Critiques and Revision
(6/6/2014 11:29:00 PM)
When the light of day softly fades away
When that flaming ball of fire is all set to retire
When children hasten home after play
When tweet and chirp fly home yonder
When bright city lights dispel the darkness of the night
When the star spangled skies are a delight to the eyes
Whenmoonbeams cast a silvery sheen.
When work is done and the day’s race is run
When we whisper a little prayer-
Thank you dear God, for your love and care.
Your blessings we seek everyday, everywhere!
Yusuf Qomor Olusola
(6/6/2014 11:08:00 AM)
Indeed; an inferno room it’s!
A pandemonium room of chaotic corner
Where hostages scream and groan
The lack scream for shinning but transient wealth
The wealthy groan for more
The small brutalize the big
In their hunt for materialism
The blind join the search
And chased relentlessly after
A common mongrel
A designed printed paper
Myopic dreams of next ten decade
When tomorrow, by his creator
His soul shall be claimed
The groaning grows much weary
As the inferno room demands more trial
From already-screaming hostages
Behold and Chase me much more!
“Said the printed paper to the blind”
So I might drive thee
Into the melancholic miserable cave
Alas! screamers will soon disperse and march
One by one to that silent but sullen hall
Where suffering and agony reach no more
And so his kinsmen will bid him: R.I.P
(6/6/2014 10:05:00 AM)
Mary, The Mother of God
The scenery of Mary's Court is green, white and gold.
Green are her trees, white is the sun,
And gold is of The Spirit, containing every other hue.
There are brooks which run, of azure blue
Through her forests and her gardens, framed by regal eglantines
And gilded, holy, gleaming moss.
The brooks are of wines,
And gently toss
The reeds which play beneath the cloudless sky.
The Palace of The Virgin
Is heaven to the eye.
Her Kingdom is devoid of everything old,
And pertains to only that which is new.
The glistening gloss
Of the morning dew
Is found in her palatial field
Where her rosy bowers yield
Perfumes of marigolds, daisies and gems.
I met The Mother Of God donning diadems.
Her long, black hair
Is astonishing to behold,
As if all gold
Finds its temple there.
Her crown is studded with immaculate jewels,
Each the reward of a Saint's fidelity.
With a tender love she commands all citadels,
And all the angels glory in her beauty.
All the Saints are in awe of her dusky, Jewish eyes.
Her gazes outshine the bright, celestial skies.
And her skin is fairer than all of heaven's blooms combined.
Her song is that of such a charming sound
That it leaves a man blind
To what is all around.
Her fingertips are of a pearly-white,
And when she roves in her Court, beneath the purple stars of the gleaming night
She smiles at her sons and daughters in that vast and holy square,
Majestic and massive, made of marble and stone.
Her perfumes are of honey, and permeate the midnight air.
She rarely wishes to be alone,
Except for the times she converses with Her Son,
Pacing on the hallowed beach, where the streams
Of violets swirl around her feet
To the tranquil sea, beneath the terrace where the vines meet.
She is often inclined
In sacred dreams.
Her passions are those of chaste, refreshing, cooling fires,
Guided by her reason
Endowed beyond the wisdom of every time and place,
Of every world, of every season.
Nothing, no one, save
For God Himself
Possesses such a lovely face
Whose expressions are light, yet sometimes grave,
Grave as in solemn,
For there are many souls she wishes to save.
She frequents earth and purgatory,
And in the latter, where the flames torment and lave
She wipes the sweaty brows
Of the suffering Saints.
And she often allows
Their punishments to cease,
Long before their time,
Ages before their due release.
She often graces the dawn with celestial paints
When cathedral bells chime in the western wood.
And she loves to say
When the consecrated pray
In their cloisters of rapture,
Clad with lindens, willows, yews and birch:
'God Bless The Holy Roman Catholic Church! -
Its eternal truths be praised! '
She cares very much for Jerusalem,
Where she was born and raised,
And she is anxious for Israel to acknowledge her Son.
She opens petals, one by one,
Merely by caressing them in her little garden-close,
In the corner of her spacious Court.
The scent of her beauteous body
Is of an immaculate, dark-red rose.
And the rhapsody of her flowing voice
Is bestowed to transport
The hearts of all the blessed,
Enraptured without a choice,
To the highest realm in heaven, of music, art and rhyme
Where The Magnificat is sung
Beneath the dome of God's Cathedral,
Far beyond the realm of time.
John Lars Zwerenz
(6/4/2014 6:46:00 AM)
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Critiques and Revision: I see a lot of work submitted but many go unanswered: Why submit any work to this forum if that is the case.
Please answer. Terrance Tracy
(5/30/2014 4:16:00 AM)
Day broke through the window,
mind ceased to play…
awakened to an abominable lull across a tyndalled glow,
Its yet another gloomy Sunday;
Crisp crunches shattered the pretend silence,
as I ruffled through the dailies in mock pursuit…
the voices cried foul atop the cerebral fence
only to crash against stoic walls of mute;
Life like water stank in stagnance,
through prolonged days of futile pray…
picked up the smithereens of my fantasies of chance,
on yet another gloomy Sunday…
Coercing belief and myriad delusion,
I pause in languid leer… in almost frivolous play…
the shadows shrunk into oblivion,
I saw the mighty sun put to slay;
A trail of fervour pranced across the crimson sky,
chasing the golden carpet…
deftly swept under was the sea of cry,
as the saviours blew the trumpet;
now gone is the voice,
halted has the pursuit…the stench now a feeble force…
the reluctant walls once mute,
offer a maze of doors;
life like water now sprouts from a crevice,
in jubilant display…
it only takes a dream’s price,
to rain on a gloomy sunday …
(5/27/2014 1:47:00 PM)
What is the weight of matter,
And what is the matter of weight?
Why does it matter if you have more food on your plate?
Does it affect your look,
if you are underweight and in need of care?
And does it make you cooler if all you eat is never there?
Does the absence of proper food,
Make you better inside?
Because I bet when you said that you ate,
That really, you lied.
Does the fact that you lie to your family,
your friends, your community, your life.
Does it make you feel worse,
Or is the proof needed that you are there, forced across with a knife?
Remember that you are here,
Alive and clear to see.
Remember that you are important,
to more people than just me.
(5/23/2014 12:54:00 PM)
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Let’s dream of a place,
In between spaces of space
In this whimsical hour
Watch how time devour,
Our lyrical tryst
Amidst the winter mist
Sharing dream amid the flowers
for a couple of hours
The dreams in which I'm dying
Or rather just denying
Deluding the petty mind
Of the worldly grind
It’s a beautiful day
So dazed, we just lay
Birds and bees won’t disturb us,
While our thoughts turn incongruous
We’ll forget that we are even real
It’ll all be too surreal
You open your eyes to say
Out comes only a pray
Slowly the dusk beckons
Breaking your heart it’s gone
Dreams on a pyre.
(5/20/2014 1:14:00 PM)
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Hi I am a beginner looking for people to critique my work and give me feedback/advice.
(5/17/2014 9:43:00 PM)
I Am Still Alive
Covered with dust are words
of expectation; like an ancient
warrior whose trust in his
sword that has failed to serve him,
so my words are covered
with dust for the lack of poetic
appreciation lost in a forum of opinion
has attempted to derail my trust in a pen.
I am still alive and I will survive
because I am still alive to pursue
my quest I am still alive to express
that which gives inspiration to
pick up my pen to begin again.
I am still alive.
Like Emerson's kernel of corn I will
till the soil and do my best to remove
the dust from my words of poetic verse
because they are my thoughts for me to
express despite the vitriol of public
I am still alive to pen no matter if the
the words are covered with dust and
offend the elite, I will lay them at
your feet for you to remove the dust
which covers the words, and now I have
done my pen a service because I am still
(5/10/2014 4:56:00 AM)
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If the world was a stage,
would you act any different,
knowing that someone you didnt know
was watching you, and EVERYTHING
that you do.