This Poem was Submitted By: Robert L Tremblay On Date: 2004-01-14 01:07:31 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Dame Death Lamenting

                                                                   DEATH,                                                                 returns, again,                            in                         sabled                   reggae,                   but              an            actress     in       a     paradox               way,                     to      dispatch         a         youthful             one,                          a    baby, into     arms    of heaven’s           God,                           not maybe; she              internalizes           plan,                        paternal, to do homage to belief, eternal.                          Her                      arrival, duly noted daily, fated by eternity so palely,                          sets             a play, despairingly repeated, with enabled encore, ably meted.                          With       her scythe, aside, the reaper rages, axing rye on rye beneath the ages;                          sent at midnight nightly, midnight, ending, Death refuses  rest with duties pending.                                  Slash!    The reaper taps on scythe serenely, for a    millisecond so routinely;                              then,     again, a slash cross field, betoken, but, again, another     tap not broken.                          From                                the morning, dewed, to night’s detention,                          into                                twilight’s moonlit trough, through mention -                          in a                smitten motion, frozen wryly, Death abets ascension, be it dryly.                          Dark       recesses, writhing long, relentless, focus on their duty bound, repentless,                          for,    beneath Death’s covered shadow, vapored, lies beginning life, forever tapered.                          None escape, for long, these silent sightings, told in tales of grief and bitter blightings;                          many  march toward destined day, demented, with misgivings matted and lamented.                          What      does matter most, does matter little, under God’s design, a bargain, brittle,                          half a  promise, half, demand, with passion centered on Cartesian plane’s compassion.                         But,  she wearies, not, this Queen, enchanted, being strong at heart by seedling planted,                  though she does lament the timeline, gapping, conscious of diminished moment, tapping.

Copyright © January 2004 Robert L Tremblay

Additional Notes:
Again, best viewed at full screen. Normally formatted version below. Dame Death Lamenting DEATH, returns, again, in sabled reggae, But an actress in a paradox way, To dispatch a youthful one, a baby, Into arms of heaven’s God, not maybe; She internalizes plan, paternal, To do homage to belief, eternal. Her arrival, duly noted daily, Fated by eternity so palely, Sets a play, despairingly repeated, With enabled encore, ably meted. With her scythe, aside, the reaper rages, Axing rye on rye beneath the ages; Sent at midnight nightly, midnight, ending, Death refuses rest with duties pending. Slash! The reaper taps on scythe serenely, For a millisecond so routinely; Then, again, a slash cross field, betoken, But, again, another tap not broken. From the morning, dewed, to night’s detention, Into twilight’s moonlit trough, through mention - In a smitten motion, frozen wryly, Death abets ascension, be it dryly. Dark recesses, writhing long, relentless, Focus on their duty bound, repentless, For, beneath Death’s covered shadow, vapored, Lies beginning life, forever tapered. None escape, for long, these silent sightings, Told in tales of grief and bitter blightings; Many march toward destined day, demented, With misgivings matted and lamented. What does matter most, does matter little, Under God’s design, a bargain, brittle, Half a promise, half, demand, with passion Centered on Cartesian plane’s compassion. But, she wearies, not, this Queen, enchanted, Being strong at heart by seedling planted, Though she does lament the timeline, gapping, Conscious of diminished moment, tapping.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2004-02-07 16:07:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.62366
Congratulations for making the list though I would have thought with all your hard work you would have hit much higher.....people just do not understand your heart Bobby.......this one is such a hard piece to complete in your posting.......it must have taken forever and what a superb job you did......she looks straight back at me.....the read was not that difficult too and as always you add the poem at the bottom for those that do not take time to read through..good word flow, images as always are projected with the flare of your pen...... again congratulations on all submissions this month.....superbly done. Thanks for posting this one and be safe in your travels, God Bless, Claire


This Poem was Critiqued By: Regis L Chapman On Date: 2004-01-20 16:36:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.70000
I find graphic poems a bit pointless, but you seem to combine the words and the graphic quite nicely, compared to all the other ones I have read in this vein. Ignoring the graphic part, I find the words themselves quite awesome. It's very old school style poetry, in the sense that the meter and rhythm reminds me of poets from England many many years ago. I cannot think of a specific one exactly, but I like it a lot for that reason. Well done. I also like such a variety of visual and even scientific references to describe a woman. Makes her sound like quite a woman, or at least quite a vision of a woman. Also since the subject is death, it is a suitably broad and sweeping set of analogues you picked to describe the features remembered. Superb. Thanks, REEG!
This Poem was Critiqued By: Robin Ann Crandell On Date: 2004-01-17 13:42:13
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Robert, What a great poem. I have trouble reading this poem, however, it is just because I am new at reading poetry. This reader feels such drama, and excitement on what will happen next. Poet, you have found a way to keep me interested in the way you write with such skill and passion. You have a great way of expressing and defining the moments within the lines. You have a gift. And I feel obliged that you have shared your poem with me. Robin.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jordan Brendez Bandojo On Date: 2004-01-14 04:14:11
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Another piece that I'm sure will keep me hauting, Bobby! The ideas that emerge here create a goosebumps all over my body! I am afraid of death! hehe! No, no... I am prolife and it is my enemy. But its personification here is a realization that everyone should think about. Our lives are laid to our God! The belief that I believe! I would like to make a special mention to this line: "Centered on Cartesian plane’s compassion." There is mathematical connotation here. Intriguingly new! And for me it POETIC to the max! So far, you have posted four structured/formatted poems for this month. And I am still craving to have some more. Oh, it would be hard for me to select my voting choice! It's okay!
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