first three poems posted in this thread...

[perks]

gets the perky. Who's in?

 

[The Mutt]

Dieu et mon Droit

 

[BooMerengue]

watching and waiting (no ellipses)

 

[perks]

Dieu et mon Droit

overall, loved it.

two lines that were off the flow,
"british civility"
change it to brit civility and it keeps the cadence and the tone.
"with good Birmingham swords" your meter and your syllable count are fighting in this line.

As for the poem itself, it's smooth and flowing, and pirates are all the rage. However, the last line is off course, both in tone and language. Everyone knows the pirates say "arse"... and then that doesn't rhyme. It's such a fulfilling poem with a last lazy line finish. BOO!

but hey, I loved it anyway.
Your language is incredibly fun, I could taste the salt.

 

[The Mutt]

overall, loved it.

two lines that were off the flow,
"british civility"
change it to brit civility and it keeps the cadence and the tone.
"with good Birmingham swords" your meter and your syllable count are fighting in this line.

As for the poem itself, it's smooth and flowing, and pirates are all the rage. However, the last line is off course, both in tone and language. Everyone knows the pirates say "arse"... and then that doesn't rhyme. It's such a fulfilling poem with a last lazy line finish. BOO!

but hey, I loved it anyway.
Your language is incredibly fun, I could taste the salt.

8
6
8
6
Not everyone in Britain says arse. If you read the poem aloud in the accent of a British Sgt. Major, the flow is right. I tend to write for the actor in me. I really need to do an audio poem of this one.

 

[twelveoone]

overall, loved it.

two lines that were off the flow,
"british civility"
change it to brit civility and it keeps the cadence and the tone.
"with good Birmingham swords" your meter and your syllable count are fighting in this line.

As for the poem itself, it's smooth and flowing, and pirates are all the rage. However, the last line is off course, both in tone and language. Everyone knows the pirates say "arse"... and then that doesn't rhyme. It's such a fulfilling poem with a last lazy line finish. BOO!

but hey, I loved it anyway.
Your language is incredibly fun, I could taste the salt.

what pirates?
Mutt, you been reading Kipling?
off topic - (I liked it)

 

[Angeline]

Perk me, Mommy. Be my critique domme--I love the way you do it.

A Prayer for My Great Granddaughter

I am waiting in a windchime afternoon,
listening from behind a windshield
to the echo of a small town's song,
listening to cars whoosh two streets away
without wondering where anyone goes.
Crows call but not to me. I’m just watching
an American flag wave someone’s allegiance.

I’m waiting because I have none.
I can't pledge the country of myself,
let alone a contradiction of stripes.
For me, your commonplace is alien.
I’m a stranger here. Understand
I don't belong to this town or this car
anchored in a crooked parking lot

where I am trying to tame sensibilities
in slants and loops that might as well
be cuneiform, that much more
forgotten effluvia unless I am lucky
and my words dust some attic time capsule,
if I’m someone's ancestor when I finally
belong to the community that welcomes me.

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth
of flowers and waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put. Even as she built
a shrine of hope, carried it in her imagination,
she never set it down long enough to sprout
one root of trust, never called any space
outside her own pocket a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged
an allegiance to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be a woman,
a dark-eyed Rose of Sharon, my future
gripping the night
of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes.

I'd like to think that when she sits
her toes turn in and she twists one lock
of hair between two fingers like I did once.
If I am lucky, because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion, she will be.

She will read this and think oh my great-grandmother,
that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windchimes.

It's accepted for publication at Carnelian, but it's nevah too late for fixing, right sugah?

 

[The Mutt]

what pirates?
Mutt, you been reading Kipling?
off topic - (I liked it)

Gunga Din is a favorite of mine, but I don't really know what promted this poem. I watched Zulu again a couple of weeks ago. Then I was at work and started thinking about barracks songs and such. The last two lines kinda jumped in my head and I wrote to them.

 

[The Mutt]

Perk me, Mommy. Be my critique domme--I love the way you do it.

A Prayer for My Great Granddaughter

I am waiting in a windchime afternoon,
listening from behind a windshield
to the echo of a small town's song,
listening to cars whoosh two streets away
without wondering where anyone goes.
Crows call but not to me. I’m just watching
an American flag wave someone’s allegiance.

I’m waiting because I have none.
I can't pledge the country of myself,
let alone a contradiction of stripes.
For me, your commonplace is alien.
I’m a stranger here. Understand
I don't belong to this town or this car
anchored in a crooked parking lot

where I am trying to tame sensibilities
in slants and loops that might as well
be cuneiform, that much more
forgotten effluvia unless I am lucky
and my words dust some attic time capsule,
if I’m someone's ancestor when I finally
belong to the community that welcomes me.

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth
of flowers and waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put. Even as she built
a shrine of hope, carried it in her imagination,
she never set it down long enough to sprout
one root of trust, never called any space
outside her own pocket a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged
an allegiance to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be a woman,
a dark-eyed Rose of Sharon, my future
gripping the night
of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes.

I'd like to think that when she sits
her toes turn in and she twists one lock
of hair between two fingers like I did once.
If I am lucky, because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion, she will be.

She will read this and think oh my great-grandmother,
that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windchimes.

It's accepted for publication at Carnelian, but it's nevah too late for fixing, right sugah?

This is top notch. I wish I could write poems as personal as this.

 

[Angeline]

This is top notch. I wish I could write poems as personal as this.

Thank you Sir Mutt, but I haven't written a poem yet that failed to improve with the percolator's critique.

 

[perks]

Perk me, Mommy. Be my critique domme--I love the way you do it.

A Prayer for My Great Granddaughter

I am waiting in a windchime afternoon,
listening from behind a windshield
to the echo of a small town's song,
listening to cars whoosh two streets away
without wondering where anyone goes.
Crows call but not to me. I’m just watching
an American flag wave someone’s allegiance.

I’m waiting because I have none.
I can't pledge the country of myself,
let alone a contradiction of stripes.
For me, your commonplace is alien.
I’m a stranger here. Understand
I don't belong to this town or this car
anchored in a crooked parking lot

where I am trying to tame sensibilities
in slants and loops that might as well
be cuneiform, that much more
forgotten effluvia unless I am lucky
and my words dust some attic time capsule,
if I’m someone's ancestor when I finally
belong to the community that welcomes me.

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth
of flowers and waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put. Even as she built
a shrine of hope, carried it in her imagination,
she never set it down long enough to sprout
one root of trust, never called any space
outside her own pocket a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged
an allegiance to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be a woman,
a dark-eyed Rose of Sharon, my future
gripping the night
of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes.

I'd like to think that when she sits
her toes turn in and she twists one lock
of hair between two fingers like I did once.
If I am lucky, because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion, she will be.

She will read this and think oh my great-grandmother,
that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windchimes.

It's accepted for publication at Carnelian, but it's nevah too late for fixing, right sugah?

effluvia has no place in the vocabulary of this poem. Yes it meets the criteria of your imagery, and has that certain sound, but hell it doesn't match the rest of the words here.

and this someone will be a dark eyed Rose of Sharon

could anything be more strong and beautiful than your line? <notice the pun, and you get a treat>
Cohesive writing, the cadence is that of wind chimes, tinkling, resonating, and the allegorical strains are beautiful.

effluvia, who says effluvia?*muttering* Half your audience will have to look it up.

 

[perks]

c'mon, someone give me something I can rip.

 

[The Mutt]

Your azure eyes
glisten with limpidness
gazing longingly with longing
at my turgid member,
standing with erectitude
like a private first class
on the parade ground
of your sanguine heart.

Your pre-moistened cunt
reeks of awesomeness
calling me
like pomegranite pie
baked with mother's loving recipe
cooling on the windowsill
of the cum-stained glass window
of your cathedral heart.

And your corpulent ass
inspires me
like a mountain does a Sherpa
to scale its heights
to heights of passion
and drive my pitons
deep into the crevasse
of the odiferous brownie
of your gluteus heart.

 

[Guest]

 

[eagleyez]

power went down
and the crew
found pickle barrell
chairs and from the front loft
the whole town was visible.

Sirens in minor thirds
rattled over river roads.
I thought, "that looks like Perks
walking in the mini mart,"



and the power went on and
we milled back to work
tearing one thing down and building another.

I bet she was buying a pack of smokes-my money on that.


(ode to her Perkiness, so glad your back around this forum. Im a scant visitor of late and saw you shakin it and smiled wide.)

as always, find your poetic renderings worth reading and reading again.

 

[perks]

Your azure eyes
glisten with limpidness
gazing longingly with longing
at my turgid member,
standing with erectitude
like a private first class
on the parade ground
of your sanguine heart.

Your pre-moistened cunt
reeks of awesomeness
calling me
like pomegranite pie
baked with mother's loving recipe
cooling on the windowsill
of the cum-stained glass window
of your cathedral heart.

And your corpulent ass
inspires me
like a mountain does a Sherpa
to scale its heights
to heights of passion
and drive my pitons
deep into the crevasse
of the odiferous brownie
of your gluteus heart.

I know how to kill a man.

 

[The Mutt]

I know how to kill a man.

ooooo will it hurt?

 

[perks]

power went down
and the crew
found pickle barrell
chairs and from the front loft
the whole town was visible.

Sirens in minor thirds
rattled over river roads.
I thought, "that looks like Perks
walking in the mini mart,"



and the power went on and
we milled back to work
tearing one thing down and building another.

I bet she was buying a pack of smokes-my money on that.


(ode to her Perkiness, so glad your back around this forum. Im a scant visitor of late and saw you shakin it and smiled wide.)

as always, find your poetic renderings worth reading and reading again.

that's a bluesy sexy poem.

of course, the sirens stanza is my favorite.

 

[perks]

ooooo will it hurt?

softly

 

[Angeline]

effluvia has no place in the vocabulary of this poem. Yes it meets the criteria of your imagery, and has that certain sound, but hell it doesn't match the rest of the words here.

and this someone will be a dark eyed Rose of Sharon

could anything be more strong and beautiful than your line? <notice the pun, and you get a treat>
Cohesive writing, the cadence is that of wind chimes, tinkling, resonating, and the allegorical strains are beautiful.

effluvia, who says effluvia?*muttering* Half your audience will have to look it up.

I say effluvia. I say it conversationally, but I do get odd looks.

It's out babe and thank you. You got a free critique coming though it's hard to find anything that I think needs fixing when you're on a roll.

 

[perks]

I say effluvia. I say it conversationally, but I do get odd looks.

It's out babe and thank you. You got a free critique coming though it's hard to find anything that I think needs fixing when you're on a roll.

I do too! It's a great word. The vocab is consistent for you, can you seperate yourself from your audience? Sometimes I can, sometimes I can't. Sometimes I could give a fuck. *grin*

fantastic work, in spite of my blatherings.

as for a critique for me, when I write anything worth reading, I'll let you know.