Critiques and Revision


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  • Marietta Pereira (6/6/2014 11:29:00 PM) Post reply

    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!

    Marietta Pereira

  • Yusuf Qomor Olusola (6/6/2014 11:08:00 AM) Post reply

    Hostages

    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

  • John Zwerenz (6/6/2014 10:05:00 AM) Post reply

    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
    And run
    To the tranquil sea, beneath the terrace where the vines meet.
    She is often inclined
    To find
    Her desires
    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

  • Terrance Tracy (6/4/2014 6:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    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

    Replies for this message:
    • Debra Robinson (6/13/2014 4:35:00 PM) Post reply

      I can only speak for myself, but I'm new to sharing my stuff and this site. First thing on here I get attacked by some " gentleman" who I can only assume has some issues. In order to garne ... more

  • Anshuman Acharya (5/30/2014 4:16:00 AM) Post reply

    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 …

  • Aimee Woolford (5/27/2014 1:47:00 PM) Post reply

    Weight Matters

    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.

    THANKS

  • Shivani Rawat (5/23/2014 12:54:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Daydream


    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
    Gasping desires,
    Dreams on a pyre.

    Replies for this message:
    • Anand Brown (5/28/2014 8:07:00 AM) Post reply

      After reading your poem I was left with no clue what your poem is really about. Perhaps it is because you went for the rhyme as opposed to words that would be descriptive and render a detailed narrati ... more

  • N P. (5/20/2014 1:14:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Hi I am a beginner looking for people to critique my work and give me feedback/advice.

    http://www.poemhunter.com/nicholas-paradis/poems/

    -Nick

    Replies for this message:
    • Elizabeth Padillo Olesen (6/11/2014 3:24:00 AM) Post reply

      Nick, Post a poem and I will look at it. If the interest to write is there, then grab it and write and write.

  • Terrance Tracy (5/17/2014 9:43:00 PM) Post reply

    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
    opinion.

    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
    alive.

    Terrance Tracy

  • Thenameless Poet (5/10/2014 4:56:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Differently

    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.


    Comment away

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