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No More Sweet Sixteen She sits studiously poring over her dog-eared, King James translation. Creeping swivel rocker rythmaticly chirps cricket-like above our sweaty heads. Oblivious below in our hiding place passions mount, pace racing to pinnacle. Upstairs, she prays for her family's fate while we collapse on the couch, breath rates easing. When the creaking stops footsteps sound near the upstairs door. "Would your friend like a ride home?" We straighten collars, smooth hair, while I call, "Thanks Mom, we'll be right there!" And I think to myself, Oh Momma, keep praying. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2007-01-28 15:46:05
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
Sharon-
I wonder how many like scenes have played. You take us to the moment; such a universal moment. Most guys want us to believe there is a lot of difference, but inside we all remember.
The background you lay for us is picturesque- and it grants a look at a family upbringing. A stroke of genius is “cricket-like above our sweating headsâ€. You take the moment, the scene and make it a hidden sensual experience, yet somehow keep the innocence of the moment.
The “ride home†takes us all, once more, to those times when normalcy was to be restored and relief at our secret secure. That feeling is almost as poignant as the eyes of the lover we were with. Excellent vision.
And in the end- we are spent with you; you leave us with hope for our parents to never stop believing in us- to assist us, nevertheless the secret that remains.
Superb verse. (sp. rhythmically)