneness), against that sky. Once again beauty, and needing beauty, fulfillment, and emptiness. “Dreams of you, begin with you”, there are those dreams that rake eternity for a pin drop, and only the pinpoint of luxury will suffice, no matter the black velvet of diamonds. Excellent stanza, excellent. As I drink deep of coming spring And clamor of life confounds me Only your passion Will set me free – Ah Marilyn, the tower that is this poem. Sara Teasdale, E E Cummings, John Keats, Emily Dickenson, all would have found this poem, needful. The “clamor” of life, speaks of loss while amongst life, “coming” spring seems to always look for what never arrives, and “only” – “your passion” drinks from a fount none but you know that well. Marilyn, I am so thankful to have read this piece this month. There is beauty, deep within each phrase. Thanks so much for the writing!!	2005-04-22 11:39:32
Moon Dancing	Helen C DOWNEY	Helen, this a passionate piece that engrosses the reader, and draws the eyes to take in more of the feelings. I enjoyed this piece. I like the format, the indentations and almost sickle moon shape matches the theme. MOON DANCING - Two of my favorite things, moon rising, and dancing beneath it. I hunger for the sweetness of your wine tinted lips – Such a sweet/passionate beginning to this verse. It immediately takes the reader to the most poignant moments love has provided. Excellent. Intoxicated with every inch of your gentleness – This is a nice contrasting line, normally “gentleness” does not equal “Intoxicating”, but in this line you convince us that the touch of a considerate paramour, is as exciting as the passion. (To - change to "I") devour the moments we have spent together – (You have a tense change in this line. I am suggesting a change that will fix the tense/subject needs.) I can feel the intensity of the moment, “devouring” is such a personal affection, a sharing that enters the soul as well as the eyes, and other “well meant” diversions. While dancing in the wind – Truly for me, breezes make me feel alive, this is a powerful line for my thoughts, and I can see the moon hovering above. As the thunder strikes deep within – Once again, we see the impact of the personal “devouring”, that the storms within rage, and thunder makes the heart quake, and love is afoot. Our love over flows (overflows) – It is the mystery that calls me to love time and again, that as intimacy breaks the interference, love itself “devours” the lovers in an aura of fulfillment, or “overfillment”. Which is reflected by the glow in your eyes. – AH, the eyes, nothing like eyes for me, they allow, permit, transmit the soul, copy the light of the heavens and grants love in return. Beautiful thought. Helen, this is a fine poem. I am glad I got to share in it with you.	2005-04-12 13:53:29
Half	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, I have written a song that says exactly this. You have put it so well in so few words. There are those issues that take the soul and bifurcates it, and when left with the half, well- you have spoken the truth. Half - Short, to the point, and the brevity (Spartan nature) of the title, prepares us for the loss of the verse. after giving you – To much to speak of , of heart, of body and soul, of service, the giving of oneself, no gift is greater!! all of me and then you leave, - In a sentence you speak of “how much”, but gang it with “the leaving”, and together they mix a poisonous cocktail nobody wishes to drink, but the coming tastes too good, to see the leaving, till its done. half is not enough – When the melding takes place, and loss, is an amalgated loss, not long the two, but half of the one. Latorial, this is so poignant and true a verse, and one that I understand as well as I understand anything in life. Thanks for sharing.	2005-04-10 14:00:57
In the paths of heroes	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy, I think that whether something is allowed or not is not the issue, I actually viewed the piece on its own. I also have invited “external poets” to come and visit/post to this site, so I hope your friend finds the quality enticement enough come and join us. The only question that might occur is the permission needed by the poet himself, to post his craft. I was taken by sincerity within this poem. I found the non-specific nature of the “type” of hero, and the complexity of the “environment” to birth such a hero, the central points of the redemption that allows the birth. It gave a piece of this poem to many people, who may or may not view themselves within the text of the poem. In the paths of heroes – The title, before the illumination, tells us that there are paths of extraordinary that meet those of us who need it. One need not look farther, than where we have been. True heroes can not be made they are born – This is the crux of your thesis, that those who become the “true heroes” are unaware of the birth, for they walk as we all, till the instance of “heroic” need. Dare we tread in the footsteps of heroes? Step out and become more than what we are? - These are the defining issues for one put in the situation where decisive actions may be required. “Dare we?”, and the question is a moot one, for did they not, the “hero” would not be born. Again to face destiny without pause Action taken, uncaring consequence – A hero born sees the need, not the consequence within the need. Heroes walk in courage, and that courage responds to consequences seen were that response not present, and those consequences are usually dire. Never more clear, right and wrong, burden borne – The crux of the moment of diversion, when the action to the need create the “hero”. The clarity of the need for action is momentous, not the political/social/personal gain/loss of the action, but the need, of the moment, that action is the needed, and inaction will have undesired consequence. Easy to recall the day when life changed The fire burning in a soul full of cause – The description is of the internal motivations that create a hero from external need. What calls one to action, it is the burning to do what is right, that motivation that overcomes reticent and fear, the birth of the courage to do what is right. Glory and honor not in armor worn So many days now past, decision made One bold step and life takes a turn forlorn Marked forever deep with a carried scar – As with the rest of this verse, we are left to ponder what the “scar” is, is it loneliness, is it the nation/recipients/family forgetting the hero, disdaining the deed? What we do know is that, to be a hero doesn’t often pave the rest of life, and the hero is often left with his/her heroism as the lone badge, for if one thing is clear, in all aspects, in most cases, those no longer in need, have their own lives to live, away from the heroism of a long past moment of need. Days alone, broken heart, forget to mourne (mourn) Footsteps of heroes only lead so far – There is a universal texture, and I have visited too many who see the moment of need as the moment of heroism found, when what really is the heroism, are those who produce a change of perspective that encompasses those moments of purpose to be, and that includes the hero. I am not sure from the clues who/what/where/when, I do know from the expressions, a vanity plate does not make a hero, and a hero will be so, when the moment calls. This is an insightful piece. I enjoyed the read!!	2005-04-10 13:44:38
About Love	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, a fine job it is. What strikes me most of this verse is the intangibles, those things where the action is all self initiated, where love must fire, and endure, without interaction, that is verbal or physical. The metaphysical and the spiritual are far more powerful. I have known love at first sight, and there is nothing more powerful than that. About Love – You immediately define for us the parameters of your thesis. It is one that is a favorite of mine. I look forward to listening to the rain. eyes meet – you allow the reader to set the distance, the circumstance, even, if you will, the race, creed, and gender. The meeting takes place, and all can partake. a smile lights up your beautiful soft face – There is no greater joy, than to tender love and have the face break back with a smile. Love knows its own extent. We, I, always respond, for there is nothing more worth the effort. my heart skips a beat at the sight – It is why I miss the chase, the surprise, the next set of drapes, the silhouettes, the mystery, and although consummated love has its reward, ah, the excitement and nuances of discovery, are matchless. of love – once again you leave us the parameter, that it must be, and I agree, it must. Thanks for a stirring piece. I had such fun in reading and speaking to this piece. With all the seriousness of less primal needs, love is too often left and considered fluff. I’ll take it any day!!	2005-04-09 17:50:13
Daddy	Audrey R Donegan	Audrey, I am not going to approach this piece as I do most, and you will become familiar with my “critiquing” style. In this piece you have taken the worse ill of society, (not just America, as it is often portrayed, but this ill is far worse around the world), and made a personal proclamation. For me, I cannot behold the harming of a child without fury. I cannot behold rape without fury. I am not sure why, but they are the two worst things, of all bad things, for me, in this world. You have captured too well both of those moments, and being a father of two daughters, one who has been raped, I take your piece and internalize the fact that I can’t stop such an injustice. Daddy – Your title slays me. My babies, three grown, are the crown of my life. I dread the words, which will follow your title that should be filled only with love. How crushing the plunge, your weight collapsing my kindergarten bones. – This image is so graphic, so well played that were you to write four lines for this piece, and this is one, the story is told. Your number one girl six at best learned love comes with a price attached to a cock. – The coarseness of this stanza matches the coarseness of the deed. (I do have a suggestion, that you write a second version without “cock”, simply because a lot of younger girls need to read this, and the story is powerful enough on its own). You could say “attached to rape”, and the impact for those who need this verse, would work. Invading me wholly again and again branding me with the dis-ease of obligation. – EXCELLENT “dis-ease of obligation”, it goes back to the special little 6 year old girl, whose love, has initially obligated her to trust the filth that is her father. What is love if not the lust in your eyes? – I am sure this person has been to counseling, that is not love, but that lust is self loathing. It is a spiritual sickness that is the worse of all ills. Did I plea and beg and scratch and gnaw for you to stop? Was my obedience dependable? – Such a stark accusation, so well earned. Was it good for you? – (My feeling on this line, is the adult speaking, the child could never ask that question). If you want this from a child’s perspective, I think this line is of little use, maybe in your “child’s version”, if you choose, leave it out, but for those of us who are adults, it strikes home. Now at twenty-three with eyes the age of time herself I am beginning to remember: you are double fudge chocolate cake and I am diabetic. – The analogy is so striking that it speaks almost curse like. I hope, the diabetic is not without cure. To carry such a burden, (and how can one not), into the future, ah, Lady, Thank you for this poem. I hope some who are now in dangers way, can read it and reach out.	2005-04-02 10:42:50
Especially in spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I begin this with a little personal dichotomy. I do love the approach of spring, but autumn and winter are my favorites. So of all the spring springs and spring love, and blossoms capturing me, and times germinating around me, I always look forward, while basking in the sun, waiting for fall to come again, and let me relish the world. Especially in spring – I like this title, for me it’d be “especially in fall”, or “especially in winter”, but you say it all in a concise way, this world holds its treasure, for whoever wishes to open their eyes and absorb the gift. Convince me – The gauntlet is thrown down!! It is not a one that I would take up, for this world amazes me, and I will be saddened, (no matter whatever lies beyond) to close my eyes for the last time and leave it. that the flung silk thread glistening in sun – there is a metamorphosis that comes with spring, and those things most at allowance, are the ones that first catch the eye. When they do, you smile and nod your head, knowing, the next evolution is upon us. There is the moment “glistening in the sun”, and I find it exhilarating. swift’s trill and chickadee’s whistle – I don’t think I could contrast two birds more and still maintain a theme, the twitter of the swift, and the almost guffaw of the chickadee. To choose these two birds to make your point makes it like none other. It says, it doesn’t matter what preference you need to convince you, here are choices that must, somehow endear you. squirrel’s leap from yet-bare branch to branch – Joanne, you know it has been so long since I have seen anything but ground squirrels. In Portsmouth VA, I used to always watch the tree squirrels, but here in CA ... well, you have made me wish again for them. The scene, set by the coming of spring, where the branches are bare, and I’ll bet, the buds are visible for one who cares about the compliance of nature. sun’s warmth on my winter face – I guess winter weighs on one who wishes to see the rebirth. I do enjoy the transitions, and while sometimes turn my face to the sun just for a moment to become, I’d say alive. It is like in the dead of winter, I like to go (sans robe) out onto the balcony and feel the cold remind me of life. sweet smell of burgeoning earth – I could not have said it better, and I think it odd that you share this in this poem. The other piece I wrote speaks of the ground and clay. There is something so sensual about the first real smell of the warming earth; it reminds me of all creation, formed from the base elements of the universe that is how the earth is to the earth. cool-soft wafts of air bee brushing past my hair with slightest touch – I was outside today, next to the seashore, and the wind was blowing, and we are have our yearly visit by millions of monarchs and other butterflies- and the air is so filled with life that I feel a bit “guilty” driving along the coast. The fresh air, with warmth reaching inland is an invigorating change from the winter’s freshness. I just sort of turn into it and breath deeply. doesn’t mean that I am loved. – Joanne, I am not sure of love, (at least on a personal basis), and I am sure you are loved by the poets here, but the autonomy “somebody” has fashioned for us to be a part is far beyond the simple “necessities”, there is the “horn of plenty” when one looks to the beauty of this world. I agree, try and convince me otherwise. A beautiful poem, and I concur wholeheartedly!!	2005-04-01 23:37:41
Remaining Superior	Mell W. Morris	Mell, finally I get a critique done of one of yours and find that your poem hasn’t been spirited to the (to coin an analogy) bottom of the critiquing list!! Of course the story of the Edmund Fitzgerald is well known, but I wonder how many know more than the cursory history on that epic ship/journey. Your concentration on the “properties” of Lake Superior in inclement times grants great value to the entire event. Remaining Superior – You begin with an excellent dualism in you choice of title. Lake Superior, remaining superior, excellent beginning, just getting warmed up for the ride!! The hills of Minnesota are everywhere I go from austere badlands to the roll of green interior. There when the sun sets, a play of light and shadow steals my breath. – Mell, (you couldn’t know this, but if I win the Lottery, Minnesota is where I want to settle, so you have picked my playground). You description is so apt, the green interior left by the glaciers, and “mountains” (not mountains like the western ranges) but highlands shoved up by the last ice age. I can imagine, particularly if Lake Superior was catching the retreating sun from over my shoulder, I would be breathless as well. One night leaving Duluth toward north then east along Lake Superior with the idea of driving to Thunder Bay, I entered a fog bank unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. – Ah the fog bank, I can say only San Francisco and the Great Lakes compare. Superior, not as often as Lake Michigan (because Lake Michigan’s Temperature sea/air more often support it), but the fog is just as you describe it. I was reading your stanza, and kind of dreamed of the drive, on a nice day, and am sure it would captivate my soul. It was the crepuscular time of day, bats on the wing, one fog light far away and it was as if no one else lived here but me. – first off, had to research “crepuscular”, a great word. And you begin, you are on a roll, bats ( I dislike bats, one of the few animals I have little fondness for), on wing, and you are setting the scene, I know I am in the car with you, and the tension is exquisite. I thought of running off the road to the deep Superior where I would eterne with an old wrecked ship and mermaids for companions. – Even the thought, even though we have found her, and seen her, I still think of the crew, and down there, somewhere, they lie. On a lighter edge, I recall in “Ghostbusters” when the Titanic returned, and all the ghosts, of those gone so long, came home. You provide such a feel to the homecoming, or, if you will, the re-acquaintance. The legend lives on from the Chippewa down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee. – The “Big Water” and she is much feistier than the ocean, for to be land locked grants many more variables than an ocean normally sees. There is sweetness to such a tale, sweetness that nature herself has something in store beyond the wiles of all, including mankind. You have me thinking of what that might be. The lake it is said never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy. – Gloomy/Gumee, what a great rhyme!! It holds a foreboding, just because it is. “Never gives up her dead” and that is so true. Like the North Atlantic, the water temperature preserves and compresses so the lost sink, and are often not found. The North Atlantic and Lake Superior have much in common. Mell, this a fine tale that captures many aspects of the Lake and the people who are associated with it. The “Big Water”, is just that, but the tales, compare. I am glad I got to read this piece. I made my night.	2005-04-01 22:33:03
Rain	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, the theme of your verse, that of sustenance of the spirit, is caught well in your words. I, being a lover of the rain, (In fact, I’ll take a nice rainy day over a sunny one any day), found your piece very comforting, yet comforting as a seer shares with his clan. Rain – One can never approach the truth contained in “rain”, I looked for yours. Gentle April rains fall – You take this piece out of the “form” of strict haiku, yet maintain the spirit therein. In a sense that matches the meanings of your verse. The six syllables in this line balance well with the 7/5 of your last two lines. In fact, it was so well balanced, it seemed a 5/7/5 should sound, unbalance. Showers from somewhere unseen – Here you advance your metaphor, that of rain, yet the causation on the spirit. That the “somewhere unseen” did not create an “alarmist” tone to the line, indicates that the “reasoning” is not solely “watch out”, but more an understanding of the flip side of such a deluge. Drops of life for earth – Rain to the earth/food and water to those “in need”/and life. The symbolism of carnal, spiritual, and regard for the value of life are all merged in this final line. It shows the rain, the other side, and those who have learned to interpret/understand the moral value of them all. A very nice piece Marilyn, glad I came back tonight to look!!	2005-04-01 21:55:12
A Captive Bird	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, there is a song within this poem that resounds long after the reading. It is a spiritual piece that all must make a decision about, concerning themselves. I cannot say which cage is my cage, sometimes I vacillate, but usually there seems to be parameters of good and bad karma. A Captive Bird – Immediately we think, this bird, how is it held captive. If one is perceptive, you immediately look to the human spirit. When I'm alone and silence reigns I imagine you quietly call my name – A mystery begins to unfold, why is the room silent, (usually self imposed), unless silence means all noise without a particular person. We, together, imagine the calling of our name, by the other, who is no longer with us. I bow my head and veil my eyes to quell the silent river cries – Beautiful verse and rhyme – within the mystery, there is sadness associated with the missing person, missing noise, missing… and we know this will not be simply a “love lost” allegory. I hear hollow echoes of grief when will I wander to relief? – In my past, I have too many recollections of this condition, to the point that it became a friend, a feeling that was familiar enough to be associated with “fondness”. You describe it well. Clamor of whist in turbid air my being trembles with despair – Marilyn, there is a lyrical quality to this sadness, of “turbid air” and “despair”, and as I wish to carry for the sufferer, I know, inwardly, it is carried only by the soul that desires. Like the beating heart of a captive bird who yearns in vain to fly skyward. – The bird, yearning to be free, free of torment, free to create, free to fly, free to … the free spirit, no matter the loss, or maybe the transformation of loss into a spiritual inspiriation of flight. Marilyn, a wonderfully, lyrical piece. I hope it is memory of such pain that inspires. If you dwell now in such, I empathize with you, for I am familiar with loss. Reminds me of a bible Prophecy about Christ: Isaiah 53:3 He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.	2005-03-31 12:37:20
At The Real Life’s Return	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, there are works that call for an adequate response, and as I told Stephen concerning his Paradise Lost piece, it is difficult to critique 2300 lines, condensed to forty, condensed to my inadequate comparison. This moralistic view of Milton’s masterpiece, reminds me to follow up as if the need for such a view is vital . So here goes. At The Real Life’s Return Great Care’s gift to hearts in lack finds no delight in bolted ears, obstructed in themselves it seems. – Here you stress the crux in your first bi-stanza, that the separation of God and Man is “Man” causative, yet God’s derivative goal, that of redemption. It is an “internal” decision/lack of man that cannot span the gulf. Somewhat like Death, as it fails to effect his own removal and restore eternal life. – “None may come to the father, but by him”, and it is the stumbling block of man’s inability to grasp and react in “moral” actions that causes the need. “Internally” the “global” view of “moral need” cannot be grasped. Ought not perturbing thoughts on such a noble level impart flesh to walk the Way? – I think that is the question that vexes God. He created a moral being, why is the “moral way” so difficult to discern and follow? Though, any hope to balance scales rests far beyond and outside man. It’s solely that unwarranted love is born of such a renown that moves gratefulness to tears. – Once again, as during the entirety of the Milton’s theme, it is the unwarranted determination of God that continues to provide a means of redemption. However hard the sojourner struggles, without God, it is all a vain attempt. Yet, while death veils the souls - those souls past existence, deep in pits of yawning refuse, the angel choirs still are left to echo restoration’s hope to stand along His promise. – Lennard, the thought of “souls past existence” is an interesting aberration within the theme. They cannot contact the living, yet refuse to acquiesce to the throne. You speak of Angel’s Choirs, who, in obedience as messengers and defenders, allow a “local” voice of “restorations hope” Excellent comparisons. Or, if one slumbers centuries embalmed in death’s dour rest, his word is certain to fulfill the return of paradise. – “embalmed in death’s dour rest” how magnificent a metaphor, and of paradise, the word remains, before and after, the word remains, the determination remains, and redemption for the harkening remains. When every eye is bound to see his power restore the real life, the life exuding gladness, the life to last all time, the life bathed in perfection that life that He first purposed back there “in the beginning.” – It took me three readings to decide how to respond to this piece. “In the Beginning”, that statement of finality, (for the beginning always is), is also the prophecy of entrance into the realm of the Creator. “Life bathed in perfection”, I can say, I have no reference for the thought, and maybe I should. Next month I am submitting a short, theme poem concerning the same general subject matter, I hope you enjoy mine. This is a literary classic, and I must say, does justice to the 2300 lines of Milton’s. Thanks for making my morning.	2005-03-31 11:56:17
The Vow	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, this is a powerful piece that speaks to us all. You leave the genesis of the “Vow” as a generic regard. This allows all of us to place ourselves into your verse. Well done. The Vow – We wonder at all the “vows” we live with, those shared and unshared. Your title prepares us for the potency of conviction. Missing him won't explain away this craving for syncopation his heartbeats in me - That craving, when what was separate, became one, and then separated can never be one again, or at least without dealing with the loss of half. I know the need for that “syncopation” and when I read your words I could only nod, and be glad of survival. the common denominator of twice my likeness – I wondered at these lines, then settled on this, that once one becomes an amalgam of two, merged to one, there is a certain mirror image of both together. Away from that, the likeness no longer is sustained. absent from my flesh alive in my spirit – Latorial, you explain the malady well, of “flesh”, and “living”, and “spirit”, and loss, the “absence” that is the “commonality” of the union. longing won't bring him back to me now so I spread these wings realizing the vow – Once again we are returned to the Vow. I spent little time deciding what the “VOW” was to you, rather took your verse and made it a prescient part of “vows” that occurred within my life. “Spreading the wings”, and realizing. I wonder how separated that “realization” was from the vow itself, and if it is possible, even with healing, not to regard the loss, without regard. An excellent piece Latorial, I enjoyed the depth and perception of your “heartbeat”.	2005-03-26 23:48:00
Pepe LePew	Kenneth R. Patton	Kenneth, I almost died with “guffaws”!! Each of your “love” expressions I have used in poetry. For two of them they are in the titles of my poetry!! Am I Pepe LePew? I can dance, thank god I can dance. I read each stanza with tangible regard. I have come to understand, (thank you), that the “inner skunk” is not a bad thing. I guess the fact that it is inner means only the “verse” can really stink, if filled with overused colloquialisms. Thank goodness Vons has roses for 10 bucks, I never have to depend on a .99 center. I do know sobbing, and love.... I can dance, thank god Kenneth, I can dance. The jerk, bee gees, or even sayers,.. thanks for this smile today, it was a fine relief for a soul steeped in the musk of l’amour	2005-03-26 22:57:24
On the Banks of Sweet Marie	Sean Donaghy	Sean, I saw this piece on my list for a while, finally I am here. I have a fondness for Ireland that belies my Italian heritage, or maybe because of it. Your verse did not let me down, for it is more a Joyce, bardic verse than a Yeats, transferal. I do appreciate the both. On the Banks of Sweet Marie – Excellent title, takes us immediately there!! On the quiet banks of Sweet Marie, when the mist drapes 'round the reeds, when the dawn has barely touched the lea and the shades of night recede, we'll leave our footprints in the moss on the banks of Sweet Marie. – Sean, you immediately take us to the place of dreams, there on the Sweet Marie! The “reeds” with mist, “dawn” on the lea, “shades” of night (great inverted analogy, of all lines, that will stay with me), and our “OUR” footprints in the moss. Should I travel again, I shall have to visit the Sweet Marie! On the velvet banks of Sweet Marie, where the purple violet grows, where the magic of the morning dew bejewels the budding rose, we'll watch the waters wash the stones on the banks of Sweet Marie. – Such perfect meter and rhymes, they add to the overall sentience of the brook itself. It is “morning” and the glistening is magical, the “violet” grows, but moreover, in this verse you splash an initial “black and white” canvass with its first color!! “budding” rose, soon to open to the sun, while we listen and watch the “waters” wash, like the day does the night, and beauty does the soul. Excellent Stanza. On the misty banks of Sweet Marie, where sunsets never end, where the moon and stars wait patiently for daylight to descend; Gathers there a lover's dreams on the banks of Sweet Marie. – With a panoramic image, we wish the verse was longer, where the “sunset never ends”, “moon and stars wait patiently”, and our “lover’s” dreams are steeped on the “banks of Sweet Marie”. Sean, this is as delightful a romp through the dreams of Ireland as I have ever been. It is quite an impeccable verse. The voting this month will be difficult, but the prominence of this verse will not be. Thanks for sharing.	2005-03-26 13:35:31
The Sea and Me	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, I suppose it is no surprise seeing me critique this piece, considering my personal love affair with the sea. So, while I listen to your song, it is a seasoned sailor sailing with you!! The Sea and Me – I should have written a piece with this title, excellent, and personal!! If I had a sloop I would sail the sea – I wonder if you chose “sloop” for its poetic feel in the verse, or because of its individual versatility among small boats. The sloop, of course, is a basic, simple sailing boat with a single mast. Although the larger the sloop, the more cumbersome, for a single or dual sailors, it is easy to manipulate up wind and down, particularly if you add a short spinnaker to assist the port/starboard movements. the perfect small boat for the sailor through life. listen to care free wind song chimes and feel the breath of sunshine breeze. – Marilyn, can I stop, and check to see if I am in heaven? That is where you have taken me, the salt air, ah she is my love, she woos me. Terns would play in tumbling waves and dip their beaks in churning foam. – The churning, even of a wind driven boat always dazes and sets atop the sea, small sea creatures like crabs and shrimp. I have found it amazing, that at times, a hundred miles from shore, there are still the feeders, somehow escorting the sailor to sea. No moonlit shore could beckon me alee. – Yes!! You speak of moonlit shore, but across the water, the moonlit sea sings songs never known by landlubbers. Sweet river, run to the sea! A sea of tranquility would quell my ado even in a storm when waves boil and gray mist spray may slap my brow I'd be Fasinated (Fascinated) by her ferocious fury. – Nice change in the rhyme structure, and as for the tenets, I have come to share with the “fury” and know her love for the boarder. Not always can one appreciate the candor of the ocean, but if one did, the ferocity contains an innate strain of beauty seen no place else. Serenity will forever swallow the clamor and innocent seabirds will caress her bosom. – you cause me to pause, and absorb the oceans serenity, after one has seen the rambunctiousness of the ocean, to see the pure glass of the next day is breathtaking. I can hear the call of the seabirds in my dreams. My yawl may pitch and sway even gulls may yammer and yowl but no roil could dampen my zeal. – And you are correct, like a baby in the treetops, rocking, the roil, the pitch, are lullabies to the sailor, without which, no song would ever have a melody!! Excellent. There would only be my sails, the swells, the sea and me. – I am with you, we have sailed together, and there is nothing more intimate than that!!	2005-03-26 13:07:18
Your Pain In My Heart	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, I could feel, in your words, the love and empathy of the moment. Your loss became ours, and there is nothing more precious than that. Your Pain In My Heart – Lennard, you could have stopped after the title, and all your words would have flowed into us. A perfect title for a touching verse. It is from birth that pain is born as if foreboding life; - it has been said that the squeeze of entering this world, mimics the difficulty leaving, that only if life pushes can death carry us on. Excellent line. to draw each new-born headlong as murky flashes dash by time. – I have never read the descritpion of time as “mucky” before, but in spending time on the analogy, it is a perfect descritpive. It is usually when one can see the flowing of life in time, that time will alter the flow. In quantum theory, as a matter of image, time can be relative, and “murky” for one, is actually “flashes dashing” by another viewer. While in these days that have grown superabundantly too busy to quell enmity, - and the passing does have its own attractions, but the smells and sounds of intimacy are not so easily quelled. too frail to grasp serene, - it reminds me of the deserts mirage, an oasis just a moment beyond the grasp, but a venture that must be attempted. please grant me your pain. – Lennard, there are regards which the concerned souls must respect, for that respect is transformed into a modicum of honor and veneration. It almost seems, supercilious to recall only the intimacy, when the intimacy is quite entwined with the pain associated with living and death. Though I well know it’s only dreams, and those that I can’t own. Still, deep inside the marrow buried in my bones, I achieved your pain as giving birth in total immersion in me. – Lennard, I read, reread, and the potency of this last stanza never failed to overwhelm me. “Inside the Marrow”, there is the title for another tribute. The dreams unattainable, but the dreams that have seeded the fertile soil, they are the most powerful of all. To be “immersed”, I wonder, is it a tribute, consummation, or amalgamation of the spirit? Maybe it is all, in a maelstrom of life and death. Lennard, thank you greatly for sharing this with me. I am not you, but I know how to take it, and make it mine. Thank you again.	2005-03-26 12:48:01
IN DEFENSE OF INNOCENTS	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul, You say “The mandated starvation of this defenseless innocent is without merit, honor or compassion, and I am ashamed to be called a citizen of this nation this day.” And when the argument comes, how many have said a rod through the brain is acceptable to destroy a baby that will live? And when the time comes, how many of those who believe starving an innocent woman is acceptable, will scream for the rights of a despicable murderer, whose death will be far easier than those he raped, tortured and mutilated, whose last sight of this world was terror? Paul, we all may not agree on all issues, but your poem was as powerful as death is inevitable. I cannot but feel you have spoken the proper words, “Good Friday”, “resurrection”, “redemptions”, and “shame at sunrise”. Hearing God speak, “vengeance is mine”, does not absolve us all from defending the innocent, it only says that, barring a victory, God will speak last. I believe, you have written well of his despair, resurrection, and I have to wonder at those who can glory in the victory of the murder of an innocent. Thanks for sharing Paul, I appreciate you verse.	2005-03-25 17:14:25
Through The Pain	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy, this is quite a poignant poem. I don’t know, except maybe on a micro view, how universal it is, but maybe, whether sanguine or melancholy, it is a view that all children, and later people, know on a macro view. Your rhymes were a perfect match throughout the piece, and kept one, comfortable with being a little bit uncomfortable, contented, no matter some discontentment. Matches well your theme. Through The Pain – This title contains a certain level of discomfort, but also prepares us for hope. “Through”, means entering, and exiting, so pain is a temporal As a child much time was spent in wonderment nose pressed, against the windowpane. – As we watch, we are the child, and outside, the newness, the immensity, the options, strike us with wonder. There are excursions, but when the whole world awaits, (the windowpane of life) one itches to delve more deeply into the adventures waiting. Watching rain hit the glass... splat! as I sat nose pressed, against the windowpane. – There is a fascinating intrigue about rain on the window, almost like the day is come to greet you, and your greeting is like a wet rainbow, you see it from afar, it may captivate you, but it is not something you can utilize, other than with inspiration. That windowpane again, and all it connotes. Song of dreams imagine that pitter pat nose pressed, against the windowpane. – The white noise of living, of “rain” always has a hidden agenda, that even through difficult times, is transient and a mystery. The song, and the dreams, all pitter pat at living, and it is perspective that convinces you, through the windowpane, whether the good or the bad of rain wins the perception battle. Now a days rain is colder I am older nose pressed, against the windowpane. – I read this last stanza, and spent some time rereading it and evaluating. I believe there is a personal side, but also a universal side that allows us all to contemplate life through a window that shows where we haven’t gone, where we have gone, as well as where we wish to go. This is a thoughtful piece that stays with a reader. Thanks for sharing and letting me think and muse!!	2005-03-25 15:15:02
Math	Moira Grace Hamel-Smith	Moira – A splendid piece. The derivation you give to each process, and the way you assigned a likeness to other/type likeness, are, strictly speaking, valid analogies. Taking us through an “evolution” of sorts, was a delightful/insightful stroll along the makings of makings. Math – I like the use of this simple title, it belies the “complexities” innate within this poem and your thesis. Probability is the rhythm of the universe – You have instantly pegged the moment, from creations, to near misses, to matter and anti matter hitting/missing, ect,. the probabilities allow the properties you will speak to, to matter within the confines of a finite universe. Ultimately, were the universe actually “infinite” probability would become less and less an issue, ‘cept for the creation that allows “what is”. Physics is art, music is math. Random is the horse we have yet to ride, - Physics/art, Music/Math, and Random, yet known, this takes properties and allow the “average” to become a visionary on a universal scale. Although the Physics/art joining is the weakest link, on a physical level, it is actually the strongest link on a cosmic/emotional/metaphysical meeting. Actuaries(and derivative traders)are the Da Vince’s of our time. – Do you think so, I have a view of this, but I wonder, of actuaries really can account for the passion, introspection, and quantum acuity that occurs in daily passing. I guess an actuary of “rudimentary physics” and probability could quantify “insight”, but I think the Da Vinci, remains the individual able to tabulate all the “quantifiable data” and still overcome that with a detached creative impulse. Surplus is the goal of evolution. Profit lets us shift from Darwin to Maslow. It takes a full belly to challenge the status quo. – This entire stanza is a “belly full” – how much a statement of excellence can be made to equate what is to this verse? Goal of evolution/profit, Darwin/to Maslow, brilliant, and changing the status quo, via darwin’s natural selection, to Maslow’s hierarchy and homeostasis. Superb insight in this stanza, I will think of it for a long time. The trick, is to consume the surplus in a creative, non competitive, supportive way. The old model has clearly out lived it's usefulness,(in the post industrial world anyway). – Your thesis has been brilliant, to this point, and although the “status quo” would write “consume the surplus in a creative/noncompetitive way, I think for your thesis “to consume the surplus in a restorative/recyclic manner” would more fit the “post industrial world”. We certainly, and will more completely, have lived out “the usefulness” of past remedy. I have, in the past, immersed my self in the everyday.....at great expense. I sense that I have been forgiven. – In a transforming moment, for verse and for theme, you inject yourself, “ourselves”, that the opulence of indiscretion, is akin to the paradox of marrying structure and probability. And I wonder, who would forgive me? The universe? The child I leave behind? Mother Nature? or maybe, an instinct that Maslow understood, it must be me alone, for probability will smooth out all externalities. A splendid piece, so much an insightful, well done verse. Thank you for sharing.	2005-03-25 13:18:12
Monastic Surrender	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul, I speak with you in the appreciation of those dedicated to higher values. I have spent time at Monserrat, Torremolinos, and several Franciscan sites in Italy, and the dedication and giving attitudes always overwhelmed me. As you, in Torremolinos, there is a dedicated group whose entire life is dedicated to the less fortunate, where to be a part, is to give of yourself completely. Monastic Surrender Not abandonment of self, or aggrandizement of ego. – I think with these lines you put to rest the “typical” description of what one who is dedicated to “god and service”, really are. The fact that you used “not abandonment of self” is telling, for the reverse is, “they know themselves better” than most who are not so dedicated would. A realization of debt by the spirit, requiring internal absolution, - You speak freely of the “debt” those chosen feel they have for the spiritual, theological and internal needs of the “universal”. That they feel the requirement, at least in service or initially, of absolution, puts that requirement directly on the rest of us, who complain about far less, and yet grant service that is “telling”. demanding as pennance (penance) not surrender but consecration of will. – The consecration of the will, a penance that is really a misnomer, for in that penance comes the “consecration”, that is, the purity of service for God. Paul, this is a well done, descriptive piece, on what allows those in the service, to sing with joy. Excellent.	2005-03-22 15:09:34
Alignment Cues	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, unless this entire piece is rhetorical, I don’t think I understand: • inner child can’t dream • places she can’t go • people she won’t know • or the best sex she’s ever had I don’t know whether I’d call it crazy, but I am pretty sure that for the promise of perforation, I’d rather drown, but then, I really am not afraid to die, too much, even without all of these matters. --for too many dead poets-- maybe in the mix of it all, the crux is the cue, that what we see, isn’t really a pertinent part of what actually is, unless we write it in passion. To be lightened of that passion, maybe better off dead, at least for the poet. This piece made me think, but usually that is not unusual when you write. thanks latorial!	2005-03-19 21:03:39
The Left Slipper	Thomas Edward Wright	Thomas, throughout this powerful piece, the analogies, the metaphors, the vocabulary choices all accented the humanity of this woman. I came to feel, by the end of the piece, that I knew her well, that I knew you well, and that her passing, became for me, the quality of her arriving. This is a moving, powerful piece of work that anchors the moments you have spent with her. We are all blessed to have shared in the final moments with you. You speak with confidence and tactile truth --corpus of ‘Hawaii’- dropped one-liners (one-worders) - misanthropic burden - and finally we read "smile where she'd once worn red paint", all walking as we did with you and her. I, having lost a father, brother and sister, can feel in your words things I was unable to articulate at the time. You have brought alive at the passing, what quanta will do for our souls. I appreciate this fine work, it is exemplary!! Thanks for sharing.	2005-03-19 16:15:37
Whirlwinds and Tornados	Kenneth R. Patton	Kenneth, it is difficult not to get on and ride out the storm with you. Too much of what you say is quite familiar, and although, for the most part, I am not in the maelstrom at this time in my life, there is much I dread and desire of the passions involved. Whirlwinds and Tornados – Two of a common birth, yet quite different in their effects. I think that at first, one would say, I can survive the whirlwinds, but they are so much more common, maybe their effect is actually greater... 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 – You, in this analogy, this allegory, if you will, you place the human soul into the probability or possibility beyond the control of the individual. I know we can run, but why don’t we, we can ignore it, but we don’t, and its power is predictable- while the cellar waits, but we watch and partake, you catch destiny at work, in the individual, who is not fallow to the gamble. Laughing as they careen off leaving me for dead – Here is the moment of quiet. We lift our heads, and nod, amazed that we are not dead, and love/hate or the promise/reality, they laugh, but their is depth to the soul, for one who wishes to hang on. 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 – Once again, we are visited by the next choice/deliverance/hindrance, love or not, hope or not, and we move forward, the chances are better than no feelings at all, to care is better than being barren. Still, it beats the alternative- Kenneth, I agree, and you have given us all a view that is true. There are those, I know, whose vision has been pristine, at least they tell me that, but I have never seen the power of the soul in their eyes, one must know that power, to sing or weep the melody. Thanks for sharing, really enjoyed this piece.	2005-03-19 16:03:29
PROMISES	Edwin John Krizek	Edwin, there is much promise within the words of this poem. I presume that faith is not enough for “poets who seek peace”. At any rate I find much of value in the words you share, and I will return the favor, with what I see within your dream. PROMISES – There is a presumption of “life” as the benefactor here, and that the “final knowledge”, you are later to speak of, does not necessarily come within this phase of “life”. The very fact that you expect “resolution”, insists that Calm seas, calm skies. Wind blows from the south. Spring will come tomorrow I am sure. . – Having sailed the North Atlantic during “winter” I know the signs of calm seas, which foretell the coming of spring. Always, the cycle, the warm air brings the promise of rebirth and more tolerable days. Promise me this… Happiness floats like sea gulls in the ocean air. – there is the metaphor, or life taking on the peaceful qualities of floating in the “spring” of living, stable enough that it takes little effort to be happy. You can fly in your dreams. – We begin to catch the timbre of the writer in these two lines. Flight is not an easily found commodity, but in dreams, hope, seeking, there is the promise that flight, equanimity, can be attained. You can dream when you sleep. – I though a long time on these lines before responding, that of sleep, and dreams without the effort. Reality, of dreams of living, is not the same as fantasy, of dreams never to be made reality. And in sleep, there is a sentience that dreams take on, so difficult to find in the waking, promises. Promise me this… Find peace when you sleep- the peace that poets seek- the final knowledge that life is good. – I have found there is a great difference between one who writes poetry, and a poet whose passions are written. There is a “secular” poet, that knows the fundamentals of poetry, but there are those, whose life is driven towards the “peace” of unanimity with love, passion, and the universe. You speak well the difference. Promise me this… The world has a chance to be right. The mountains are right. The sunlight is right. The moon rises full tomorrow. – I am not sure of ‘right”, there is an unequaled quality that borders transience within the meaning. Mountains, sunlight, moon rises, all “rights”, but I’ll bet, with just the stars remaining, the poet is walking in the darkness, with just the right amount of insanity, to absorb the “right” of the rest of living. If night comes without her it promises only darkness. – It may be a part of me that understands, something, but I have, at times, come to know, better than any other, the darkness, and it perfumes the spring, when the winds blow.. warm again. A wonderfully tactile piece Edwin, enjoyed it no end!!	2005-03-16 17:23:10
This Fast Window	hello haveaniceday	Barbara, at first “sight” attributing speed to the window, like the parallax of a vehicle moving making the world seem to be actually moving, is excellent. I wondered as I read your piece if that same type of comparison would be expanded, so that the closest seems the fastest, and the distant, moving more slowly. I guess, I’ll have to discover your intuitions. This Fast Window I see your life, through this fast window Rooftop chairs Frozen clotheslines Gritty sidewalk stares – For me, this reminds me of those days gone, when the condition of living was not so tied to the wealth of living. When there was “a certain”, tranquility, whereas, now, this would be seen as “failure” after a fashion. Some may ascribe this to a low rent tenement, but it used to be, a close communal atmosphere. I wonder, of this fast window, and how the world outside travels. I think that you like me (that you, like me) Are stuck here in a random place No roadmaps showing blue routes What’s that joke about the rat race – There are two aspects that catch me in this stanza, the one of the “blue line”, that traveling requires access, if you will, but moreover, that the “rat race” belies the “metaphor or amplifier” embodied in the word “stuck”. You place a variable to living by being stuck “randomly”, as if the choices we make have an affect, but that effect is minimized by external randomness. “Rat Race”, is it a joke, or is this an attempt at cynicism? The evening light is dusky now You drink coffee in the kitchen And the phone it rings and rings and rings Lovely glow of television – I spent some time rereading this stanza. To be “stuck” and why, is it societal or from this side of the window? Is it the purpose to ignore the passing world outside the window, and not answer the phone, or is there a malady, a sickness involved that has cause the writing of this entire piece. Then there is the “television”, and an ahhhh... and groan.... is elicited, caught and held by the fast window, of scenes seen within the confines of the “boob tube”, more important than the real world passing outside the real window. I see your life through this fast window Passing trucks obscure the view Receding snapshots of a gray life I could so easily be you – There is a sound of relief in this stanza, but a localized perception, as if you are seeing the banker or cafe owner, each day, and as you watch, every so often the trucks block your view, and the monotony of the same scene, day in and day out, the “gray life”, is almost pitied by the watcher. There seems to be two windows, the television, and the window, and the person who presumes to know those outside the real window, is caught within his/her own “localized” window in a “rat race” of a different ilk. Barbara, I once told everyone how I critique, and it is always the choice, write what I see and risk being wrong, or avoid being wrong, and be dishonest about what I see. My decision is always to take the craft, and let it invade me, and live it, for a moment. There is the story to be found. Your verse has so many aspects, I probably belabored too much, but it did cause a thought, of life, living, and “fast windows”. Thanks for sharing, I appreciate it.	2005-03-06 11:35:12
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear a melody	Leo Wilder	Leo, I wondered what I would say to this verse. It is a piece that is more an “emotional take” than a tangible asset. I read it, thought and read it again, and .... now here I am with little time left, and I must respond- to coin a phrase, “and you know it don’t come easy”. I decided, (odd for me) to track my feelings for each stanza “thought vise” rather than look for a resonance of yours. In this poem, the imprint is reality, but the lighting is greater than the imprint. Silent night, Holy night, Three Dog Night, Joy to the world. – what strike first is the genesis, the beginning which is a melody of God, of umbrage paid, and then the obtuse draw into Rock and Roll, both which merge with Joy towards the world. There is the consciousness of theology, but the conveyance of Rock and Roll, (which for many was almost a religious awakening). Joy comes in many flavors, but the genesis remains the same, maybe that is the point of this verse. The Lord came, to tiny Bethlehem, before steel was king and smog killed the sparrows. – Once again you begin in genesis, for whatever else the Christ child means, the story began at creation. In this verse you leave a mighty image of the impoverishment of progress, and leave no leeway for progress that is “good”. Christ, of course is the “King”, God returning to free the world, and here we find that the reigning king, that of progress, of “steel”, has little moral value when considered together with the “true” moral theme. Almost an eschatological moment. As Elders shot craps, and loaned money at usurious rates, lepers were healed, and the lame walked behind the dogwood tree. – In taking the last stanza, we return to your original thought, that of a melody that remains in the back of your mind yet you are not quite able to filter out the clutter. Elders share meaningful wisdom of chance, believing it is a surety, but the cost, the “interest” for the average person, will be difficult to bear, without a way through the clutter. Then lepers are healed, the lame walk, and the dogwood tree with its white flowers- and there is a redemption in the melody, whether the melody is perceived in its purity, and that, is the reason for the Holy Night, and the melody. This is a piece that made me work, and maybe, just maybe, I caught enough of your meaning that we speak of the same melody. Thanks so much for sharing.	2005-03-05 19:39:02
Dreamer's Legacy	Jennifer Wilmot-Lavigne	Jennifer, this piece means much to me. I am not young, and not particularly well, and of whatever it is I leave my children, my verse and my songwriting, are the “dreams” of my soul. Your tribute is one, I hope my children can recognize, not only all the laughter, or tears, the good and the bad, but, when they remember ME, I hope they recall the dreamer. Thank you much for this vision. Notebook and coffee infront (in front) of me, Cigarette and pen in each hand; An ironic mirror of the past. A mourning ritual that has been past down From father to daughter, Pisces to Pisces. – I have day in and day out for many years, shared just such a scene with my children, particularly my eldest, Rebekah, who also has become a poet and songwriter. In a “like twist” for me and Rebekah it is “Taurus to Taurus”. I have put aside cigarettes, but they were such an entwined part of my “writer” persona, I had to learn all over to write, without that push. Cigerette (cigarette) and pen in each hand; An ironic mirror of his present. – Throughout this poem there is a resilience, a thread of the dream, a commonality of dreaming and being. That is, for those who care to look, the reason Don Quixote jousted windmills. The dream must, because it is who we are, and you captured it well. Once again, thank you for sharing a piece of you, your father, and me, with me!!	2005-03-05 13:12:48
Paper Planes	Jesus Manuel Lopez	Jesus, having lost a sister and a brother at very young ages, this piece had a particularly strong impact on me. I look at the pictures, and pass on the retinue, but there remains an uncle and aunt that my children will never know. My brother died at 12 of viral pneumonia, but my sister, in a destructive manner like your brother, committed suicide, and now I only wish I had been closer. Paper Planes The power of your first stanza, the descriptiveness, recalls to us a time of yours, and in that time, we come to know, at least in some aspects, the destructiveness of drug use, but also the warmth and caring of family. In that moment, in front of Sullivan, we watched the plane with you, and missed the brother, through your eyes. landing softly today – such a powerful transition. The plane launched by the older brother, through time, lands at the feet of his nephew, still recalled and duplicated by his brother, and carried with such warmth. “softly”, there we see a moment of your life, your soul, and what we share in, changes us. plucked up by beaming son a modest legacy – You say “modest legacy”, Jesus, the legacy you share, as long as you share it and your son shares it, is a touching, influential legacy, maybe modest to the casual viewer, but to those of us who see more deeply, the legacy, of your words, and your “flight”, exclaims a legacy of wonder, and allows flowers to bloom, from the fertile moment of a young boys soul. from a frozen teenage uncle never to be known except by paper plane – Jesus, this is a wonderful piece, of color, but also of life granted from death, and it takes “caring” of the past, the future, and family, to bring this so alive. I am glad I have shared the moment with you. Thank you greatly.	2005-03-05 12:59:33
Politics and Prayers	Gene Dixon	Gene, this is the opportunity for me to read to Sonnets, and also, since there is the “sameness” give a certain- “conversion” to my critique. It often happens on TPL when it is a common subject, but seldom on a more complex level, so…… away we go!! Politics and Prayers – Immediately it polarizes, but leaves the side for which one will fall to the body of the verse. Sort of a scintillating, yet innocuously exculpatory title. The body politic comes to the fore And calmly flaunts a great hypocrisy. – Here we see a stand being taken, and it is that the “politic” contradicts itself in some behavior, yet to be determined. Once again the reader must decide, take a stand, pro or con, and now that you place the “politic” into the mix, there is the a heightened sense of expectancy. Then leaving charity behind the door, Insists that for each kiss there is a fee. (Suggestions, for meter – something like: They insist for each kiss, a prepaid (or “brokered”) fee. – This adds a subject to your two lines, and repairs the meter.) These two lines make one wonder what the actual product is that they claim is free, yet actually comes with a price tag. Senselessly they seek a way to prove That deep in rivers clogged by man's pollution, Dreams might live while changing tides remove Castles built on shameless elocution. – This item is crystal clear, of the wasted words, the demagoguery, the word worship rather than action that is meaningful. Elocution spoken for the sake of itself. But yet, the Master's universal plan Allows few shadows, fewer shades of gray. – I wonder of the Ten Commandment “controversy”, of the ACLU disdaining the very foundations of our country, and with no “shades of gray”, of the “master’s” design, or just the rationale of what the “truth” of the momentous decisions. So if your life is longer than the span Of sun to moon you'll have the time to pray. Thus men might rail against the current trend Of politics and prayers that have no end. – I was inspired by the new vision of the country, not who they voted for, but that the vision resolves that it is greater than that moment, but not greater than the smallest belief. An inspiring piece Gene, inspiring.	2005-03-04 20:15:57
Lessons	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel, as always with your pieces, I had to read it often enough to ease the emotional draw it has on me. I sought to see if the extent of the verse, a very personal look at the development of an individual, contained a greater nexus or prosperity. I wondered at the “stop and smell the roses” overused axiom, at the “you can hit a mule with a two X four, but you can’t make him drink” oxymoron/mixed metaphor, and at my life, finally my life. Only then did I find the resolve to address this spectacular allegory. Lessons – The subdued matter of the title plays to the early “character” of the lessons taught, but later, shouts in embellishment, the future lessons- revealed. I like it. My mother taught me how to mourn – I sensed immediately the broader use of the term “mourn”, it is a symbol of the reserved, I here, therefore I am feeling of life. It leads us with “a need for redemption” that you provide in your next, “nixed nexus” that represents the future revelations. {not how to greet the morning wild with gladness, drunk with dreams and stumbling toward a bliss of consciousness} – I understood this, the giddiness of living, of striving, of discovery, of intemperate spirit, and I “mourned” that mother could not display it, possibly did not know of its calling, but more likely, that she had lost or misinterpreted the zeal of her youth. My father taught me how strive toward a worker’s world of peace – This sounds like my father, a good man, who when he laughed, lit up the room, but more often he made do, and worked, and he taught me by example, how to be a “good man”. Once again, there is an aspect that makes one wish for more. [not how to make a picket fence behave or satisfy demands of massing dandelions] – I was a boy, I learned the picket fence thing, (I am not sure you meant a metaphor here, but if you did, he also taught me how “fences make good neighbors”, but that is a lesson with more drawbacks than boons), but “massing dandelions”, I worked all my summers to that end, but if I understand you right, there in the dandelion is the spirit neglected. and you – you slapped me wide awake and taught me to attend the light – I do not think this day comes for many, or maybe many just see the slap, and duck or wince. “To attend the light”, promontory to freedom, to beauty. Awaken the spirit to the souls desires. Excellent transition. and listen for the sounds of life that bubble up in kneaded clay – There was once a transformation with me, that at times I must “stir up the spirit within” to maintain coincidence with. You hear and see the sounds of life, the resolve of creation that you were unaware of, till that moment which broke the mold, and allowed flight. “The kneaded clay” produces a pot, that is hardened in the kiln, glazed and usually hand painted. The “kneaded clay” takes the form the creator designs. Rachel, the “bubble up” indicates that the kneading of the human spirit is an on going aspect of life, and that the final vessel, glazed and painted, will only be seen when the pot is completed at the end of our life. I also concur, that the awakening, if clinged to, will add a wondrous color and design to the final painting, and that is to be strived for. Thanks for sharing, I enjoy your verse to no end!!	2005-03-04 13:56:48
verse 69 (Thunder)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl, when I read this and reread it, I felt like marching again in the parade, to own a piece of the thunder. Excellent work!! verse 69 (Thunder) – Sometimes I name them, sometimes not, you chose well here. It prepared us, but more, when reading the verse, the distinctiveness of “thunder” is lost in the allowance of its unstated “purpose”. It made us smile, and then recall,. hey, this is thunder, and we would smile again. Evenfall parade – The most beloved by me, thunderstorm in the early evening, where the show is particularly well scripted, seen, and most are awake. You describe a gathering that later in the evening, is not there. As dancing lights serenade – My perspective with weather is different from most, and it is the lightshow that best reveals the grandeur of this “dimension” of the world. The light show, serenading, the tempo keeper of the band, mano a mano, tit for tat, both causing the head to rise. Excellent line. The distant drummer – This is like old town world, you know the parade is coming, you have heard the drummers for a long time, and as each corner is turned, and the drummer comes closer, there is an anticipation. The Dancing lights provide that same anticipation, as the distant drummer, approaches. Erzahl, this is an excellent piece, so glad to have taken the time to read it. Thank You.	2005-03-04 13:00:11
Rights	Mark D. Kilburn	Mark, and excellent representation of an archaic, misinterpreted clause. It was a different time, of different people. Although some here may find my agreement with this a surprise, you point is the same point that I have spoken so many times. "Don't change the gun laws, we'll lose to many rights". Grant me the right to shoot whatever takes my will. You have spoken a visual, powerful piece. Thank you Mark, it will probably fall on a deaf ear, this is one of the few issues both right and left join forces on.	2005-03-03 20:01:05
She-Who-Dreams	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, there is a reach when you write, a reach into the souls of those who know themselves, and whose soul has recognized beauty, in beauty’s terms. In so few words, may I ride the dream for a moment, and share it with you? She-Who-Dreams – “who”, “who”, dreams, the dreams, “who dreams” that said, it is. Calls clouds to tumble their soft tears on her waiting face for parched fields of grass. – In first read, it seems there is redemption sought for the thirsty, for the needy, yet you have said “waiting face”, ah, Joanne, the hope is not without knowledge, the needy are really the caterpillars who will meet transformation when the metamorphosis occurs. Parched fields of grass- like spring awaiting the end of winter, the fields await the rebirth of rain, there is hope, and I share the call with you. Weaves threads of weather’s whirl and stir into night, then makes quilts of stars. – She looks out over the universe, and finds the themes of its beauty, the patterns in the incomprehensible, beauty in that beyond beauty, yet, Joanne, she makes the quilt, she absorbs the weathers properties, the skies resonance, beauty’s valuation, and she has an answer, she weaves the beauty to the soul, and the soul matches the beauty as a part of the quilt. Only then, spirit mountains chant pale moons into the palms of her nimble hands. – There, in the hope, in the encompassing pattern of the quilt, the spirit soars, the mountains sing in the resonance, and it all, all the creation that maintains an innate beauty, is preserved in the creators wisdom, the tracing of each track required to extol her inspiration, spirit mountains, pale moons, nimble hands, the creator and the creation. This is such a beautiful piece Joanne. I am so inspired. Thank you.	2005-03-03 19:53:40
The Winter of 04	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, as always an image filled verse of perspective. There is, I believe, a greater metaphor of life and living, the good and the bad, the righteous and the evil, but you leave the door open wide enough for all of us to take a moment of thought, and decide. In stanza one, you leave ambiguity, the use of “seize” and “grind into submission” vie against “squeeze”, and “bear-hug”. The stanza seems to say, some may love winter, I may even love it at times, but this is different. Stanza two is a reference stanza, to place us at the point of the boon/crime. Yet you still leave in the fight of love/hate, with “drove”, meaning permission, and “impregnate” usually a well received, wondrous condition. Excellent. Stanza three is the first to add a definitive, “this is different” feel of winter. “Driving power”, Hair-trigger”, “explode”, all contain foreboding. Even ending the stanza with the work “snow” is not enough to dispel the gloom. Stanza four dispels whatever kindness might remain. “lunged”, “frigid” (I always like frigid, its dualism of meaning easily denotes both the temperature, and the dying pro0perty of winter), “cold”, “steel”, “shivers”, this is a bad thing, no matter any preconceived thoughts on the matter. Fearsome enough to snatch lives away and offer heartbreak in return – You share with us the soul stealer, the thief that takes the most valuable, and leaves the worst personal trauma. Lennard, this piece is a definitive of evil as it is of unsightly weather. How powerfully to transition us from whatever kindness we might feel towards winter, till the end, when the reevaluation, precludes any kindness. Powerful, excellent, thanks for the charge in my afternoon.	2005-03-03 17:29:31
Silver Storm	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	First off Nancy, I recognized the word, and the analogy to the bends and twists of a pretzel. Of course, my mental acuity is twisted, so there is a symbolism, inborn, of wood and would bees. Silver Storm The burnished birch and alder lie – Well stated modifiers. You immediately place us with the reaction of season and observers. As layered trees of tempered glass – I am a collector of “finished glass” do dads, and your description is adroit, at least in my image, and adds that “mysterious” feel to the analogy. Agleam against blush winter's sky Bent low by crystal circumstance – Very descriptive, the crystal against the blue. Using “winter’s” takes the blue into a crystal category, in a sense, because of its rationale. It's brittle homage, poesy pays – I really like this, “brittle” as breakable, and the homage of the poet. How inspirational is the moment that drives pen to poetry. Still, stunningly the woodland stands In pretzeled stems of crackled glaze As silver overtakes the land – In a breath, we see the tortured, blessed arborage, the glaze of crystal, and the “silver storm” that transforms (depending on a point of view) the world to wonder of blight. Nancy, enjoyed the read immensely. Looking forward to your next.	2005-03-03 14:06:51
The Dance Of The Snowflakes	sheryl ann minter	Sheryl, this dances in areas that are always of interest to me, the geometric design, the cool attempt of winter, the resoluteness of creation in all aspects. The Dance Of The Snowflakes – It is the title that drives this piece. Were you to have ended the verse with the title, it was sufficient to grant imagination and scope to a delightful scene. Thankfully, you persisted!! The dance of the snowflakes – I like this line for one personal meaning, the wind and snow intermix in so many varied ways that in a heavy wind/downfall we are dancing to a fugue, and a light wind/downfall it is a minuet, and all variations in between. Great imagery in this line. Although it is the same as the title, in this aspect it is a modifier rather than a definer. Many who don’t like the title used in the verse, miss the subtle difference, and I think there is an implied admonition, if I cannot see that difference. The larger metaphor, to the specific device. as they dust the vast horizon in titanium winter white – The use of “titanium” in describing the winter’s white is a powerful descriptive, it goes to the grip winter holds, to the encompassing mannerisms of a snowfall, the inclusiveness of the color (even to affecting moods and premonitions), but also the prevailing color of a season in general. each one a Picasso in shape, an original, minute, free form ice sculpture, from the abstract to the unobtrusive, from the symetrical (symmetrical) to the intricate. – I have only a “yea!!” to say to these lines. Having sat fascinated over enlarged flakes many a time, and copied some “patterns” into my creations, there is the distinct variable that makes this reality. Excellent!! The imprinted wonders glistening in beauty, adhearing (adhering) to our lashes, brows and clothes stinging our skin, burning our toes.. – In these lines you transfer the entirety of the winter experience, snow and all to a personal interaction. I particularly liked “imprinted”, almost like we are the creation (which is true, for we all react differently to the different aspects of winter), and winter the artist. Composed menagerie among the inclement weather, inordinate in its falling, enticing us to observe, to touch, to step into a second childhood! – I concur, and to this day, no matter, I am five again, and the snowfall is my play land. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. thanks for sharing Sheryl!!	2005-03-03 13:47:09
Shakespeare Lining the Birdcage	James Edward Schanne	James, this is such a splendid satirical/humorous piece that it has lightened the entire month of verse. It is definetly a top ten piece on my list, possibly,.. well I won’t mill my millet waste, on such a piece as this!! Shakespeare Lining the Birdcage – Already, I be a’smilin’ fool!! Me thinks the winged song that will endure is seeded by a lyric bounced upon – Osmosis, and the birds sing more quaintly, or desparatly because of the proximity to Shakespears charectors!! J Great! read sweetly between the feathers on the floor thou eyes feed thy throat a magical spawn – Molting and feeding, a magical ingestion of quality reading!! come peck the danish (what an excellent dualism of meaning, and you kept it small case, in case the casual reader should miss the homonyms) by the caffeine pool over the soliloquies of existence – (Danish- and the dead man’s soliloquy, no skulls a’loud) is that desecration on King Lear's fool or on Coriolanus with persistence – So you think AUFIDIUS was victorious because the bird “defecated” often enough? you splatter Othello with a vengeance – Ah, Othello, so misunderstood hunched over you turn an eye to Richard – Richard, grant the crown your ruse!! or was it just some millet that went hence then cringes my soul with a pitch absurd – I think it might be the millet, or maybe the high protein, reinforced … squawking loud in Elizabethan prose hatched for the stage you perch and proudly pose – And should you choose, (and have a bird that might) to teach some Shakespeare, there would be the Ides that march. And Excellent, enjoyable, piece not aviarice implied!!	2005-03-03 13:30:53
Outside My Window	Patricia Gibson-Williams	Patricia, there is so much in these verses that I cannot touch. The power and inviolate manner of the condition is so powerful that as you share of the vibrant, resoluteness of creation, I am absorbed by the knowledge of the near curse that would overwhelm me if I was, “barren”. I hate that word, whether of children, writing, the longing of the soul… when I use it, I feel it. This is a beautiful poem. Its beauty surpasses me. Each line calls to a different aspect of the transcendence creation. And when you collapsed, you took me with you. The love of my life, whom because of unalterable assignments, is not my wife, could not conceive. To this day, were I ever a single parent again, she is the thought that comes to my mind, the beauty I want my son to see,.. should trajedy affect my life. thank you for this window, it is too much to bear, and I am not the one who must bear it, that burden, I can only observe	2005-03-03 12:19:15
Prelude To A Kiss	stephen g skipper	Stephen, I really like hot. It can’t be too raw, but must be “hot” enough that to be too raw is not necessary. Yours is a piece that meets that character. Prelude To A Kiss – A philosophical title, it explains where you are going and why. Metaphoric in and of itself. Through the mists of time, we are parting the veils of mystery, as we now meet again. – “Mists”, “Veils”, “Mystery”, and now we meet “again”. There is a totality of excitement about this verse that belies a previous meeting. It explains, in a back door sense, how things should b, but also how, hopefully, they will remain!! Don't waste your life, on a single wish, for that longing kiss. – this stanza explains the last. It’s gotta be more!! I want more, listen to me!! I offer more!! Bring me a boat with sides of silver blue, lets sail away, to the new dawn, glorious in all its majesty. – Your stanza takes us on the journey, the adventure of an appealing interaction of heart and soul, the “glorious”, the “new dawn”, and the “majesty”. How poignant a thought, how alive the moment. I'm caught up in the thrill of the chase, tingles down my spine and my skin on fire, lips slightly open and moist. – A stanza after my longing heart, for the thrill of the chase heightens every aspect of the moment. I have delayed the gratification of the kiss, because I wished that “eminence” of particulation to be preserved, just one moment longer. In the end, it is the kiss, I was looking in, and wishing it were you looking in at me. Stephen, you caught the moment, and we have persevered!! SPLENDID, Bravo!!	2005-03-03 12:10:59
Abstract Ambiguities	James Edward Schanne	James, since Stephen Hawkings is kind of a God to me, and Einstein regularly enters into my macro-cosmic dreaminess, of warped universe fabric, time/space relationship and matter/energy convergence. I liked this piece. When transferred to the writer and/or thinker of such, it takes on a surreal, if it could actually be more surreal than it is, aspect. Kind of an inference of the subatomic and quanta to reality and restiveness. Minds on the edge of a black hole, there ready to implode, but also, the black holes influence is superior to all other “powers” in the universe, so we see a helplessness, ganged to utter supremacy. Descartes existence, or any other existential philosopher- and ending with the fist, I wonder if this is the fist of imperativeness, or the fist of revolution. One cost the Catholic Church domination, the other created Friday the 13th, and then there is the “augmentation”!! I guess wondering of the mind, and if hallucination is an actual bifurcated reality, is more a spiritual matter, or a mental capacity lapse of something… I write, and as I can see, you write, and the universe wins. Excellent piece.	2005-03-03 11:55:49
Understanding Dali	Gene Dixon	I enjoyed your verse. Almost as if I was observing a Dali painting, I read and reread you verse many times. In the nature of it words like “fraudulent”, “artistic”, “masquerading”, “penetrate”, and “different light” stood out as pertinent modifiers. It would seem, (his physical description not withstanding), that there was throughout a written flair that he might have given credence to, and that is not something to be said lightly. What most strikes me, of comparison of your descriptiveness, and his “nebulous” affinity for the abstract, is that both make me sit and look, and look again. Your title “Understanding Dali” which is the only line I shall directly speak to, is the perfect modifier for your verse about his “light” and the “indecisiveness” maintained through out your poem. I have found myself getting lost in his paintings, (not necessarily the lobster/phone painting, thought the Lobster/woman painting has that affect), and almost as you point out, I am not sure of the mind that presides. Probably I see your verse in a little different attitude, but the subject has always made me dig a little deeper, to find that “different light” that you speak of. Thanks for sharing.	2005-02-20 16:20:19
With A Certain Humming In My Ears	Mell W. Morris	Mell, the use of Pascal automatically turns this into a psycological thriller. There are depths spoken that, to this day, evade the explanation of wizards and dullards. As I sit waiting, there is anticipation within my reach, and presentations awaiting. With A Certain Humming In My Ears – Leaves one to think of all that is heard, and wondering how much is actually perceived. Makes me raise my head and listen. Pascal said that misfortune comes (to man) To man from being (because he is) unable to stay (just a suggestion) Quietly in one room. If this is true, I may come to rue my future days. – Pascal, of course- always an introspective reservist, maintains what all must learn. If you are not happy where you are, with only yourself and your mind, then the evil of that unease will prevail. Unfortunately those of modern ilk, misread the “evil” and presume it is relative to “moral” response, when in fact Pascal made it relative to “the good of the person imagining”, if you will. I, too, as you, may have to pay the piper, or maybe the “rats” will take care of themselves. One room can be a tomb: musty, Clotted air, a gavotte of dust motes – what an absolutely delightful description, the dust bunnies (motes) in a dance of celebration, for surely mustiness and clotted air are kin to the motes. Wonderful. Everywhere. The silent part is an Easy task for me as I don't talk so Long as I have pen to write my Thoughts.- I know this silence, and the “non-silence” if one takes creativity and writing into account. There is a precious view that straddles the air and contraire, but always sits in its noisy silence. I certainly can feel your analogies shrilly silent throughout my reading of this verse. Pascal also said that man Is so necessarily mad, that not to be Mad would amount to another form – I am not sure Pascal is right in this, but I am sure he is right in this when speaking of poets. There are those who are poets and those who write poetry, they are not the same, do not write from the same place, and one is sane, the other not. You bring the point, and I nod in my insanity. I am glad you found me there. Of madness. If my own ordinary life Be made of madness as seen through Pascal-formulated hypnosis, I demand God-given rights to have a full-blown, Proper psychosis. – You go girl, you sing it, you write it, you demand it. Pascal also names the insanity, but got it backwards- Man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed. – The poet glimpses both, and I think, reading your verse, there is a mote of both in each view of insanity. True it is, for the poet, to be insane, is the sanest among mankind. I know how to reverence such creation!! Thanks for sharing Mell, a great piece.	2005-02-20 15:45:04
Becoming Spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I am beginning this quest with anticipation. I know, when I am done, I will be exhilarated, and fulfilled. Becoming Spring - “Becoming Spring” a transitional title that acts both as the purveyor of heritage and the prophet for life. This morning, I step into woods, climbing over rutted mud past the trees’ soft caves. – It seems as you open, I am along with you, and the sights you see become a part of me as well. The “rutted mud” and “trees soft caves”, or such distinguishable presence, that to walk it is to have your state of mind altered, transformed, to that of nature. Untried tracks find mallard duck twosomes pressed heart-to-heart in dappled sunlight. – What a splendid scene, I guess the “dappled” is what sets the mood and motivation, but the vision of mallards “heart to heart” speaks to a union that only the best of recall may allow. “Twosomes” and “untried” speaks to the innocence of the coming rebirth, no matter the maturity of the moment. Modest hens glance over stippled shoulders, drakes’ heads glisten bottle green. They chat in quick quacks, perhaps planning ventures past the pond or in it. Now I veer off the path – How alive this stanza is, I am smiling and rereading the “chat in quick quacks”, the alliteration almost plays into the allusion of “ventures past the pond”. Simply a delectable stanza. sliding on slippery muck left from morning’s rain. – Pictures please, let’s all watch the slipping and sliding!! River stones rise from softened earth’s wet fingers, as if to see wake-robins turning shades of violet, - Sweet analogy of river stones watching the awakening of the actual causation of their rise. Almost an anecdotal description that borders on paradoxical complicity!! their shedding petals fallen from sultry seeds. – Oooh, the sexual/sensual side of nature, the reproduction of inanimate, transmitted as a “sultry”, chosen direction. And how I see this living world in just such a view. Excellent. Soon, hungry fledgling birds will flutter and wait-a-while weather once more slip away. Green sprouts will germinate again this year; as life renews, I’ll chant my joyful vision of it. – At least while you chant, I’ll be able to chant, by proxy of your verse, to the vision of it all. Joanne, an alive translation of a living prime. A very enjoyable walk through the woods with you!!	2005-02-17 14:38:14
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