Treasure Island

Critiques and Revision


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

    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 Stage

    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 Stage

    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 Stage

      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 Stage

    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 Stage

      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 Stage

    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 Stage

    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

    Replies for this message:
  • Micheal Olaniyi (5/7/2014 8:12:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    KARMA


    Lone man on a delabitated fence,
    thinking of his ways
    but he is helpless
    gazing at the uncoutable stars
    with is bewildered teary eyes
    and wish he could find his'
    to scrutinize if faulty
    he continue babbling,
    bitting his fingers
    and some thought he was inebriated,
    while few sympathize for his fresh insanity,
    but none knew how karma
    suffers his heart.
    At time penance
    is not enough
    to blot out a career
    of promiscuity,
    this is nemesis
    acting as an instrument
    showing him how powerless he his
    against nature, as human being
    the lady he planned
    as a wife after her career
    was seize to be his'
    the unforgiven
    and unforgeting
    hand of time got him
    because the gods
    are not without their sense
    of karma
    " http://www.poemhunter.com/micheal-olaniyi/" ][u]Click to read my poem on poemhunter

  • Micheal Olaniyi (5/7/2014 8:11:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    KARMA


    Lone man on a delabitated fence,
    thinking of his ways
    but he is helpless
    gazing at the uncoutable stars
    with is bewildered teary eyes
    and wish he could find his'
    to scrutinize if faulty
    he continue babbling,
    bitting his fingers
    and some thought he was inebriated,
    while few sympathize for his fresh insanity,
    but none knew how karma
    suffers his heart.
    At time penance
    is not enough
    to blot out a career
    of promiscuity,
    this is nemesis
    acting as an instrument
    showing him how powerless he his
    against nature, as human being
    the lady he planned
    as a wife after her career
    was seize to be his'
    the unforgiven
    and unforgeting
    hand of time got him
    because the gods
    are not without their sense
    of karma
    " http://www.poemhunter.com/micheal-olaniyi/" ][u]Click to read my poem on poemhunter

  • Brioney Leon (5/4/2014 7:55:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Recital

    She was tangled in her lover’s words
    He always seemed to leave
    more questions than answers
    In her mind
    She loved the poems
    he had sent to her
    saying he was sorry
    ‘Just go and live your life’
    he’d written in one
    It didn’t seem to matter
    how cold he made his shoulder
    She leaned on him anyway
    curling her body against his will
    drawing constellations
    with the freckles on his back
    And after she had eaten all his words
    licked his lips and
    swallowed the message
    there still remained
    beneath the pain of rejection
    the deep, slow ache of want and longing
    and the sweet aftertaste of his voice.
    It was all over her head

  • Brioney Leon (5/4/2014 3:04:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Sixteen Going On 21

    When we were young
    we wanted to belong
    to everything
    especially the streets
    We took our chances and
    sometimes nearly
    took our own lives with us
    We lost our minds
    and found them over
    and over again

    We were brothers and sisters
    All of us in it together
    Seeking attention and then
    running away from it
    Picking at our sores
    Making up our narrow little minds
    Hurting, loving and learning
    from each other

    We ran in dangerous places
    Like packs of wolves
    Howling at the night
    Fearless and full of self-loathing
    so vain and arrogant
    So determined and naïve
    So anxious to please

    When we finally got away
    From those places that tried
    to steal our souls
    we looked back at
    all the faces we once knew
    that stayed behind
    And they were grey and hanging

    We knew we couldn’t save them
    So we lit matches and tried
    to find our own way out
    through concrete forests
    and across the dusty fields
    back to our homes
    and into the soft ness of
    our mothers’ arms

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