This Poem was Submitted By: James C. Horak On Date: 2012-12-25 21:55:16 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Playing with the Grind

A nation of aggression wants my gun.   They've killed twenty sweet children, Scores more with nerd guided drones The same day, but then they Took no look in those flowers of faces Smudging their innocence to leave Pools incandescent to black light. It snowed today, mud spattered snow, The crunch of ice sounding my part  In an Act III of tragic remembrance.  (weeping is allowed.) When did truth become so dire?, No one would wear it, would look Deeper, beyond the easy, beyond the fed? So we burn candles, lay wreaths, solemn Lain toys, acquitting ourselves  But unanswered questions and media rebuke               for asking them. Timing and and self-serving measure  And few to see how these times are shaped         by the unholiest of sacrifice

Copyright © December 2012 James C. Horak


This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2012-12-29 14:36:41
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
The frist stanza for me says it all. Yes we loss those to young but it also happens in other countries by drones that have no heart to think with, no chance of changing its mind. No massive media coverage for the losses of children of another language. I have read many poems written on matter however yours is has clear as a magifiying glass. Thank you


This Poem was Critiqued By: cheyenne smyth On Date: 2012-12-28 17:48:50
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi JCH, You have penned a fine poem about the tragedy that beset those little children and their parents. You have used your pen to speak of this atrocity in terms one can understand and it's difficult to read with a dry eye. You have good alliteration sprinkled here and there and for free verse the flow is smooth (not everyone can do this) Your last verse is especially powerful. I found nothing I would change. Well done. Best wishes, cheyenne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2012-12-27 15:05:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
JCH, I spent the last 45 minutes trying to express a few things of importance about this site and poetry, all inspired by your poem and your (and my) continued presence here. It was hard going: so much involved, some deep things I couldn't quite articulate. So I try again albeit in a somewhat lower key. I think of the idea of this site, and, frankly, I'm amazed and appalled at what it has become. You would think the idea of an open competition in pursuit of poetic excellence would draw at least a remnant of poets with balls and a true striving, not only for their own poetic excellence but to assert that poetry matters and has a relation to truth - because in an open competition, truth ends up prevailing, ultimately. In such an environment that which is not truth is exposed, can easily been seen when the lense is open and alternative visions which are true are placed beside it. The false may "win," but it is rather obvious that its victory is a joke: the truth will "out." Honest people now the real "score." That is a big part of the value of this site and its unique competition. So why did this place "die"? I'm afraid of the answer. But it's not dead yet. You could stand for Ishmael, and say, "I only have escaped alone to tell thee." Where are all of our comrades? They are needed here. The idea of this site can't be allowed to die. This poem reminds me of the ultimate question to ask when reading a poem: why did the poet write it? If you don't get the sense that he or she had to . . . you haven't read a poem worth the calling. Of course, there are many reasons why a poet may "have to" write, your poem powerfully giving voice to one of them. How about we try, you and I, to make this place alive again? I beg you. MSS
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