Tony P Spicuglia's E-Mail Address: poetbard@poetbard.com

By adding a Personal Profile, the information you add will be displayed whenever someone clicks on your name from any number of different screens. You can also add your very own Picture, Favorite URL & Favorite Song to your Personal Profile!

So far 709 People have Entered a Personal Profile on The Poetic Link! Click Here to see the rest of them or to Add your Own Personal Profile Now!

Below you will see ALL of the Critiques that Tony P Spicuglia has given on The Poetic Link.
By Clicking a Poem Title, you can view the poem that is associated with each Critique.

If you would like to view all of Tony P Spicuglia's Poetry just Click Here.

Click HERE to return to ThePoeticLink.com Database Page!

Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Tony P Spicuglia	Critique Date
A Different Prayer	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, for one who prays, but at times doesn’t know why, there is a certain ambiguity attached with anything referencing prayer. What I looked for was a settling of that ambiguity within the meat of the piece. There it was, for now. A Different Prayer – Immediately, am aware of a “difference”, it heightens my interest. Housed in bearded memory, Thoughts feel their way Along the passage of time, Back to childhood. – “hooked” as a moth to the light, or a hungry fish to the lure. I have traveled with you, to watch, to see the boy, to be a part of a life too familiar, yet to detached to reach. Time travel without a traveler. I am kneeling There at bedside. I hear my whispered plea, That the future comes soon. – This poem is quite poignant to me at this time. It is not only the ending of the stick being shorter than the beginning, but also something my son said yesterday, and last week. He is six, and asks me, when will I grow up, it takes so long. I shared with him that I wished I was young and the two of us could play like kids. It was a novel thought for him, but I encouraged him that “getting older” comes soon enough!! Though today, I sit aging, Passed by many futures, Having heard rustling pages – excellent metaphor to stories read, and eras past. Bring me here, To this hesitation The present. – Lennard, how much a part of my life are your words. They jump out at me, chastising and loving me, and I cannot escape them. Here am I. As the clock ticks Its relentless move To still another future, I realize I don’t want To be here - or there. Ah, the here, and the there, with the what was lost to seclusion. A very powerful relief of the geography of life. So much treasure worn around the neck of the accumulated necklace of living, now would we give all of it back to add another day to the end. I want to go back, To climb a tree, To throw a ball, I want To be young again! – Beautiful and haunting, Lennard, a look into many of us, and into life.	2005-02-16 17:52:59
My Hero	Kenneth R. Patton	My Hero – I wonder if the line between hero/anti-hero is as thin as the line between comedy/tragedy, I wonder. Title caught me, kept me!! My hero – Of course, always gets all the girls… oh you said that,… Two years older – Of course, always a little older… oh you said that,… With those Clint Eastwood eyes – Of course, never mind, the eyes too, do you want to punch him out, or shall I? I watched With furious envy Through long adolescent years – This is an odd transition, there was a time when adolescence seemed it would never end, now I long for those days of waiting, while waiting for an end I don’t relish. Really liked “furious envy”. Powerful. Never seeing in my jealousy – Wisdom comes via inculcation, wish it was quicker. His own Subterranean fears (Excellent analogy, wish I’d though of it!!) Ken, this is as common a poem, as story, and as powerful a view of you, and me, and the majority of folk who seldom tasted the “rights of the beautiful people”, which, when I began counseling, I found out, were far more filled with “fear” than the rest. You wrote an insightful poem, I made a little fun, I hope it wasn’t offensive to you. A Great verse.	2005-01-30 12:32:44
Tree and Leaf	Jane A Day	Jane, this piece carries a biting, cynical view of the natural world, or a metaphor of humanity. It is often difficult, without crib notes from an author to decide the motivation for a piece. This seems directed, and I am unsure of the audience, it could be I am part of it. Certainly, this piece is not the sole principal of tree and leaf. Tree and Leaf – You have set the stage, and now, we are all ready to climb and see!! Does the liquid amber pity its leaves— the birdshit and wind, the caterpillar and nesting – (birdshit, that was a powerful editorial) ever singing birds. Does it pity the fall—the new dying-- even as it envies the colors blinding the sun for the reddest red and the yellow that will stay curled in a child’s hand, a crumpled and still fragment of earth. – We are observing the world through the eyes of “amber”, and how that tree sap would view the living/passing of its associated namesake. Amber, being the lifeblood, and the resiliency of a trees death, if so endowed, would be the perfect observer to consider your questions. To pity amber must consider death a more permanent event, rather than a cyclical response. The colors of the tree leaves are directly responsive to the level of cold, and how soon/much, the vessels in the leaves close down to forbid the passing of sap. I guess, since the prohibition of amber would be like shunning the leaves, to save the tree, there might be a certain bitterness. In the end, it is mankind, a child, that “crumples” what was once natural and alive. (A metaphor?) Does the amber sway more than the evergreen in winter? Do its branches hum out a lullaby? – I wondered at this stanza, of “amber swaying”, the producer of amber has been extinct for some time, but I assume you are using “poetic license” and that amber is the sap of any tree. The question would be does the pine sway more than the evergreen, and it’s branches hum a lullaby. I believe the virtue is in contrast to the first stanza, and thus asks, is there “celebration” at the loss of summers life to winters demise. Again, a retort of death rather than cycles, of personal rather than macro. Do its roots offer comfort to the leaves as they tumble, stutter and swirl to the street and make boats in the gutter— to become some old man’s clutter? – Here we have a concrete prediction, that the sap remains “alive” within the tree as the leaves die, and does it care that it is directly responsible for that loss. And then again, we see man, taking the final “judgment” on the natural world, and it is not a flattering look. (Metaphor?) The skin of this poem grows thin between me and the tree or is it me and the leaves. The leaves and I? The tree and I? – A rhetorical stanza, to end an introspective analysis. “The skin of this poem”, and as we know, sap is exposed through breaks in the skin of a tree. The moniker of self and tree, mankind and the natural world, or mankind and the passing of the natural world? I take on with you the question of leaves or tree. For me the metaphor is strangely divergent, and as what was in mankind is no longer, I feel the tree has turned the corner. Amber, worn around the neck, a tribute, if you will. Jane, I may have missed completely your point, but I feel I found a treasure of “pointedness” in your craft.	2005-01-30 12:17:10
From My Backdoor	marilyn terwilleger	Marylyn From My Backdoor - You know Marilyn, whenever I write, that is exactly the way I feel, whether I am in Turkey, or New Hampshire, it all seems "seen from my backdoor", excellent title. I see the lawn is brown now, embossed with patches - Love "embossed", it says there are less "healthy" patches, but it also means that it is a work of love, in progress!! of frozen snow as luminous as crystal jewels. - "luminous crystals" delicious Summer has succumbed to the rude growling howl of winter. - When thinking of summer, and the coming of autumn, there is the hesitancy of nature, where what will be is exacting a toll, but what is, must first "succumb" give it up, for the winter to arise!! Gone are the warm zephyrs and sun bathed days and I see a willful leaf is stuck to a lifeless tree. - Sentience, how I see sentience around me, pampero, determined to unfasten all clinging fronds. - had to look up the west north west wind, that touches south america, always love a reference, now, ... I know!! My tulip bulbs lie beneath like cadavers within their - Poor tulip bulbs, not cadavers but vessels of future life, yet they lay there! I wonder if in times long past, they were considered as dead, and only with our enlightened views, can such be dispelled. graves blanketed from the cruel catarrh. - WOW ... great.. another new word, but moreover a splendid analogy, that equals the strength of winter approaching and seated. Excellent, excellent, wow!! Did I say WOW? I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead and flickering stars to light my way. How sweet the sleeping moonlight will shine when spring begins to stir. Haze on far horizons will lift in the tender sky and the sun will ripen cornfields. Beguiling butterflies will adorn seraphic flowers and larks will fly on high. - I wish for the veiw, went to Pismo last week, and saw the Monarchs returning from Mexico, thousands, like a living flower moving in unison. Excellent analogy, metaphor to living!! It is then my grass will return to emerald green and warmth shall sooth my unfounded fears that spring will grace my backdoor nevermore. - And you are here to see it all. I know it will meet your approval, your verse has already overwhelmed me with approval. Welcome back lady!!!	2005-01-29 21:18:46
Yearnings Like the Lake's	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, this piece, a poem in itself, is a wonderful study of inspiration. When I wrote my last two pieces, I could have used this as the blueprint for achieving inspiration, for it happens much as you write here. Yearnings Like the Lake's – There is a little mystery in this title, for not being a lake, you leave us here wondering “what does a lake yearn for?”. We have our own impressions, but if you were studying a lake, what yearning would you find. This is great opening for the verse. I passed through woods today. Poems leapt from bent branches; wisps of fog called my name, wandering crows sashayed Wishful shivers up my spine. Fir branches silvered with rain bowed toward break of day. I reveled in road’s surprise Your first verse describes perfectly the calling of beauty around, of the natural world begging our fingers to bear witness, and in a natural type manner, “bent branches”, “wisps” of fog, “sashaying cows”. Excellent, I fee I am there with you, and now my fingers itch. I know the excitement of “wishful shivers”, the “silvered rain gloss”, and the excitement of the day, “just glad to be there and be a part”!! Curves winding through glories of green, but as an observer – “Glories of Green” how spectacular a thought, a coronation for life, just because, of nature, just because, because that is the identity. apart from creatures of earth with limbs and hungers like mine, - Here walking the lane, we can feel the indomitable place of humanity in the world, that because of our position and dominance, we must “work”, “meld”, at being a part of the rest of creation. I also have learned, the longer I am alone with my loves, the easier the transition becomes, until, once again, I am a permanent part, till again I leave them. Yearnings like the lake’s for her translucent, fingerling streams. Clouds dropped white faces to lap at likenesses in water. – What a transitional verse, of lakes and tributaries meeting the likeness of clouds and wisps, and vice versa, if you will. The symbiosis of the natural world contains, far and near, the interpretation of a properly gilded human spirit. Tonight, the moon will glimmer the lake and swoon to songs of early frogs. Owls in trees will throb with fervor I long for. Joanne, you have brought this scene to life, to the point that, I not only wish that I could walk it with you, but that I feel that I have. How sentient the alabaster spirit, held up to the natural beauty it revere. Superb vision- thank you for sharing this piece, Joanne.	2005-01-29 18:19:55
Nature's Angel	Mark D. Kilburn	Nature's Angel – Mark, what a perfect moniker for a hummingbird. It is also a preamble to your verse that presents a view of hummingbirds that, I believe, most of us carry, unbeknownst, within us, on observing their beauty. “Enigmatically perfect” Compared to other flighted animals, “enigma” suits well the idiosyncrasies of the humming bird!! Possessing sprinters’ speed And distant endurance – Both qualities that impress the observer, and the endurance cost the hummingbird the need to eat constantly to sustain it’s life. Excellent. Melding with visual intensity – The perfect description, “visual intensity” leaves one with the feeling “unmatched”. Perfection within motion Reflecting rainbows of mirrored prisms Lucent miniatures transferred – How beautiful a description, and the colors, I have never seen a hummingbird not decked out, to amaze, and always a translucent, affective coloration, in miniature, a rainbow transcendent. Infinite eternity Interrupted when stolen – Within these words, there is a sort of prophetic dealing with the “invention” of such a beast as the hummingbird, and the uniqueness to all other creation. Seducing the senses – With the hum, the beauty, the very colorations, “seduction” is an apt description of my wonder and desire to watch, and watch again. Hymns humming With each winged flap – I find it interesting you chose “hymns” as a tribute to a higher creative power, or the creativity that granted it’s most potent conception into the smallest of revelations. Excellent. Angelically flawless – Angels, I shall evermore see them as angels, won’t be able to stop the urge. So prosperous a description. Lucifer and Ruby Throated Yet breakable fragility – The power, and the fragility, it almost describes the necessity of a relationship, destroy the intimacy, and the power is lost. Beautiful!! Mark, a fine piece, an improbable piece, a perfect piece. Thanks.	2005-01-29 12:47:56
Syncopation	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel, you probably by now have thought I ditched having to critique this piece, and nothing could be farther from the truth. I have read, reread, put aside the critique because beyond the obvious, I couldn’t decipher the subliminal message. The piece is just too well done to be misconstrued by me. Yet here I am, another excellent piece by you, with the same associo-active properties that you excel at. Syncopation – Your title leads me to a dualism, that of the “syncopation” of a drummer to music, but also the interaction of different lives, intermixing with each other. If I was to wager supposition, I’d say your son was on your couch, a college student, and in the band. However, your description makes me feel like I’ve known him a long time and share in you “tenderness” at awaking him. My eldest daughter was in band and choir, (and performs as an adult), and in reading this, you create a vision well imprinted in my mind. There is a warm colloquialism to your descriptions. “morning pulsing” “indigo couch” “murmuring nutmeg” to the beating of the snores, of one you view “with tenderness”, and in your feelings, I have to smile, it warms me. What most strikes me, beyond the “tabloid” (which I consider a personal editorial of his evening, not a true tabloid), you description of hiding such “indiscretion” “between cymbals and sighs” tells me you ascribe such “occurrences” to youth and growing up, in a manner that you yourself, remember being that young. In all, you leave us with “dreams” and I can see you watching your loved one, and wondering at all the dreams he has life ahead “melodies” to be sung, and “life to syncopate” with. Such a beautiful piece, Thanks for sharing it.	2005-01-29 12:18:57
Holocaust Memories	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, there is a remnant of humanity in us all that recalls such evil. This is never about "I", as you point it, it is always about us, humanity, the sins of humanity against itself. You bring to light, in a poignant manner, those decisions, those horrific acts, those leaving this world in utter despair, and those remaining in the same. I wish this was a thing of the past, but I see Rwanda, Bosnia, Somalia, Mahaweel, Cambodia, Barzani, and the next, and the next, and I wonder when the world will read your verse, and care. The holocausts happen because nobody does anything to stop them. Thank you much for this image, we all need to renew our pledge to beauty, and the others unable to stop thier holocaust. Thank you for this verse.	2005-01-29 11:47:25
Narcissism	Debbie Spicer	Debbie, At first I looked for one thing in this verse, and found another ... and then I looked for another, and found something else, an intuitive piece. Narcissism – Self absorbed, leads one to see, to look, to be- The deadly misuse of bottled rage, - Here, the first response was “what is the proper use”, then again, one would have to identify the “type” of rage, “righteous/unrighteous”, this is an intriguing line that leads us to find the source. Well placed. poisoned. – Here again, we are unsure of the course, but sure of the harm. Even after reading your poem several times, I felt the power of this word. Existence belly up. – Immediately there is the thought of fish, but moreover, of death, not only of fish, but possibly a metaphor for the death of a persons spirit – note:(narcissism). The storm taunts slaughter. – We meet the bottled rage, the “storm” that in shrillness, disturbes the equanimity of existence. Yet, deeper, I see, another storm, a dualism of intent and disinterest. Downstream, a torrent grasps its hazy wheeze. – Although the subject is obvious, I cannot help but look deeper, and wonder at a wounded spirit, a touch of decisions and hurt. Left with torrid jaws of destruction and fish on a swollen shore. – Nuff Said. Debbie, I have a “swollen view” if you will, of this piece, I feel I have caught the spirit, and the obvious, but only skimmed the deeper meaning. This is a short, but powerful piece, and although it exists as a certain, reading of the “storm”, to me the storm remains, a man/woman interaction, and the loss of intimacy. Anyway, I do appreciate your piece.	2005-01-27 22:16:27
A Letter from Mother	Claire H. Currier	Claire, when one touches others, they are bringing a piece of themselves to all who wish to partake. It appears there was a lot of that with you and your mother. Here, today, you have touched us with your mother, she again has brought a piece of herself to us all, by proxy, in your words well spoken. A Letter from Mother – The title prepares us, we know, right now, there is virtue in this verse. My first Christmas in heaven And from where I am I can see you all At the same time No its not the magic of the season Its just the way it is here in heaven – What is best of this stanza is that you define, not your mother, but heaven. Your mother we will come to know in the ensuing verse, but now we know heaven, and are pleased that it is a place your mother “understands”. I just wanted to let you know I am fine Happy to be with dad He sends his love Even after all these years He never missed a thing – In this verse, and the matter of fact manner of your mother, we are beginning to know her. You haven’t shared a thing about her, it is her words which reveal her soul to us. And your Father, it is obviously your mothers way to encourage and sooth, and she knows it is important to you, that daddy is in heaven. (My goodness, everyone knows it is harder for dads to get there than moms, right?). For those of you Attending services On Christmas Eve Check out the night sky Searching past The bright North Star – This is a telling contribution to your verse, your mother wants to place herself, out of the limelight “not the bright star” but off to the left, there in the chorus!! As if anyone would have trouble finding her star!! To the left a little you will find A group of not so bright stars Yet just as important If you ask me For it is our first year Joining together to sing – You continue to define your mother well, and we know her well now. She knows her value to you, and to the universe, but also, she has joined others to sing during a time that is important to her, to you. Just in case you couldn’t hear her singing, she’s letting you know where to find the melody, hers, and yours. When you hear Hark the Herald Angels Sing Glory to the Newborn King Listen closely and you will hear Your mother singing too.........- Your mother reinforces the “environement” of heaven, of “The Lord”, of the goodness that awaits good people. I like that she is not at all shy in rubbing shoulders with Jesus, maybe she, as all, was a sinner at some level, but the redemption of life, of church, of the meaning of Christmas, is also mirrored in her voice and her smile. A tremendous revelation in this Stanza, now, we wish our mothers were all as she is; how can one measure such value? Just wanted to say “Me Too” loves Each and everyone of you......... – In a finally of this, and the next line, most endearing of all earthly words were transmitted, not a book, not proverbs of dubious value, but simply “Me Too”, that speaks to reassure/touch/recall beauty/and-or meet the emotional needs of all souls who waited to hear from her. She is, Mom! Remember I am with you always, This is a verse I will often think of, for my father, sister, brother, and others passed on. It is a moment, worth the visit. Thank you great Claire, for letting us know your mother.	2005-01-23 12:28:31
Reader	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, adieux, and so the writer comes clean!! I like how you begin by directing this to the reader, and then actually dissecting the writer. I wonder whom we shall see, .. a curiosity indeed!! Reader Writing begins to flow connected to mood or blood – I like this, often writers tell me they are “without inspiration” to write (song writers as well), and I ask them what the write about, and they say, this..that… this… the first thing I tell them is to write from where they are, about where they are and where they want to go. Excellent perceptive in these lines!! pounding behind my eyes, follows sensation in my bones of something a-borning – Absolutely Love this word, (a-borning) quite descriptive. which wants welcome but will come anyway, even with no place to land. – Absolutely delightful in a mid-west virginny type of way!! I like it, and all the words which have a-wanted release from you have been mighty nice to be a-reading!! The landings whether smooth or not, were a welcome respite from everything else!! It's not my fingers hitting keys nor words appearing on the screen or the electronic hum of the machine which cares not at all. – how much truth can a ‘puter or type writer know without the fingers popping? I know my fingers type words that I didn’t know they had been told to type yet, and press keys that I no longer have to map out for them, but no matter, the words appearing on the screen are a scream, from the brain and my dreams. Excellent stanza!! It's knowing that you read. Though I cannot hear your voice nor see your smile or scowl, I long to write a page whose corner you will bend. – Bend my ears, hearken to your words, rejoice in amazement at the celebrity of creation!! How poignant, how representative, how, .. savoir-faire!! Joanne, I needed such a smile, thanks, I’ll be smiling to the skies today!! By the way, I read it, and this is my voice.	2005-01-22 15:14:35
A Bowl of Cherries	marilyn terwilleger	A Bowl of Cherries - Marilyn, I certainly enjoyed the peak, and the Cherries, well, to many metaphors to count, let's hope they remain just sweet enough. My home town rested in a hollow with a river running through and stately rock formations that hugged the sides. One grade school, one high school, no stop lights, but we stopped at the corners anyway because a small sign said we had to. – The small town America has such a draw to me. Although I lived in a relatively small town, it was not the “America” small town. I am a bit envious reading this poem!! None of the homes or cars had locked doors and Chief Jensen was the only officer on the police force. – Those days were of another time. I think there are still places that are like that, and maybe that is the appeal of small town to me, that I can once again live that way, but I don’t know, I think there is an innocence attached to the time, that can never be recaptured. I was among several seventh graders who decided to throw snowballs at passing cars on Maine street and we hit Chief Jensen's windshield, a feat accomplished without even aiming. I was surprised at how fast he could run, he had to be at least 35 years old. He chased us up the steet (street) and into back alleys, I ran like the wind and climbed a rock wall to escape going to prison. With heart pounding and lungs burning I vowed never to break the law again. Rotting in solitary confinement for the rest of my alloted (allotted) life was not my idea of a good time. – this is such a universal feeling among children, yet I don’t believe I have ever written about it. I can see/hear the glee, and feel the wind, as you ran like the wind, and know the heart beating, then the relief…. how delightful to add this piece of “sermonized terror and glee” to your verse. I would have laughed, I think, when I finally got away. (About an adult running, my dad taught me that respect). In winter we went sledding and ice-skating, in summer we went swimming and roller-skating. – All rolled up in two lines is my childhood, kind of in a nutshell, without the complications, and you have left me breathing hard!! Gordon gave me my first kiss and I gave him a black eye with a quick right. A few years later he tried it again and then jumped back, but I did not intend to inflict bodily harm anyway. – I feel like I am sitting in my car waiting for Paul Harvey to tell me the “Rest of the Story”, you gotta ‘fess up on this, somewhere along the line!! I danced, sang, played the piano, twirled a baton, and was never bored or afraid. Life was good, like a big bowl of cherries. – Don’t know if you got your title from the expression, or the song the expression came from, but just in case, (and after reading your last line)… Life is just a bowl of cherries. Don't take it serious; it's too mysterious. At eight each morning I have got a date, To take my plunge 'round the Empire State. You'll admit it's not the berries, In a building that's so tall; There's a guy in the show, the girls love to kiss; Get thousands a week just for crooning like this: Life is just a bowl of . . . aw, nuts! So live and laugh at it all! Then I grew up. – Never a greater indictment than few words. Reminds me of a line by Saltheart Foamfollower, - to paraphrase – “don’t speak again for in one word you will make me weep”. That is the best type of line, and set up well. Marilyn, this is like the “readers digest” version of your life. It is enough to let me know you, (no black eye please), but also just enough to whet the stone. I hope there is a divergence that will hone the stone, for I feel I have missed too much in between. Maybe, just maybe, you can ask me along, as you walk home from school. I think I would like that.	2005-01-22 13:57:05
After The Wind Speaks	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, what a pleasure to read this piece. On a personal note, aside from scent, the sound of wind and the ocean bring back the most strident of all my memories, and if I wasn’t so in love with the ocean, the wind would be my chosen paramour. An excellent adventure you give rise to in this verse!! After The Wind Speaks – A great title, it tells us the subject, but also prepares us for the anthem, a “fore-mention” of things to come that have already passed!! What a splendid juxtaposition. It still is heard beyond the roar That rails over ocean wave towers And brings back a chiseled image Onto the page of memory – In this stanza you let me know, that the memory that is passed, is still living, that what was, is, and that the memory is only a partial to the entire story. I particularly liked “rails” a very underused verb that connotes a tertiary meaning of “rage” “travel by train (a metaphor for transiting, in this piece)”, and “to enclose or barricade” which although not directly imaged in this piece, the use of “towers” adds the image of “forbidding” which enhances the third derivation of “rails”. I particularly liked your use of “a chiseled image”, for those images, most pronounce, (at least for me) were often the images less intrusive in my life. Like the howl that twists A tornado’s untamed heart In (Is?) that single southern terror That swaths its summer storms – I can recall, as a child, my aunt grabbing us children from the lake, putting us in the car, and driving fast. We asked why, and at first she wouldn’t tell us, but then I saw, off to the left, the twister. We avoided a catastrophe, but it will forever remain with me. Your use of “untamed heart” and “swath” does a great job of reinforcing the means of your vision in this stanza. As one who has seen the “extreme humidity and quiet” of a storm system about to spawn tornados, “summer storms” makes a great mark of imagery. Quite equal to the feral charge Through Northern spruce that leans Heavily to file the definitive protest, Yet lingers regal, in the character That root among ancient boreal rock – I have always wanted to spend an extended time northward, in Canada, and Alaska, to see the Borealis, and know the untamed (if you will) wildlife and forests they host. I have known several who have spent time in those areas, and they have spoken of the “winds” that characterize the “normalcy” of living north. “Feral” is an apt description of what they have shared with me, and the hearty spruce (is there a heartier tree?, I don’t think so), protesting the wind, while maintaining it’s “regal” nature in the face of it. Great descriptive stanza. Or, the tempestuous rage Of a mid-November night When sleet rain is dashed In vertical sheets, like sand blown from arctic deserts – Although even the lower 48 know well that “artic” breath when it is blown, I can imagine the impact farther north. Because of the “jet streams” my friends have told me that often, when we are coldest in Minnesota, there is a warm spell in Alaska because the wind-stream gathers over Canada, and due to the jet stream, it isolates in relative “calmness” the mid-coastal area of Alaska. I know this, I have been found in your “sleet rain” “dashing” and the cold is bone chilling due to the rising of humidity. Then, to gush over conifer groves As they make ready a gentle cover Housed in each yawning snow drift, To hunker under, when their backs Are peppered by frost and fury That issue from the gust and gale canons That later tire, and rest in silence – The “yawning”, “hunkering”, “peppered”, “canons” all bring alive the methodology and properties of the wind, and set us up for your “coup d'grace”, the silence. And when we get there, even reading a poem, it is welcome because we are expired!! Like the souls of those absent in death, Like lips deprived of human speech, Like mighty men relieved of power. – I don’t know if your “seasonal” poem was also “current events”, but the final metaphoric comparison of the wind calming, the soldiers dying, stolen (silenced) lips “of freedoms stolen?”, and mighty men deposed is shrill as the winds of the north. I sense a motion of protest in it, but a protest of candor and care, which is oft missing in these days, and nobody know “where the wind will blow”, but I hope for man, that the liberty sought brings solace. Thanks Lennard, a wonderful piece.	2005-01-22 13:19:36
Cello Child	Lynda G Smith	Lynda, I haven’t had much time to critique this month, but have read your verse probably five or six times, just because it was one that I wanted to speak to. There are the simple things that make life the most complex, and the complex things that wear away life’s simplicity. In the timbre of this piece is a wealth of wide eyed wonder, from perspectives of a child, but also from the reflected perspectives of an adult. Cello Child - It was your title which first warmed me, and time and again, did again. The cello holds a special place for me because my daughter, a violin player, 1st chair after her first year, was prompted to make a choice. The cello player in her orchestra in Jr. High School, had left, and the strings were without one. She volunteered to take up the task, and in short work, became a VA state wide second chair. A great title, for me anyways, and sets me up with the mindset, to meet yours!! The cello child Sounds the heartstrings That timbre in warm dark notes, - I like the comparison of the cello, and instrument with warm, passionate sounds, to the heartstrings of a child. By capturing the sound of the cello, in the character of the child, we come to immediately know something about that child, and like her/him. A counterpoint to one shining day Written upon white parchment, Precise and poignant. – Ah Lynda, you enhance the child with “counterpoint”. Many may not know the import of those words, but they ring the complexities of the emotions and intellect, but also weave the necessity of “mimicry”, that is, of parent to child, and child to living. Excellent!! The melody Is bluer than forgotten forget-me-nots, Yet sweeter than pearls of mother’s memories Strung one by one, year by year, To grace the neck of winter. – In this verse you take us deeper into an introspective, thoughtful child. The “Blue”, “forgetmenots”, “pearls (always the more reserved, yet most elegant of adornment)”, and then you add winter-round the year to the “pearl” of seasons. Returning, there is a “melody” and almost like the old (excuse my use of an overtired comparison) “if a tree falls and nobody hears it….yuck”, but in these lines it is obvious that the melody is heard, with a certain reverence, for it is a living testament. Veiled in translucence By the curtain of time, They await their cue to embrace the night, To shed and share the light Of quavers scribbled upon a staff Of some simple theme, As from a dream, they draw what might By some be called innocence. – You draw us to linger, with you, at the waiting of stars, at the revelations of time, “cued in the embrace of night”. Metaphors of such beauty and reservation, and in the grandeur of eternity, there are the temporal signs, the “theme” that is a dreamlike metaphor to something greater, and the staff, an upright periapt for the introduction of life. One cannot help but partake, to references understood, or references that draw the “dream” from within the reader. It is the performance of a solitary child. No, not in loneliness But a loneness; The music of self-discovery, The lost muse itself in recovery. – The metaphor throughout of the child, but the reality of the child herself, there is the “blue” and the “counterpoint”, becoming evident in the development of the “theme”. The “muse” and the “music” combining in that self-sustaining counterpoint. Excellent lines, “not of loneness, but a Loneness” a solitary way, with the person most able to understand the melody. It can find in the child, the way home, Reading the melody In notes that map the path to symmetry Of soul and self, Those solitary blissful notes From the prelude to acquiescence. – Once again you bring us the “melody weave” of “paths” “symmetry” “solitary blissful notes” and finally, the culmination, “prelude to acquiescence”. There are such power in these images. In a sense, the Metaphor leaves the child, almost a “grown” necessity that without the child cannot have been, but in that child, is given life. Has the child felt the stir of passion Born by the song Infinite and ageless. And taking to that call Echo all, in clear-eyed vision, The harmony and joy of knowing, But for the teachers who would mute For the sound of convenience. Who are we, to dampen the notes Of a symphony in its’ infancy? – I am not sure what spurred this piece, but it is a piece well received. The symphony of a child in progression to adult, of stars and eternity, of melody and the “remelody” of counterpoint, the metaphor of creation within the child and of the child to the world. A splendid piece. Thank you so much for the pleasure of reading this “melody”.	2005-01-22 11:55:59
Aleutian Getaway	Mell W. Morris	Mell, this is an “off site” whimsical, well traveled piece. Don’t know if I ever wanted to be an Eskimo before, but I have always wanted to travel and live in Alaska. As a matter of fact I tried two or three times in the Navy to get stationed at Adak, Alaska in the Aleutians. They wouldn’t let me, too many dependents, anyway.. .here we go… an adventure!! Aleutian Getaway There are occasions in my life when I've wished I were Eskimo. The role would require fortitude, stamina, and at times, the ability to just sit and chew the fat. – I like the tongue in cheek here, “if you will”, of chew the fat, gossip, and fat in cheek, or just the entire cheekiness of the thought. I have the desires during the heat of our long summers, sometimes when I'm bored with all meals I prepare, and that's when I mentally write Eskimo recipes. Bear cordon bleu, whale kiev, and blubberburger helper. – What a deliciously written menu!! Although they are more likely to have walrus kiev, I’ll take the whale any time. (No hump back, endangered), and of course, the cost of importing swiss cheese would be prohimibitive, so maybe we can make some “mock swiss” out of goat milk. I have the whelming desire to become Eskimo while reading Sherman Alexie (thanks for the lead, now on my read list, which is longer that the whale they will have to catch to make kiev), I envision my arrival on the island in my new orange faux-fur- lined parka. It makes a statement but I'm unsure what it says. – Maybe a continental thing, but livin’ wid’ ‘dem you ain’t gonna where faux for much longer!! My Eskimo friends have killed a moose(?), whale (?), bear (?) to welcome me and as I lick elk grease from my fingers, the chief rises and motions me forward and as I stand there, - you are heading down a sensuous road that frankly, I find, exhilarating. I have never been easy, but I am always “interested” in the “moors” of more. he takes my hand and puts it in the paw of another Eskimo man of stature. I must appear flummoxed as an – flummoxed, great word, great word.. excellent!! Eskimo woman behind me says in a low voice that it is their custom to honor high-ranking male visitors by allowing him to choose his bed partner for the night. – Now, I have got to join the Eskimos and become a high place male. There seems a natural vent to the long Eskimo nights. "Moi?" I ask and she nods assent. – Oh, I do like the coy, maybe I believe it, or maybe not, but I do like it. Makes for an “ingenuo” feel. I can see the eyes now. The ultimate gift from an Eskimo is to sate the guest's appetite and keep him warm all night. I was preparing my escape plans when the woman again whispers, the best of all, she says, is the woman gifted to warm the guest is forgiven from all work and housewife chores for the next month. I smile, "Pass the elk liver, please," I say. "I've got some thinking to do." – I like the thought, but since I do most the cooking cleaning, money earning, here in America, there must be some other aphrodisiac to fit the bill. But, Mell, I do like the though of “thinking to do”. It makes the play date, self fulfilling. Such a fun piece Mell. Well written, and the colorful, underlying sensuality, makes me smile! Had fun, Thanks!!	2005-01-13 13:02:30
Boomers	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul, there is the resilient string throughout this entire piece. I wonder if you were early, mid, or late boomer. Occasionally the bite hits in this piece, but more often than not the philosophy gives way to the Wonder Years. My guess is early boomer, though you write well from all aspects of the moment. Somehow the early boomers were more balanced, and the mid-boomers saw no good in any of it. The late boomers, were the “Wonder Years” boomers. Anyways, you capture well “the moment”. The post war baby boom, thats (that’s) us. Before TV was, we were. – Great line, how much I recall with amazement TV, and later, mid sixties, color TV. Flash and Zarkov ruled videoland, Tonto and the Masked Man always won, and no one could quite handle Mrs. Kents' (Kent’s) boy Clark. Mickeys' (Mickey’s) ears were a must, and decent clean cut kids were hooked on Gunsmoke. – This is written quite well. I like the manner you in which you gave us a synopsis, but kept the “philosophical” inferences for another line. Truly, no matter what, there is a “wonder years’” that existed in parallel with other, “moments in history”. Where Harry "Gave em hell", Ike used his benevolent smile. The "Riders" traveled thru bigotry laden countrysides, and thoes (those) cozy smoke filled back rooms were filled with more than cigar smoke. – These last lines made me feel like you were early boomers. But then again, I am a history buff, who has studied the philosophies and makers and shakers enough that I could have written this much the same as you did. An excellent transition from your earlier lines. Camelot was envisioned and the muffled drums of that cold November day were endured. – (If I had any criticism of this work, I would say, add at least two more lines to this. It is the one thing that impacted all of us, no matter persuasions, and those lines only “intimate” the impact. The college eruption spewed forth angry clouds of Kent State violence through which even Goldwater hawks couldn't fly. – I cannot help but “go at this line”. The Hawks of the time were JF Kennedy and Johnson, Goldwater wanted to get it done and get out. Anyway, I think, characterize Goldwater as a hawk if you will, but if you leave out the other two players, you have “hedged” history. Personally, I think only Bobby Kennedy or Nixon, in that order; could have disentangled us, and McGovern would have cost southeast Asia double the five million that were slaughtered when we left. But somewhere time derailed us, and like our corn flakes, quietly sugar coated our reality. – This is the metaphor for your entire piece, and how true it is. You expand later on the thesis, but how much could we improve, if we went back and put the edge on the “sugar coating” that came out of Vietnam and Watergate. Excellent line, (on a personal note, I have often asked myself that very question). Now P&E ratios and Moneyline rule vidoland (videoland), IRA's and golden parachutes are in vogue, and "Takin it to the streets", means there's an art fair coming up. Perhaps, in the end, we become them........ – One might first associate affluence with “being them” but were they “them” who gave up affluence to save the world during ww2, was my dad, them, who raised me to love my country, and respect the constitution, or who exactly are them? Maybe, “being them” is only the vision of the next generation, I don’t know, but I think, I don’t feel badly being called them. No matter the war, the moment, the reaching for the moon, I like them. This is a great, thought provoking piece, at least, it though provoked me, and that always restores, me. Thanks Paul!!	2005-01-13 12:03:46
Cloudy Outbursts	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, a fun piece, and I do mean fun!! Cloudy Outbursts - A human reaction from inanimate objects, that actually are animated whether they are inanimate or not. Excellent. Sugar-donut clouds flick green leaves with flirty drops, swirl apart as steam. - The sugar descending from the clouds, "sugar" of course the second metaphor of the verse meaning, (the shape and granulation - similar to rain drops), but also "sugar" meaning - granting a little lovin', and thus we have the "flirty" drops. We can see the misting from the raindrops hitting, but also the "steam" the third metaphor towards passion, this one of course, being the heat between two lovers. Hives of rain-bees swarm into streams and rivers, sting streets with drizzle. - I like the "rain-bees", an original analogy, as rain often does sting in a hard pouring rainfall. The "swarms" into the streams and rivers reflects well, not only the rain directly into the water, but also that that rain ashore, will collect together "swarm" and enter the rivers. "Sting streets", never thought much, other than enjoying rainfall, of describing the drop as it hits water, but there is the initial quake, then a "stinger" pops up, and ends with almost a "venom sack" formation. Excellent imagery. Hanging very still, slicked-back thief clouds menace winter beach walkers. - I liked "hanging very still", I can see the ominous, looking at the world, almost, Natasha and Boris like. The "humanity" of the look, "menacing" the onlooker, who knows that he/she is powerless to affect the downpour. Finally, we are there, the beach walkers, the "concerned observers" of natures choice. And yet, they still walk the beach. Very fun piece Joanne!!	2005-01-12 21:20:53
On the Grief of Parents	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, you capture too well what often crosses my mind, sometimes haunts me. The loss of children, the need for closure, and how do I continue with that ghost constantly on my mind. It is incomprehensible, yet it is quite real. Stanza 1 is the remainder, there we search for "with our wishes" the one that is gone, on tombstones if we are fortunate, but in many places of tsunami and in the unmarked mass graves of the murdered the remainders are without that support, and can only speak, or wish, from their soul without the substance of final resting places. Smell is associated with the strongest memory recall, and certainly, I can imagine that were such a loss to impact my life, that everywhere I go, everything I do would bring back the deep seated memories of love and caring. No instant's seamed enough; all moments held burst like water balloons-- "sodden colors shrunken, to the size of small skulls" - How can one bring to life such death, but your words do. Having lost a child I never came to know, I cannot imagine the greater loss, of a child that I have had years to know and love. Joanne, I am not sure what I'd lose with a child, memory wise, but indeed, I have no doubt that the last encounter/s or the last encounter/s missed or botched, would be burned into my soul. This piece is too poignant for me, and far to powerful for me to dwell on. Unfortunately you have sold this piece, too well for my well being. "and tucking in... except that final one"	2005-01-12 21:18:14
verse 68 (Parents)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl, you speak to a difficult to stress ideal, that of mother/father and one as parents. I think you did a laudable job. This piece speaks many more words than those written, and the pictures are clear. verse 68 (Parents) From her womb we came – Of course, this short line covers the conception, the pregnancy, the travail and the beauty of creation. “Womb” itself adds an additional meaning of the mothers “care and comfort” throughout life, subsequent to the birth. The mothers arms, are the nurturing is a post-birth parallel to the growth within the wound. From his hands we were molded – I like this line. Too often everyone wants to make the man and woman androgynous. It is not only wrong, it is not “natural”. You allow the man to be “strength” but still allow his “nurturing” as a complimentary, not an identical, support for the child/teen/adult. From them we become – A great “ending/beginning” leaving no doubt that the product of the parents, are the children’s characters beheld. Whatever we all are, our parents have a stake in getting us there, and I might add, for better, and for the parents who don’t “nurture” lesser. And excellent piece. Well done!!	2005-01-11 17:10:02
When We Die	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul, there is a whimsical feel to this piece. I can almost hear the broken arm of a naturalist arm wrestling the aged weakness of life. When We Die Time's up. - . “Times up”, I have often thought about that, and what my response would be. Although I have my response set, I wonder if I will have the notion to notice at the time. So soon? – Always too soon for me. That, to this day, though I’m not going yet, (I think) pisses me the hell off!! Yes. Now? Come. Why? Necessity. – Oddly, it was “built in obsolescence” that caused the American manufacturing machine to lose out to Europe and Asia. It was only after we changed our “make the buy again” mentality that we gained, again, our portion. I wonder if somehow, … no, I just don’t think he will, and if he does, well… I’m an older model – upgrade is almost always more expensive than buying new!! Where? Elsewhere. – Well said, and I hope so!! I'm not ready!! – Maybe I will be one day, but I don’t think it will happen. I’m too in love with the beauty of this world, and living, but who knows… No choice here. Please!! Please come now. Oh G-d!!! Yes......... – This, I find is curious, I almost feel like Hezekiah when Isaiah came to him and promised another fifteen years after being told by Isaiah that he will die. Then again, I feel like this is God saying “what is it now?”!! A splendid, deep poem, in a whimsical manner.	2005-01-07 09:27:47
A Web Within	Lennard J. McIntosh	Lennard, so good to see another posting of yours. Although I read a lot of poetry, I have come to thrive on the excellent verse that might be posted here. You quickly have become one of my favorite poets, and you didn’t disappoint with this piece. A Web Within – Immediately you have us “caught”. There is something magical and mysterious about the spider and its ways. Most are fearful, but all are mesmerized. In insight, the writer’s web takes form beyond spider web patterns, within the mind’s design and moiled in painted dreams. – I can see the pot beginning to simmer, almost boiling, (to your moiling J), and the thread begins. In a few words you have me looking for the pattern of theme, characters, and intrigue. What sets this apart, (at least in my mind) is the “painted dreams”, that is, the Technicolor movie or quilt already set in the mind of a writer. (Patently I’d like to say all of mine develop like that, but sadly, sometimes I am surprised where I ended up!!). This mysterious eye probes hidden corners of night shadow for sunbeams that hold dust particles, celestial bodies orbiting some lost galaxy. – This is a beautiful description of waiting for sunrise, and the night still has it’s hold. There within is the metaphor, of seeing the plot develop, and as it does, the conception of the consummation, has yet to appear, though the presumption has already granted its clues. Then, as evening cover fades the light, little by little, measures of understanding rivet themselves. – Ah the sun rising, and strains of light begin to illuminate the landscape. Everything once in the dark, begins to become clear. Such a wonderful ‘scape of morning and the plot thickens. It is the creative voice emerging, as apparition in sound, whispered hopes taken forward, step by step, only to then transmute into brass trumpets detonated by sudden fountains. – I think I like this. An “apparition in sound” “whispering” till “transmuted to trumpets” and what was once a sublte sunrise, becomes the blazing of day!! What was once a subtle theme, explodes into the sensibilities of the reader/writer first one, then the other. Excellent!! See how finely the voice casts base passion, emotion written in raw script. – “Base” passions, that of the most primeval of all, that of the suns warmth, without which no life can be. The edge of intrigue, written well into the flow of warmth. What a delicious metaphor. While a curious muse guides sentiments of love, in the audible, aching, moan, which gyrates into fear far surpassing spines mired in spasm. – here we come to know the writer, who, upon seeing the product of his passions, is exultant that he has produced a piece beyond his “self appraisal”, that will remain, “a work of art”. How amazed is the writer who writes from a soul he thinks he knows, and then discovers the soul far exceeds his knowledge of it. I can see the flowers turn towards the full sun, and absorb the love and passions granted, never knowing that their part of creation, brings value to the greatness of the sun!! Yet, can this writer hide himself from faltering apprehension, even while he feigns boldness? Not likely! Nonetheless, he longs for levels of wisdom. Yet, only follows the wanderings of a pen, tied to brief hints of gifted ink, for all is written by means of the web, shrouded, and obscure. – The web that is spun, that captures the spirit, the writer, till the daybreak illuminates his work. “A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. “ Henry David Thoreau Thanks Len, an inspiring morning, indeed.	2005-01-07 09:01:41
A Right To Rut	James Edward Schanne	James, An interesting treatise, not sure whether it is written in irony, or ironing out the wrinkles. A wealth in a few words. A Right To Rut - Still struggling with the title, will write more after reviewing poem. (Alright – subscript, all sides have an equal right to make their points. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a regular O’Reilly watcher. Can’t fault that.) Read everything through the lens of insult all labels libel to the small print sleuths magnifying the anticontext cult arming erasers with alternate truths – Well put. I have quit reading newspapers regularly. Your description of their “selective” verbatim is excellent. Still you went one step farther by asserting that not only do they take things out of context for their own “itinerary”, but they also will “remove” what may bring to light their “larceny”. life swapping comparison shopping spree of indulgence lounging in comfort's bed demands of desire tradition free ornamental branches taken to shred – Your metaphor is more surreptitious in this stanza. Seems the opulent, (Americans – others?) who wish to be free, are sitting on their arses, refusing to enter the culture war that will, enevitably, destroy the very freedoms that make their lives “comfortable”. If I missed it, I apologize James, enlighten me. J returning nature spirited away to an equilibrium of the bland strike the faithful one by one till decay come all and embrace a generic brand – The freedoms lost will cede the socialistic view, a gender/political animal farm where everyone looks and owns the same. Of course the ongoing problem with that is the “fat cats” never join in, that is those who have the power. raising voices raise eyes constellating to the multitude of ways elating – When one begins to fight back against the erosion of our values, others will hear, and from that, they can halt that erosion. An interesting piece James. Boy your metaphors make me work!!	2005-01-07 08:00:24
A Birthday Psalm	stephen g skipper	Stephen, I think we all need a birthday psalm. The metaphor of a doting woman, who meets you on your birthday, to the coming of dawn, that caresses your life is a fine comparison. A Birthday Psalm She came to me, through the stillness of the night. – I can almost see woman/day, wending her way through the darkness of night, knowing, the warmth and zeal she will bring to me on my birthday. Clothed with radient (radiant) delights, her aura was shining bright. She has a touch so gentle, a blend of gossamer and butterfly silk. – You paint an enchanting picture, the webs floating on air, the silkworm, to be formed into a butterfly, and the touch “so gentle”. Both the countenance of a beautiful woman, and the glow of face and sun are alive in this stanza. Fingertips on my skin, tracing a pattern intricate and infinite. She teases and tantalises (tantalizes) my senses, she has a smell so sublime. – When threads are woven, they are woven in “intricate patterns”, and the closer you get to the pattern, the lest distinct it becomes, but the more the pattern is observed, the more it tantalizes. I wonder what would happen if we bottled the scent of early morn, and daubed it behind the ears of a beautiful woman, either way, both smell equsite. Lips tasting of a real fine wine, I'm so suprised (surprised) that this creature is now mine. – Amen, and we are alive for another birthday, so the applause. Clasping palms together, I raise a prayer of thanks to the heavens. That the darkness shall fade, my face will once again feel the warmth of day. Shadows joined, cast long under the heat and gaze of the sun. – As the days pass, in a sense the coming of dawn, love, and birthdays become more a ritual of “resilience” and pleasure. Here is the heat of sun, and surprising reward of love, how poignant. This song has now begun! – So it has!! Stephen, I do appreciate your piece. I believe, come a birthday, it would be a psalm well worth a repeat!!	2005-01-02 20:50:33
Old Friend	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, this piece has obvious sentiment, to me, and probably to many. It is a platitude that stands on its own and requires not amplification. I will jot down a few notes that strike me personally as I read it, but this is a window that already has the trappings it requires to be beautiful. Old Friend – I like this title, it presumes friendship as the norm, and the norm it should be. I hope I come to know you before we leave that it won't be somewhere between heaven or hell and my dreams that we learn to be civil, silly or resilient – You place not boundaries to the finality of civility. Your hope is for the prior, but your acceptance grants a “whatever it takes” attitude and reach. there's little time in life yet we make too much to hate – so True and take too long to hasten – here is a remedy within our control. to hills where faults are forgiven – I wish I understood the hills reference, but I immediately thought about the Bible verse “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” It was apropos for the subject, and forgiveness certainly is the key. I hope I meet you there perhaps totally unaware but if we never meet again remember, I am a friend – And I Latorial, and I. Thank for a wonderful new years adage.	2005-01-02 19:25:50
Where's a frog when you need one!	Lynda G Smith	Lynda, thank you very much. You began my new year on TPL with a verse that is warm, natural and philosophical. There is the moment of natural prescience, and the faith of internal interpretation. I wonder, after reading this verse if there will ever be such a simple test of one’s faith. Maybe, in the metaphor, we are all the frog!! Where's a frog when you need one! – An earlier girlfriend always gave me a “frog” as the symbolism of being kissed. The “frog” became a private communication of endearment. She originally chose that vehicle because of the story you reference, of frog and Princess/Prince. It still is endearing to me to this very day, years later. I’m not much of a princess. Beneath a winter white mattress, - I like the mixed metaphor of the Prince/Frog illustration and the “Princess and the Pea”. It reinforces you entire analogy of the faith within the “ugly duckling” if you will. Beneath my back As memory serves, - One has to have a certain faith to make it through winter. Surely, if you have survived one, you know that spring will come again, but there remains the nuance of the moment that requires you believe it will occur again. “As memory serves”, there is the faith. Many things don’t have the providence of a prequel. Lie golden pea-pebbled pearls Of chamomile, - I would have to presume your choice of chamomile is a combination of the scent of the flower in summer, the seeds it is produced from, and the yellow/white flowers that the ground cover has. Otherwise, it may just be that chamomile is common in your area. Indeed, however, where chamomile is common, the frog would recall the seeds fallen from last summer, that, as before, await the warming of the soil. Their golden heads compressed by time – The flower falls and becomes part of the cycle, that cycle, which as in life, is compressed to the past as time moves forward. The past is finite, one never knows if the future will be as well, by comparison, the past is compressed. A wonderful metaphor. And the weight of angels, the shadows of which Dark ray the remnants Revealing (reveal) nothing but a stirred and sculpted Memory. – I found this fascinating, the “weight” of angels, an allusion to the “protective” service they must bear, leaving “shadows” of the service once granted. The memory, like statues recall the past service/spring/life as a frozen/unassailable “remnant” that may, or may not, depending on the extent of our faith, foretell that once again spring/redemption will come. Splendid!! I can’t feel them; their nubby yellowness Strung upon strings that grace the grounds, There is a coldness that comes when faith wanes or is tested, as the winter, it numbs the senses/spirit, to the point that the existence of the object of faith is questioned. I particularly liked you use of the word “grace” for the ground. Chamomile, certainly by its appearance, its ground cover, its scent, and its medicinal uses, definitely graces the ground, as faith presumes that life will granted the grace of faith to be. Excellent. the eyes of mind, - I see “mind” but feel “soul”, and it is due to the coupling of “eyes” and “mind” together. That indeed, is the essence of spirit/soul to life. to bleach beneath their bath in frozen compression. – Your use of bath parallels baptism. By using bath here, or submersion if you will, you compare the passing through winter with the rebirth that baptism symbolizes. Once again there is the compression of life, that life before being finite, that life after being unknown/eternal, as faith allows. Still I ache to ache with sensory pain, - there is the “sensory” pain, you use this as an almost metaphysical term to offset the “numbness” of winter. This pain is as real as “real” pain, but comes from a deeper fount, one that only faith can remedy. to evidence my living and my possibilities. – I have often passed this pinnacle, and in the passing wonder if the monument, of past faith and accomplishment, or the remedy for what remains, will truly make the impact that I feel life should make for all. “My possibilities”, is a poignant and truthful picture. Oh for a frog To test my hypothesis And my faith. – We are back to the frog, waiting spring. The hypothesis of faith always presumes a remedy of action, but there are faith objects that may not become known, till faith comes to fruition. That frog, don’t we all wish for him, and the remedy of our faith. EXCELLENT verse, and I needed and appreciated the message. Thank you so much Lynda.	2005-01-02 13:34:31
New Year's Eve	Kenneth R. Patton	Kenneth, there is the outlook, and then there is the outlook. Not an uplifting poem, but certainly a powerful one. I think, with the revelers, I have seen that side, and with this poem, I recognize the other, intimately. I guess, mayb this year, I’m a bit in between New Year's Eve He took another swig and felt the burn down his throat and out The warmth suffused through every vein and capillary – I like the use of the word “suffused”. It is almost a spiritual word, and the “every vein and capillary” includes the network that makes up the brain and heart, or wherever else the “soul” may abide. Your twisting “burn” to “warmth” speaks directly to the “need” for intoxication. Now the rain wasn’t as cold The dark was friendly and sleep was welcoming – Your transitions are quite visual, even though the mood shifts, or perspective shifts are not. You take the mind and place it in a tactile place, where we feel, as he/she feels, the relief of pain. (Death speaks It comes in colors and tastes good Death seduces with comforting warmth that slowly numbs) – The numbing, the relief, is akin to death, the death where loss of hope is extinguished, or if not extinguished, certainly the demoralization becomes almost a pleasure, for release, even for a saddened soul, remains, relief. “Comforting warmth”, or the discomfort of cold, transitions. Death succeeds when self pity and isolation rule – One wonder when the pity for others is a time honored right, but the pity for oneself is such a riotous act. Then the self pity, leads to isolation, the crux is in your words. Only in isolation can self pity be truly applied. He took another swig and felt the burn down his throat and out The warmth suffused through every vein and capillary – And you end, where you began, and the anesthesia becomes a deeper reign, for what must be reined in. It might be said, in retrospect, that it is very possible that in this world, or any world, for some of us, it may have been this very cycle that kept us from Death, to live again. It might be said, maybe.	2004-12-31 11:37:22
HIM	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, how misused at times is the seasons focus. To refocus on the realities of what the lights and glitter mean, is tantamount to understanding why the soul celebrates, regardless of the gifts and banquets. You have addressed well the need we all have to understand a fundamental truth. HIM – I think “HE” would have liked the use of this pronoun in the title, it removes the focus from the “man” and assigns it to the gift he was. His stained glass image – There is “hidden” truth to this line, that for many who “believe” the image is just that, a stained glass image of little import. For a believer that elevates other interests to a higher plane than “the” interest should hold. hovers above flickering candles – The use of “flickering” candles, although understood in their base structure, is a visual metaphor to the faith which brings one to see “the stained glass image” as the end all of their faith, rather than the image being of one who “is” the redemption of their faith. Excellent! Eyes downcast, arms open, palms up – This is a common theme in images that represent the Christ. It actually begins in the 3rd century images of the ascension. From those images come many more that indicate his willingness towards “intimacy and transparency”. His “come as you are” message is enhanced by this image. I think, although the authenticity of the image is “cultured”, that the image does reflect the theology associated with the Christ. Reverence embraces the Nave – My assumption in this line is you are looking at a younger, childlike image of Christ, and the innocence permeates the image with “reverence”. I believe it was not without reason that it took him 30 years to publicly begin his ministry. The amount of wisdom, tolerance, and charity to be understood by the youngster, undoubtedly required much knowledge of the human condition. As a youngster, knowing his calling, he must have had his innocence tempered mightily. The shape and drape of His robe caresses Him with every fold – Marilyn, I read and reread this stanza many times. I wanted to assure myself of understanding whatever metaphor was implied. The outward meaning is straight forward, but also it is a meaning that does not require the use of this stanza in this poem. My final analysis lead me to believe you have included a purely “garment” description to present the totality of the Christ “man”, who although he was “diety” he also was man, and the flowing robe “caressing” him was like the Spirit of God surrounding him. Kneeling, bending to pray, only fragmented thoughts what to say? – “Bending”, “fragmented”, “what to say”, all lead to the character of the one granting honor to the honoree. Although taken as a pilgrim one would be inclined to presume an outward discourse, they are actually all an internalize belief system that mimics, “grants substance to”, the same fragility that Christ allowed, and an understanding that it is of such “transcending” import that the object of such a philosophy is as worthy of recognition, as he is willing to be idealized in truth. Can He hear me? Can He see me? Or is He only in my tutored mind? – This stanza sets apart his poem from the objective to the subjective. That there are questions, not only of the deity, but of the worshipers mind, is as much humanity as was the need for the ascension. In both are found the redemption of faith, but also in both, are the seeds of belief. An excellent stanza, there are seeds there for all. Burdens of sin rape my soul Emotional rue taking its toll. – The fulfillment of Christ requires the need for that fulfillment, that the propitiation is due, requires the need for such propitiation. I cannot judge the souls of man. From somewhere along the edges of my being emerges the truth - A personal look at all humanity, for the need of faith is founded on the “edges” of the being, as a “substance of that not seen”. Truth is a judgment by humanity, the truth either “is” or “is not” judged so by man. However, no matter that judgment, the truth “is”, nevertheless. His holy presence adorns me in garments of forgiveness – Now is seen the “garments”, the symbolism between the robes and holiness. A metaphor for forgiveness when “adorned” by God. A single teardrop revels my acceptance of absolution – The crux of Christianity is accepting by faith that God did contribut to salvation in the guise of his son. Absolution comes when that is imbedded in the soul. Forgiveness was never a “God” thing, but God knew that forgiveness was a requirement for the soul of man to function in the freedom of faith. Excellent Christmas Poem Marilyn. For all, and the season.	2004-12-30 11:02:00
Abiding Winter	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, as always a piece that stirs the desires and beauty in the world around. There are parts of this piece that left me rereading and rereading, just to ensure the import of the simplicity permeated me. Abiding Winter – I have always enjoyed the world “abiding”. Too few ever use it and it is powerful beyond its initial impact. The waiting for a desired result, the tolerating of an undesirable (on the face) condition, a sojourn for knowledge and truth. A very powerful title, that contains, for the subject, a bit of all the meanings of the winter truths. Frog sends thin love notes – The compressed sound of a frog resounds a long distance, and it is the purity of its note that allows this. Whereas the multi-harmonics of a orchestra would be lost, it is the purity of the croak that allows it to pierce through for long distances. And love notes; I have often lain awake and listened for hours, the calling that draws me forward. Love notes indeed. Upward through icy night air; My heart returns them. – The crispness of winter I miss the most of weather, and to be where reaches the woods and the springs, leads me to the following day. Certainly, I have croaked both internally and externally, in return. I think after “freedom” and how it integrates to the spirit of the animal world, who unknowing the technological advantages of man, somehow persevere, and for the most part seem “contented” to do so. Yes, my heart returns, and yearns. As he’s now at work Warming an inhalation; I hear his stillness. – Joanne, for me it has not only been the bullfrog, but the crickets, and the morning birds, waiting to see the firefly reappear, or watching through the broken ice as another rainbow trout swims by, and there is that stillness, of soul and spirit, that, almost with the wait, breathes in unison, and exhales alike. A wonderful stanza, that grants me the warmth of creation. I think, beyond the “warming of inhalation” there is a certain, “warmth from inhalation”, that even the frog knows. That all the world breathes as he breathes, and listens as he speaks. Cooling earth does not Lessen his amphibian dreams – There is a real sense of tribute to the bullfrogs voice. To cold for mating, but dreamed of, too long a wait for warmth, but most make it, and a singular lifestyle that is interpreted in gadflies and larvae, but resounds in color. Those dreams are intrinsic, elemental, singularities, and sometimes, maybe often, I am envious. Nor slow my heartbeat. – Too little do I set aside all, to integrate with the fundamental beauty and mannerisms of creation. There are imaginings that I have which install the breath of bullfrogs in my soul, but I find it difficult to set aside the time worthy of the worship. Fortunately I have such great admiration for the natural world, that I too, never regret the beating heart that stands in awe, as I await the next gift. A beautiful piece Joanne, so much the call and the response.	2004-12-30 10:13:41
Christmas Traces	Mell W. Morris	Mell, I found this a fascinating, sorrowful piece. I know the sweetest man whose house contains much of what you describe. In doing his lawn and cleaning his house one had to always remember what was precious to him, not to the observer. Christmas Traces Expired coupons for tissues, a tomato soup Label, the once-rutilant logo fading. Issues Of the Tulsa Times dated 1987 stacked next To a plastic bag of cans awaiting the cycle Of reform. No bare space, not a spare inch. – There is a wonder of all of the clutter, for as I have difficulty navigating the “mounds” he does so in a faultless, elderly manner that would amaze a gymnast. Sometimes I have watched him notice something out of place, and carefully move it to the area of his chosen rest area. Nobody else would have bothered, or known it was out of place. Health department workers enter then leave With officious head shakes, surly scowls, And lubricious sniffs of propriety. Words Such as hazardous, complaints, deadlines... Flutter through clutter like a molting moa. – I have little regard for the government, its intervention when unneeded, and its determination that it has the “end all of end all” wisdom on matters. This stanza irritates me… but I know it well. I do know that she has just been told by “strangers” that what she has treasured all her life, is worthless. I know that involves heartache, and that that heartache must not be borne alone. She must toss and rid everything by the first Of January. An enormous task which she cannot Complete during the time of year she loves best. In lieu of the Nativity Scene, she must sift and Screen every item she owns and divest herself – At the time of giving, she must give up. “Divest” is a great word. This is not “junk” to her, but the treasures that represent a lifetime of collecting. What value a person finds, is within the person. I find such value, priceless. Of most. Her last hope is divine intervention due To her inability of doing anything to help herself. – My personal acquaintance has a fine family that would do anything for him. I am often envious of such. I hope this problem finds help in the resolution. For the collector, one willing to share in the loss, would be a certain “collectible’ itself, whose meaning would transcend the loss of so much of value. She moves the stable scene to the table where it Will reign over all who enter. – This made me wonder, how long has she had this nativity scene, I’ll bet it is of great personal virtue. A ropy string Of tinsel falls from a box and wreathes her head In silvery coronation. – Once when I was helping a homeless man, I gave him food from burger king. He had a terrific smell that spoke of nonexistent hygiene. My friend asked me, how can you stand to be with him? I didn’t answer, but asked the homeless man if he would like me to pray for him. Without batting an eye, he smiled, knelt, and waited for my prayer. Later I asked my Christian friend if “now” he understood coronation. The tinsel, indeed, is the wreath of coronation, for a soul whose intonation is towards living. Mell this is a touching, wonderful Christmas story, that will remain with me a long time. Were I able, the woman would not work alone.	2004-12-29 17:55:08
verse 35 (Manger) - revisited	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl, such a spiritual sentiment in this verse. One may believe or not, but the warmth of your verse certainly adds a level of spiritual goodness to a holiday gone wild. In that borrowed crib - A borrowed crib is more than in keeping with the theme. Borrowed is indicative, as well of the humanity that Christ shared, till his resurrection. You might say, from his conception, he borrowed of that crib, for an end that would redeem the world. A splendid metaphor within the first line. God offered His precious gift - One might be led, theologically to question the validity of the story, however, whether faith is spawned or not, if the story is true and accessible, then the gift is without a doubt precious. Some might say that the gift is his son, but I believe his son is the vehicle. For one who has been forgiven, when forgiveness was tantamount to living, his precious gift is that altruistic forgiveness. Given, paid for, allowed, it all means, one can smile once more before God. Wrapped in swaddling clothes - Here then is the crux of the story, that the "omnipotent" allowed himself to be subservient to man, to his parents, to a punishment not due, and it all became clear, in swaddling cloths. There, most helpless of all infants, a human, there, the omnipotent, God, borrowed humanity, that he might redeem it. Wonderful verse, well illustrated!!	2004-12-29 16:35:01
X Me Happy	DeniMari Z.	DeniMari This is such a delightful piece that I could pull every line out and speak to it. It was like you were watching in my (sans snow) CA window and could see the draping and traipsing of Christmas to be and not to be. From the tape on Christmas hats, dieting, store by store – getting sore, you had the knack to unveil the whats and what fors. I had to laugh out loud with the “returns” and those not quite satisfied with their hauls!! You seemed to seam the entire Christmas experience into a unique, masterful, Christmas quilt. Ending with “have a merry Christmas day” returned it to the smiles of yore!!. P.S. should you decide to edit this for another year, one evolution at my house is the after-Christmas-bargain hunting, that has to take place, where, had there been some patience, all the revelers would have saved a bundle by waiting just one day. GREAT VERSE, and a nice smile evoker!!	2004-12-29 13:09:41
Nightmare At My Street	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl, I cannot say that I had any knowledge of this prior to your poem and the explanations included. It is somewhat terrifying to know there may be a genetic link that prevents the awkaneing from certain dreams of fright. I recall, as a child there were two nightmares I had regularly, and I believe in both, had I not awakened I would have perished. From this, in a sense, I share much with your verse. Fortunately for me, love has tempered my soul and beliefs, and I seldom, if ever have such dreams anymore. In your verse you take the “illness’ well, and bring it to us. From the modern day Faqua of Freddy, to your own “no weapon, on armor…” you tell a story that is frightening, and yet you also tell the unspoken story of continuing on in life, nevertheless. You eat, sleep, and pray, almost a “now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep”. An excellent view into many areas of life, and a fascinating reason for research for me. Thank you much!!	2004-12-29 12:46:56
I Named Him Ocean For His Father	Rachel A Couch	Rachel, I have struggled with this piece for many days. At times I acquiesced to its will and other times I thought “how much easier to dismiss it” and not face the realization that at times life and critiquing is hard work. Always I came back to it as if “it is the next thing that makes me want to live”. And here we are, me critiquing something that is beyond my fingers to speak of. I can only presume…. I Named Him Ocean For His Father standing on a frozen lake – I believe here, the lake, is named ocean, and ocean of encounters and dreams, sometimes iced over, other times warmed with hope, yet always foreboding for the uninitiated. Much like the ocean, I have a dire love of bodies of water, and the “Oceans” amass their stories. air rising from it moving to avoid heat oozing from all hairs on our bodies. – For me, I know the iciness of lost love, of memories displaced, of the needless loss of beauty, and I know, there is a macabre need to cling to the heartache beyond the moment. By letting go the heartache, the “object of love” becomes trivialized and I know the image may fade. pulling things from the air uncreated words, strands of memory, industrial cookware, misplaced dedications, and the type of brightly colored fog that takes the form childish insightfulness for a moment before it dissipates. . . vanishes. – I once wrote a song about this, the strength of industrial strength memories, scents, “childish insightfulness”, and the knowledge that as tainted as some of it may be, there is an innocence that permeates it. Without the innocent intimacy, hurt and loss are not possible. I was trying to create. attempting to do something – There are moments when nothing is beyond the grasp of a compliant mind, then other times, those times, the mind is not compliant, and emotions become “overstated”, and oddly, that is not a bad thing, for there is a certain joy also associated with the attempt towards hope. you were laughing trying to cry but the saline was frozen just behind your tear ducts (your eyes had turned icy blue as a result) – a splendid metaphor for the eyes of somebody who cannot feel the enormous feelings within the “scored soul’. Icy blue, like the lake in winter, icy blue, cold enough not to feel, icy blue, frozen tear ducts that seem incapable of crying for me. Wonderful, and tragic. there was no light not that it was dark just, there was no concept of light – The whole concept of this line, and the ensuing lines is beyond the “sound in the forest” thing. It takes a look at the soul, the moment of conception for all feeling, the calling of all intimacy, and asks, “did you really love me?”. I know you thought you did, but are you capable. What magnificent thoughts, and metaphor. BRAVO!! If there was no concept of love could we love without knowing [about] it? would love be forever painless if love was unknowable? – The icy blue eyes could probably answer that, but you have also taught us, later, that the ice melts, even though the foreboding remains. sometimes i hear Your clever words put to another’s clever song. How does an idea belong to you? can someone own this wind that is avoiding us? – Music is a powerful motivator of emotions, and there were times I had to end the radio clamor, or forever cede myself to self destructive emotions, fed by the songs. Who owns the songs, the writer, or those who feel the emotional pull of reinforcement. I asked you your undetectable, decisive nod told me you thought so. Can it be me i wonder but you cant know that, you know me was well as I do. – The reversal within, “you can’t know that” and “you know me as well as I do”, one a denial, the other stating why. You can’t because you are not inside me, and “you know me” meaning if you know me that well, then “why?” can’t you understand, it is once again, the icy blue eyes that cannot weep. the lake melts its warm thick water invites me in (for just a moment) I’m not so tired. – Rachel, I wondered at this verse, of the hope that draws one back to a false security, and the resolve not to go, because the weariness is not (may never be) great enough to allow it. But the invite is often there, when the other finds that “missing of a piece” is greater than what presently solves the riddle. Once I was afraid to drown, I remember the wave surrounding my head and in that pocket of air under the wild ocean I found you years before we meet because you were the next thing to make me want to live. “I found you years before we meet”, and in that personification, you thrived. I think your final stanza is an indictment for all of us fools, who presume that what will be, actually is. It very well could be I misread your whole piece, but I want to assure you of its power of suasion for me. It is a powerful piece that probably will reach beyond the bounds of the writer, to the souls of many. Well done.	2004-12-29 11:44:45
Come Be With Me Like The Rain	Mell W. Morris	Mell, there are occasionally those poems that must be read aloud to fulfill their destiny. I usually read a verse aloud, at least once, to hear its “poetical-ness”, but this one carries such a sense of beauty and irony that it is required, or miss the moment. Come Be With Me Like The Rain – Nothing you could say in the poem overshadows the eminence and imminence of your title. I could have stopped, and I would have been fed. October lights are wings of the sun which Swing into the sapless death of green In winter. – Whenever I read your pieces there is so much to learn just to understand your thesis. Once again with this piece the matter of knowledge adds a certain wealth to reading your piece. “Sapless death” where the “sap” viens to the leaves close, and depending on the amount of sunlight and temperature, the colors of the dying leaves are ushered or delayed. Excellent. The process of seasonal change Is inevitable, may be foudroyant, and our – (you win the prize for the only person other than me, that I know of, to ever use the magnificient word “foudroyant”. Here it’s dualistic meaning is most pronounced, that of death and brilliance. A Brilliant coup for you!! Culture is a poem rhyming the eccentricities – You first stanza, ending with this line, and “of nature” remarks to the essence of the soul. That in the waning and dawning of life and death, good and bad, there is the other side remaining, the “silver lining” if you will that transcends the temporal with eternal meaning. Of nature. Poetry draws from the dualism In world and spirit regions, a reflection Of life choices. – Your previous stanza did well to expound this principle. I feel the essence of what your write, that of the soul of the poet. It is beyond the temporal, and records its platitudes in verse. Our society has less form And restraint, slides of eliding, and more Hyperbole than understatement. – Society, you have removed it from its bannerless appearance and trivialized its appearance. One would at first believe that the effort was to limit the actual value, when underlying it all, is the reason necessary to affect a meaning. A well done piece of irony. Sound, inside The dust of itself, becomes tedious and heart Starts to pound for a vocable. – Similar to the foundations of a sun, the dust condenses together and eventually a planet or star will emerge from the vagueness. Adding a “sense of being” to “dust” makes the creation of “sensibilities” into a creation premise rather than “chaotic providence”. One might actually think from this verse that the “irony” of the previous lines denotes atrophy rather than entropy. Maybe even that entropy must, by nature be “created”. Some cuittle For cynosure, thus able to smell the jasmine, - Here you make your case that “sans focus” one is unable to recognize and smell the beauty of the earth, of creation, even of each other. Jasm to taste honeysuckle, and to find divinity. (Have no reference for JASM, have used jasmine as the root), the sweetest smell of all flowers (to me), and Italian and middle-eastern Jasmine are my favorites. I am never far from their scents, and their scents launch a thousand memories for me. Here you associate the nectar with divinity, that if one can rectify their existence, and absorb the scent of jasmine (analogy to enjoy and partake of the beauty of the world), then one will have the essence of divinity thrust upon them, an inevitability. All played out against the sublime Of history. backdrop – and the creation, that focus, remains a “sublime backdrop” because although it matters, it matters only for the purpose of higher goals. In my barren life, you are my sole And ultimate asphodel and you kiss my fingers, And walk away. – In this verse you personalize the entirety of your thesis. One wonders at who would leave beauty. Why the decentralization of thought, why avoid the scent of jasmine, why leave love, when love was already focused. POWERFUL, POWERFUL!! And I? I linger at the door, my Face pressed against the frame, whispering Your name. Sighing, whispering your name. – Watching the autumn leaves turn, and knowing the winter awaits, and soon, if one is resilient the sap will flow, and life will turn!! I know the whisper of names too well. Mell, I am overcome, this is so great a piece. To close for the needy, to distant for the needy. Thank you much for its arrival.	2004-12-29 11:01:38
A lovers dream	stephen g skipper	Stephen, you already had me reeled in. I know it is cliché, but much of my early “romance” centered around the willow, and nothing speaks to love, like the willow. It was a nice respite, to stop off and read this work. A lovers dream – Setting the table, and a well set table it is!! I'm waiting, leaning back against a drooping willow, - The willow stands alone among trees, for in it’s branches are the tenents of love and lost love. In it’s shade is the coolness of care on a hot day, and the weeping of rains reaching the ground. The willow, laughs and weeps. its roots and branches are reaching down into the lazy, twisting brook. – I can imagine the scene, and wish to sit and write, in the shade, observing the brook, listening to the breeze, and you have taken me there in two lines. Scintillating. The stream is washing brown, hump-backed stones and silvered pebbles that glisten wetly. – I particularly liked this line. The thought of the stream “washing” has numerous meanings, that of erasing old love with new, that of cleansing the soul, and also wetting parched lips. Your use of “hump-backed” stones is original, and I will try not to steal it in the future, really a great analogy, and of course, the hump back whales dodge in and out of the water, “glistening”. Normally I would say, “wetly” is a redundant term, but here I think it has providence, that the “refreshing” nature of the moment is dynamic. Autmunal (Autumnal) sun is casting shades and patterns that chase each other, skittering across the water. – You, for the first time place us in a time. I wonder if your ensuing lines of “shades and patterns chasing each other also has the import of the autumnal equinox chasing the winter solstice, (just a thought). your description is priceless, of “skittering” adding actual life to the sprites that catch the eye, and the shades and patterns that make one smile. Excellent imagery!! A gentle breeze moves colour (color) turned leaves – I particularly like this line, for the breeze feeds into patterns much like your previous stanza. (Suggestion: I might rewrite something like this, “a gentle breeze moves the multi-colored leaves”. The use of “turned” is sort of unwieldy and since you placed us in Autumn already, really unnecessary). to a rythymn (rhythm) of a natural, whispering melody. – such a brilliant line. “a natural, whispering melody”. The leaves of the willow singing, and the brilliance of the moment is that if you are not “prepared” for hearing, the melody will escape you. Excellent imagery again. Grasses and mosses grow beneath my weary feet – There is something about this line that stands out. You use the term “weary” for the feet, which indicates that the soul resting by the brook truly is the “erasing old love with new, that of cleansing the soul, and also wetting parched lips” and reinforces your earlier imagery. Also, it is to be noted that moss, (although it will grow quickly) must have a certain “maintained” climate for growth, so the weariness is again reinforced as well. and I think of the day when we can be together. – Here you present your case, why the “weary”, why the “moss’, why the “internal autumnal”, all the reasons why visiting that willow, by that brook is so important. Ultimately, you have shown us the love, and that love is enduring beyond the moment. Today, tommorrow (Tomorrow) is but a sacred dream, hand in hand, backs to the river we walk on into our shared eternity. – Stephen, you brought me to my favorite scenes, for my favorite reasons, and shared my favorite dreams. This is an excellent piece. A little fine tuning and it might be a perfect piece. I know, for me personally, it was a perfect piece of imagery.	2004-12-29 09:54:12
untitled	Rachel F. Spinoza	Such a heartrending situation. I looked up the map of the earthquakes tsunami, and indeed it was as if a huge pebble had been thrown into the ocean. These ripples at 500 MPH, changed the lives a millions, and took the lives of so many thousands. You capture well, the feeling of despair. I read recently that the fertile ash of Mt. Etna keeps the Sicilians living nearby, but always they glance over their shoulders in distrust. Those lost will only be recalled by those who remain, and those who remain will ever be looking over their shoulder. I fear healing will only come with another generation. Creation, is such a powerful word, and it is precisely what those who have survived the aquas holocaust need the most. Let us hope that the tourists are not also looking over their shoulder, the means of survival becomes more bleak with the departure of foreign means. Thank you for sharing this, I must say, it has been most on my mind and soul these last days.	2004-12-28 17:01:23
THE KING HAS SPOKEN	Monica ONeill	Monica, I guess, there is little here to really critique, but there is so much truth here that a comment is required. How this piece warmed my soul, of cats that I have cherished. I remember them well. CAT, my best friends cat, would never be caught dead doing all the things in your poem, but he was a king, the king of the neighborhood, and how. Piwacket, my Siamese cat of my youth, would fit the description you gave, and moreso. If you added a little more of the “my weary servants, serve me” you would have the blue blood aristocracy. There have been so many, but you have brought them all back. Thank you for a warm piece for Christmas.	2004-12-21 17:21:12
I Remember Julenisse	Rick Barnes	Rick, I had to read this, and reread, and wish I had read it once more. I had a feeling of reading the melody to a Bach contrapuntal rewrite of a Vivaldi concerto. It was that spellbinding. The master imitator Bach, turning the renown into the subtle, so it can be reborn renown. It made me observe many things beyond “Julenisse” to the base of what belief and faith actually mean. In a sense, you granted a bit of “spiritual” guidance to me for I am dealing with everyone in this cynical world of nothingness, raising children in a differing manner. My child must come to grips with “Julenisse” by force rather than by inculcation and the passing of the need. It was so very long ago. - I really like this opening, it takes any of us with “long ago’s” back to wondering what “long ago” are we going to. There was no real evidence Beyond that Which desire required. – This is a poignant statement of a childs mind, that the goodness, needs no other evidence, for it is good. In this more cynical times I wonder if goodness is a good enough reason for joy! I held it straight in my mind Such that I don’t recall A losing of the faith. – I remember losing the belief, but I don’t ever remember, as you say here, losing the faith. Later I am some at odds, but maybe we are speaking the same language anyway. A losing of the faith. – You are correct, belief is a grand metaphor, faith is the substance of a metaphor worth being a part of. A wonderful metaphor this entire poem becomes. It is true I no longer believe, But I can keep Belief and faith apart. – I believe that, if the readers do not understand these lines, they cannot understand what I am to tell my six year old, that Santa, is, because, and whether truth provides the means, it does provide the reason. One to nourish mind. One to nurture heart. The stream is never Two moments the same And yet it always remains The same stream. – I didn’t separate out the lines for this is like the stream you speak of. That the blending of heart and mind, allow for the composition of fantasy and reality, of altruism and graciousness, of Santa and mortal, of fairy and faith, and faith to nourish the moments when faith interprets truth. It is true I no longer believe, But I don't recall A losing of the faith. Rick, too beautiful, I have placed this poem on my door at work. If you would rather I not let me know. This is a powerful treatise on the power of faith to add substance, when substance is not the property of faith. Wonderful!!	2004-12-21 17:15:42
Jack Frost	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn, I have an affinity for the dawning of the day, and all it holds. This endears me to that moment when you begin, and I dream. “Healing fingers of dawn crept in chasing the last quoins of night (groans?) radiant convex gleams of light strewed the shadows, fanlike” – I can see the visual, the breaking through the apertures, the colors spreading like a peacocks feathers against the sky. Wonderful visuals, wonderful. “Much to my delight Jack Frost, the sprite, be-jeweled my windowpane – “jack frost the sprite” original and magical. wielding his brush of brilliant ice. –“Brush of brilliant Ice” once again refreshingly new Frosty petals and snowflakes etched beside the sash, inside the frame” – Etched, into the glass, as a beautiful layout, once again, new a fresh, this entire stanza should be “etched” onto a Crystal Christmas ornament and read daily. Glittering silver in angelic light – I see the sunlight, angelic touch, wonderful parallel. a masterpiece engraved in white. – of course, a masterpiece needs a master workman. Jack Frost's icy bristles made my awakening glow, my spirit soar, and my restless heart take flight – How you accomplished this with me. This is a voting list piece, and one of the best, most refreshing seasonal poems I have ever read. BRAVO!!, wish I could hear you read it.	2004-12-16 17:01:08
The Rectification of Names	Rachel F. Spinoza	As always your verse is filled with color and seasoning. This one has a little more seasoning than usual, but it is just as mesmerizing as usual. The ulterior is often blessed by the obvious, and in that stead, the blessing is usually ulterior to the cloistered. “the name’s the thing Confucius dreamed the Bard thought not” – I reread this stanza many times, trying not to miss the meaning of the opening salvo. The admiration for the “dreamer” is obvious, but “the Bard thought naught” seems inconclusive, in fact, it is normally the Bard who interprets the dreams of the “Dreamers” to the world. I guess the closest I can come to understanding the line is that the “Bard” borrows, and has nothing new to add to the “color” of the dream. Those who are “Bards” usually are the author of many more epistles of “truth” than those epistles borrowed from someone else’s “dreams”. Oddly, unless I missed the meaning, I find myself being herded into a net that the “casual” reader would consider wisdom. “dynasties fabricate banter crusade into foreign fields chanting adamant lies, wrapped in libelous banners” – although the cloak of your rant against the present administration is thin at best, your characterization has some validity. However, the “fabricated banter”, “adamant lies”, and “libelous banners” are not the sole impropriety of the “victor” or those who seek “victory”. I think you must have meant this as satire, because you are too intelligent to ascribe these characteristics to only one side of an argument. As a matter of “my own smile” at this stanza, I (knowing it was only my “multi-tasking” of the line), saw your line “crusade into foreign fields” as a larger metaphor for any who undertake to speak truth in a political forum. “Romeo is still but Romeo named, [and a rose is still a rose]” – A sweet scented piece of satire, and the romance of the moment remains with the object of that romance, and juxtaposed, the hatred of the opposition remains, no matter the “title” held. “At endgame we weary of editing tombstones and naming names” – Ah, I am with you, the lost, and for what? The calling we may not stand together on, but the loss recalls to me one of my favorite Thomas Payne quotes, These are times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. And in this, whether the volunteer, or the detractor, we “listen”. The sky is breathing birdsong oceans disperse whimperings of fishes and crab. In the last burst of screaming sunset I marry myself to nameless, undulating syllables and sigh – You finish with the life around us, the eternity of the ocean, the protests of the fishes and crabs, and the last burst of the sunset like the last gasp of the lost. And in the combined “noise” of “undulating” syllables, that of ocean, time and again reaching shore, you are bound. The nameless being those who give and do not receive the do of their philosophy. And I think, you are not kind enough to your preservation, and your vision of overall profitability. Once again you hit a splendid piece that makes me aware of all the things I hold dear. This is inclusive of your mastery of the craft, that moves me. I appreciate your sharing. Once again, if I missed your “suasions” I apologize, but am grateful for the “color” you granted me.	2004-12-16 16:18:13
The Stones I Carry	Medard Louis Lefevre Jr.	Medard, You have written a fascinating piece of transitions. The end of each is predictable, but the transitions held in common are poignant. I will quote “I can live with my lies”. Such a universal line, that it leaves on with a single “out” to disregard the condition of the author and apply the aphorism to themselves, thus the entire verse. You transition not only the “object” of your verse, but the reader as well. Each stanza has a dualism of cause and effect, and that effect is knowingly disregarded. Well done. “I enter a room with too many mirrors Reflections cast their scornful stares” – with these lines we see into the “lurkers” soul. See the face of a person to be scorned, and that person is himself/herself. Beyond this I see the theme of your verse, that “humanity” itself is on trial here. “I break all the glass with the stones I carry If I can't see myself, nobody else cares” – The breaking of the mirrors, is tantamount to setting aside the moral requirements that humanity require. Without Conscience, anything can be justified. “I enter a room without any doors How I got here, I never will know” – The difference between a man who has become blind and a man born blind is the man who is born blind won’t ask how he got there. It doesn’t matter. A man who has been blinded, will always ask how/why/why me and the answers will never meet the needs. Excellent metaphor. “I break all the walls with the stones I carry If I leave alone, nobody else can go” – These lines are so “overfilled” with possibility that it is difficult to isolate your thoughts. Here are the responses I can see, and hopefully one of them is your thoughts. The stones, carried throughout this piece, transition with the piece and other than the “predictive malevolence” associated with them, there is also a “cure” that their product brings. The “lurker” must carry the stones alone, and if he/she leaves alone, nobody else can go because the “stones” carried by one, can never tear down the doors meant for another’s stones. “I enter a room with too many windows Their light penetrates the darkness in my eyes” – Here we transition from mirrors to windows, both glass, but with obvious difference, whereas one reveals the “inner” intimacy, the windows now reveal the outer, and that vision is like wisdom and need to the soul, which may or may not be adhered to. “I break all the panes with the stones I carry If nobody sees me, I can live with my lies” – This is the intuition of the verse. The “lurker” is deceived by his own illegitimacy. He/she actually believes that destroying the windows, which allow light to penetrate his deeds/thoughts/soul, that he will be free of judgment, when in actuality there is no difference at all. Brilliant. “I enter a room with too many doors All of them open, inviting me to leave I break all temptations with the stones I carry If nobody stays with me, there's nothing I believe” – The finale, the temptations and doors opened for avoiding the judgment of wisdom/truth, are broken by the stones. Once again the irony deceives the “lurker”, believing that if nobody stays, there is nothing to believe, when in actuality, nobody stays because the belief system is set in “stone”. This was a splendid read. I am not sure how much time you put into your metaphors, but there is a world of wealth in this verse. THX.	2004-12-16 13:19:28
Unknown	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, this poem has such life to it, after reread and reread, I was still “tingling” from the phrasing and written theme. Your immediate catch, that of the people walking and talking inside of us, hit me with quite the meaning of my life. There is a “character” within this verse, and it is definitely alive with the meanings of that development. “We've got way too many people walking and talking inside us people the world will never know” – I have written on this theme so many times, and your words here were like dissecting the human psyche. You didn’t lay it out as a bypass of life, rather as the reality of living, and with me it hit home. “and it's an ironic sadness – this is the written definition of Greek Tragedies, where the separation of comedy and tragedy was a thin line. Only those reaching from one side to the other could ever really tell which, and the irony is, it was always both. a stillness that calms the craziness that meddles with our minds to deceive and leave our eyes ego tripping – “the stillness that calms the craziness” I would say you suffer from being a poet, for this line probably defines the true poet as well as any single line I have ever read. “To deceive and leave” great alliteration, but also it grants a look into the book that is the life. Wonderful. “There's nothing shallow in between but the spirit man they've never seen” – I like this, the “spirit man” not seen, that is in control, yet out of control, and the shallowness presumed, is the misnomer of a shallow sighted observer. ”who calls my real world make believe making reality of all my dreams” – ah Latorial, yes indeed, and without those dreams, if the person persists, still the poet dies. A pragmatic poet is not a poet, he/she is a mimic. “white folks can't explain it black folks call it crazy I just call it what it is . . . – this line brings me to me, of who can explain, who thinks I’m crazy, but within, there is the “enormous” unknown, but the irony still, by that “unknown” I hope to be known. unknown.” – I think I understand you best after this verse, that unknown, is not so distant from the voids in me. This is a beautiful and stirring piece. I think it is my favorite of yours to date.	2004-12-15 19:44:28
Black On White	Mark D. Kilburn	Mark, this is a spectacular “visual” that indeed, would remain beyond the winter. Your title caught me immediately, and the word RAVENS on my page of white, accentuated the title. I don’t know if you planned the “powerful” Ravens on a white sheet to mimic the birds in snow, but it was definitely a reinforcement of your theme. I have a love of winter, beyond the snow, but a love of the snow as well. I also have an envious love of Birds, and to combine them is well suited if well done. You have caught, in a sense the feral nature of both winter and the birds. “Milling, chattering, scrounging snow covered ground for sustenance – I can see these “hardy” birds searching for their sustenance, and squacking together. “on this shortest day” in a sense, this is a short metaphor to that need of sustenance, without it, all life in winter will join that winter in death. The shortest day, and the need. Well said. “Ebon brilliance standing out in extreme definition against blinding white background” – What a tremendous visual, Ebon brilliance, most would have written the contrasting “white snow brilliance” your contrast is refreshing and powerful. “A black on white world” – I took much more from this line than the visuals, it is the world that grants the “obtuse” willingness of black on white, or vice versa, another wonderful analogy. “Winter strength will pass, Ravens remembered are forever” My only comment to these lines is the rebirth is written each year in the demise, “a black on white world”. I too “metaphorically speaking” remember the Ebon brilliance of the Ravens. A truly enjoyable piece. Thanks for sharing.	2004-12-15 11:21:58
verse 67 (Jellyfish)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl, what immediately caught me is the juxtaposition of the actual with the apparent. “Parachute” is an inaccurate, but apt description of the form of the jelly fish. It is functionally inaccurate, but visually apt. It immediately interested me, and I looked and wondered if you meant a metaphor involving the “form” of the jellyfish, and how it’s “umbrella” if you will prevent predators by its defenses contained in the “parachute”. Splendid line!! Slowly the man-of-war falls – I can see the beautiful, dangerous man-o-war falling, sinking deeper after its flirt with the sun. From the “height” of warmth, to other places that only the residents know. Into the abyss – here, the depth of the ocean, the cold, the pressure, seems forbidding, and the man-of-war never enters it unless it is eaten by a sea turtle or dies and its bladder deflates. There is a certain ambiance about this verse, and a dualism, in that the man-of-war is named for its resemblance to Portuguese Battleships, and of course, within that analogy, the death of a ship lends it to sink into the darkness of the abyss. Both the “Physalia physalis” and the Ship are surface dwellers who have an unspoken fear of the depths, if indeed they could fear. Oddly for the “colony”, the parachute will never cease the descent.	2004-12-15 10:07:37
Because I'm a Woman	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial, I have emailed you my critique. I do thank you for making me think. Please read my critique before grading.	2004-12-14 22:09:24
Cut and Paste	Mell W. Morris	Mell, in a sense I a speechless over the depth and passion in this piece. The depth of feeling in this verse is astonishing. It is almost like absorbing sunlight directly into the soul. She looks in the mirror, a woman in shadows, a second-glance type of face, wearing her faded gardening jumper – I find the first appearance of this woman disarming. I have always found stoic beauty far exceeds “traditional”, media beauty, and I immediately like this woman. Once of Della Robbia – (NOTE: I was unfamiliar with the works, and make assumptions after due research. I did not know if your inspiration was Luca or Andrea, but both were known for their use of blue in sculptures and friezes. Thanks for spurring me into unknown waters.) hue that repeats the blue of sky and varicose veins of her neighbor, Mrs. Levy. – There is a colloquial, almost “personne physique” about Mrs. Levy, from the sky blue pigments that Della Robbia (both Luca and Andrea), is known for, to the varicose veins that come from a life of labor and mimics the fruitfulness laid out on canvas, there is the moment, once must decide right now, yes or no. The decision is of no consequence, for she is before us, painted a protagonist. Of course, she has changed in the two-year absence since he left her with their obsolete relationship wrapped round her neck like a boa. – You use three analogies to describe a single event, and by the time you finish, we hate him. You have already sold us on the value of the woman, but now, “two-year absence”, “obsolete relationship”, (love that line), “around her neck like a boa”, we see the absence has solidified “his” opinion that it was an obsolete relationship, and “she” has dealt with the wind being knocked out of her, every day since. He continues to stall for financial reasons while the unrest gnaws, a reminder of this supererogatory burden. – My assumption is he is stalling on finalizing their divorce/separation because he knows it will cost him dearly. This burden is clear that it is not so much the financial closure that cause her pain, but the emotional closure that is missing, as well as the “fact” that something as meaningless as “finances” is more important to her than the fact that she is a person/his ex-love/in need of closure. She starts to write about her sorrow, pen her sadness, hoping to capture the loss and send it Fed Ex to Mister Ex. – what great alliteration and duality. I find this verse brings alive that “satire” that illuminates hidden passions. And also, having written much from the depths of despair, I know well this writer, and how the eloquent phrases can fly from the pen of sadness. Then she remembers what the blue-eyed artist said: "Creative energy makes living in misery possible." His sorrow leaps through the lines, every stroke, every swipe of brush – I assume the “blue-eyed artist” is once again Andrea Della Robbia, but I am unable to find the quote “Creative energy makes living in misery possible” but I do know that the quote is true. I have this knowledge first hand. Although “painter” may be one I have no knowledge of, I hope in your reply you will briefly fill me in if I have mislaid the mark. She knows the purges in her	2004-12-09 12:14:59
Autumn Tambourines	DeniMari Z.	D, First and foremost your title had me hooked. I hoped from that point the “verse” would not disappoint me, and it did not. Traveling down this long road – I have always liked the analogy of movement “traveling” and the passing of life. Maybe it’s just me, but I have never seen time as a “existent as is” rather as a moving, almost living entity. Your seeing this as the “long road” ah, I have been struggling with this lately, it seems to me that road, rough as it has been, seems a little too short for my liking, but a well said metaphor anyway. Flipping pages through my mind - Here is the consummate definition of memory, nuff said, you “nailed it”. BRAVO!! The Autumn breeze blows – autumn, one in their near winter eves, and those breezes from past gone to tomorrows soon to end, warm, yet with a chill. wonderful Through the trees Shaking the leaves – Leaves like the pages that are turning. Each leaf with it’s own setting soon to be known, yet still remaining to the life line. I wonder how well the flutter transfers the leaf from one existence to another. like a thousand tambourines – I though about this line, about clutter getting in the way, of things wishing for attention, as life now shortens so much that much that remains has no chance of arriving, all I know is, I know those tambourines, and I love, and hate the music. As I watch the sun reflect off of the gold hues – I wonder how many false gold memories over time have softened and now bring a smile and are encompassed in the golden hues before my eyes. I feel complete Into it’s beauty I rest An enchanting view the hymns of Angels Serenade around this sight – the beauty of the sunset, heralding the night, but also another, “new” day. Resting in the hands of fate, of “God” if you will, to the hymns of Angels, no doubt in rhythm to the tambourines. Serenaded, I have not this peace, I really don’t have a reference, other than when I am often lost in the beauty that surrounds me. And I move on from this into the night – this I view as your bridge, your transition, and there will be transitions to follow, but the transition is of little value, it is a vehicle, so “moving on” works well!! The pages still flipping The night air is cool, While I take a dip into the mysterious pool Of life. – while I read your poem several times, I found it too familiar, and a bit to close. I love the pages flipping, I love the cool autumn air, I love the mysterious pool of life, and the irony, (a secret only you and I will know), without the spring, all those pages are blank, and the pool has no mystery, and without the fall, one could never appreciate the story. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. thank you for sharing.	2004-11-30 15:03:35
verse 66 (Stars)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Hi, I do like the haiku, written with background imagery, it is as close to patterned free verse as any form can be. When we speak of mistress’s or paramours, but the feminine definitely embodies the stars and moon. “Sparkling” I can envision the stars, as I have since I was a young boy, those magical lovers of my soul. Great imagery in this line. It is of note that you used “mistresses”, rather than “lovers” or similar. A mistress portends the need for a wife, and so in a real sense one is “cheating” on somebody by absorbing the beauty of the stars. So goes your next lines. “Attempting to steal the vow” – A vow, the marriage sealer, and the stars, whose brightness like diamonds are “attempting”. This of course means the result is still in doubt, but there is a “marriage in doubt” as long as the “attempting” does not become “vain attempts”. A universal struggle, anthropomorphic transportation of the sky’s into the soul of mankind. A metaphor, if you will, on the struggle between beauties, and also the value of both the “old love” and the “new love”. “As moon weds the night”, here you reinforced “attempting”. The marriage has been in progress for a long period of time, and yet is not consummated. The stars, in their lesser brilliance but greater beauty, have a chance. This conflict is in progress, with the moon winning the battle, for now. (Oddly, the moon covered the sky a billion years ago, and has been slowly slipping away ever since. There will come a day the moon will leave, it is inevitable as the attraction of gravity weakens). I guess, the stars are fated in this struggle to win. … or will the night ever grieve for it’s lost moon, and the stars be unable to comfort.. a fine piece. Thanks for letting me read it.	2004-11-30 10:00:24
All Things Pass	Kenneth R. Patton	Ken, to be blunt, you hit chord with me on this piece. His “All Things Must Pass” album was always my favorite of his, and Apple Scruggs let you hear, “him” as much as a person could. Throughout his Dark Horse era, his music, although odd at times and metaphysically based, resonated most as “Beatle” style. This always made me wonder, of the collaborators, how much “critical” style choices were made in the collaboration, once George added his, “design”. “A tribute performance to my favorite Beatle The Searching one No wonder I liked him” – “The Searching One”, and I say the least temporal one. I have always thought that other than John, George was the only one you could hold a “real” conversation with, and John, it depended on too much “internal” dissonance. {I watched quietly but inside I was rocked, Stomach-slammed by emotions Christ, you’d think I knew him} – This led me immediately to think about the Ballad of John and Yoko, if you will, John’s retort to his “Jesus” debacle, coming full circle to #1 on the charts. His “Christ, you know it ain’t easy”, I thought about your “rocked” stomach-slammed emotions as you watched, what was, and so impacted your life. {A ghostly image hung above looking down on his son A young lad among superstars} – I am not familiar with the video you speak of, but it is a must for me to watch it, and to reach with you the moments, the son, the “lad among superstars” of course, dabbling in his fathers “arguably” best known expertise. “Center stage composed playing guitar, So much like his father My hair stood on end” I wish I could tell you the realizations augmented by your simple verse. The link which so much exceeds the boundaries of life, and the progeny, fated without request, living effigies, this stanza was especially powerful. More than a penny for his thoughts As the accolades swirled, I searched his eyes intent for clues I must see this, and watch with wonder. I know, I believe, till now I seldom gave such thought of the power that remains. “searched his eyes for clues”, oddly enough I often perform at an open mic, and there are young young people there, and the “edge” they play with I remember, and I seek their eyes to find, redemption maybe. Suddenly in my mind A bizarre image; Everyone gathering to help, As I plant a garden I have known everyone gathering for my music, but am just a poor song writer who must work. To have a congregation of the appreciative, as I did the “travail” of my life, now that is a scene I am not sure I am comfortable with. Great verse Ken, made me think, and maybe, add to the moment, a little longer.	2004-11-29 14:39:07
Lost Magic	Kenneth R. Patton	Ken, there is a certain disquiet about this piece. I want to put it on the back burner and forget that I know what it is about. I wish I still believed in Santa Clause, the tooth fairy, and those Christmas’s when magic abounded. No structural or venacular malapropisms, just a touching piece. “But it’s not the same!” she said and she was right Nothing was the same – so here we are, not knowing the she, I decided to be the she. I have been too much of a dreamer I think, it was years into my adulthood before the magic left, and I can’t really pinpoint it, but I think it was about the same time that I resigned myself, to whatever. I remembered my first one When Thanksgiving lost its magic – I though hard on this stanza, and I don’t know when that was. Maybe it was yesterday, but I think, depending on life, it was a slow, phasing effect. “Later on I saw the look That very same look I once had The time when I noticed my father really was old It was in his eyes, his face” I think I saw my father the other day, or was that me?.. Must have been me, my father left here alone some years back. I DO remember the first time I looked at him and he was, “old”. It’s a tough thing to see I think I will hug her today – The most important stanza of the verse, and I think, I will find “Thanksgiving” again, maybe not resign myself, maybe hugging and laughing will do that. I know my children probably will find that there is where the magic is. Thanks for great insight.	2004-11-29 12:29:29
Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Tony P Spicuglia	Critique Date

Displaying Critiques 736 to 785 out of 835 Total Critiques.
Click one of the following to display the: First 50 ... Next 50 ... Previous 50 ... Last 50 Critiques.

If you would like to view all of Tony P Spicuglia's Poetry just Click Here.

Click HERE to return to ThePoeticLink.com Database Page!