Non-erotic poetry (that is, Poetry)

[_Land]

Very few ever comment on my writing here. I would appreciate some valuable feed back on this however if you would be so kind.
I swore off trying to rhyme in anything to serious back in 2003 after being challenged here in the forum. Outside of trying different forms as a challenge to my creative capabilities. Fuck you Sonnets

I digress.... I would like a little feedback on this if you could spare a few moments, I would be very grateful
Your overall thoughts and specifically if the use of the word lie (to different meanings) throws this off course ?

The Truth of Small Universes
by Bear Sage

A laced-winged gnat on a thistle vine,
knows time by dew and shadow line
a drop is flood, a breeze is quake,
and gods are those that petals make.
Its sky is stitched in thread and thorn,
its dusk, a fog of pollen born.


A fieldmouse scurries through woven wheat,
with thunder pulsed in kestrel beat.
It reads the grass by scent and bend,
each broken stalk a whispered end.
Its kingdom crowned in root and seed,
a world that shifts with fox or weed.


The kestrel rides on columns blue,
maps truth in twitching fur below.
Each gust a gate, each spiral turn
a prayer for claws and hunger’s burn.
It hunts by math the mouse can’t see,
a theorem drawn in gravity.


The hawk is stalked by weather’s hand,
storm systems bloom where clouds expand.
Winds dictate paths the feather flies
its gospel inked in pressure skies.
The thunderhead, a preacher bold,
who speaks in flash and breaks the fold.


The forest listens with spongy ear,
decades deep in rings unclear.
It does not flinch at blood or bone
just weaves them in and grows its own.
Its gospel: silence, rot, and leaf
truth composted beyond belief.


Above, the stars in ancient drift
write symphonies the cosmos lifts.
But they burn blind to gnat or hawk,
indifferent in their endless walk.
Each orbit sings in molten scale,
unmoved by hunger, claw, or trail.


Yet here we stand, within our scope,
declaring truth through lens and hope.
Not knowing what we’ve never known,
each verdict carved from self alone.
We call things fact, we brand them real
but truth is shaped by what we feel.


And so the bug, the mouse, the kite,
all navigate a different night.
No gospel wrong, no cosmos lie,
just windows framed by where we lie.

We are not bound by the truths they see,
but only the limits of our own galaxy.


For truth does not walk straight in line
it spirals, loops, forgets, refines.
It doubles back through time and thread,
alive in what is left unsaid.
A map redrawn with every glance,
a song that changes as we dance.

 

[Angeline]

Ok Land I read your poem. It's a long series of couplets that mostly rhyme: blue and below don't (but that's probably an easy fix with Rhymezone). Lie and lie are more problematic. Cosmic works better than cosmos imo but if it were me I'd try to avoid repeating a word, even when the meaning changes. Aside from blue/below it sticks out as being the only repetition in place of rhyme.

Also with this long of a poem (50+ lines) you might want to consider breaking it into parts. It's a long read. And to me it's arguable whether a forest or a starry sky is a small universe. Compared to a gnat or fieldmouse, even a hawk, it feels off. And overall I think you could cut back a fair amount without losing meaning and probably increase accessibility.

All just my opinion. Hope you find it useful. If not, no worries.

 

[WCSGarland]

TEMPEST

Our love is but a tempest,
A storm-tossed sea.
With the depth and breadth,
Deep and dark,
As passionate as the sea.
With push and pull,
And give and take,
A power without measure.
A treasure trove of mystery,
And also, understanding.
Calm in places,
Not unlike the eye of a hurricane,
And underneath,
A gentle wash of warmth,
And sometimes cool.
Fed as the seas,
By the winds,
The breath of God.
Our love is but a tempest,
A storm-tossed sea.

 

[_Land]

Ok Land I read your poem. It's a long series of couplets that mostly rhyme: blue and below don't (but that's probably an easy fix with Rhymezone). Lie and lie are more problematic. Cosmic works better than cosmos imo but if it were me I'd try to avoid repeating a word, even when the meaning changes. Aside from blue/below it sticks out as being the only repetition in place of rhyme.

Also with this long of a poem (50+ lines) you might want to consider breaking it into parts. It's a long read. And to me it's arguable whether a forest or a starry sky is a small universe. Compared to a gnat or fieldmouse, even a hawk, it feels off. And overall I think you could cut back a fair amount without losing meaning and probably increase accessibility.

All just my opinion. Hope you find it useful. If not, no worries.

Thank you for taking the time Angeline
If I'm honest I was so bothered by the Lie Lie I didn't catch the Blue/Below.... I had meant to fix that

 

[melimelissa]

Each Day

Each day, I fall in love with you many more times,
Than the drum beat counts of my heart; traditions
Gather strength from love's weakness to re-align
Hope: shifting it from frustration without prevarication;

If I ever stop cursing, you can end your hesitation to reconnect:
Our affection need not cede to crude demands: after all
who pays pipers for unwanted tunes, or bearers for torn flags?
Promise me, we will plant that flag in vital, loving territory?

If daily love is captured, conquered, and, then, wholly owned,
Can you let me please be taken (not for granted); I will sigh,
Because I always like to sigh thoroughly; and we will moan
Per tradition: And I will sing of falling in love with you, each day.

Méli

 

[WCSGarland]

RESORT

If I had a rocket ship,
I'd blast off, into space,
Maybe look for a cosmic pool,
Where I could kick back,
Or swim thru the rippling light,
Or work on my star tan.

I wonder if anyone would visit,
If I opened a resort villa,
With a good view of Crab Nebula,
Although, after a while,
I'm sure it would get crowded,
When all the slick operators,
Saw what a wonderful deal I had.

What do you think?
Should I bring a stick?

 

[NivKay]

Very few ever comment on my writing here. I would appreciate some valuable feed back on this however if you would be so kind.
I swore off trying to rhyme in anything to serious back in 2003 after being challenged here in the forum. Outside of trying different forms as a challenge to my creative capabilities. Fuck you Sonnets

I digress.... I would like a little feedback on this if you could spare a few moments, I would be very grateful
Your overall thoughts and specifically if the use of the word lie (to different meanings) throws this off course ?

The Truth of Small Universes
by Bear Sage

A laced-winged gnat on a thistle vine,
knows time by dew and shadow line
a drop is flood, a breeze is quake,
and gods are those that petals make.
Its sky is stitched in thread and thorn,
its dusk, a fog of pollen born.


A fieldmouse scurries through woven wheat,
with thunder pulsed in kestrel beat.
It reads the grass by scent and bend,
each broken stalk a whispered end.
Its kingdom crowned in root and seed,
a world that shifts with fox or weed.


The kestrel rides on columns blue,
maps truth in twitching fur below.
Each gust a gate, each spiral turn
a prayer for claws and hunger’s burn.
It hunts by math the mouse can’t see,
a theorem drawn in gravity.


The hawk is stalked by weather’s hand,
storm systems bloom where clouds expand.
Winds dictate paths the feather flies
its gospel inked in pressure skies.
The thunderhead, a preacher bold,
who speaks in flash and breaks the fold.


The forest listens with spongy ear,
decades deep in rings unclear.
It does not flinch at blood or bone
just weaves them in and grows its own.
Its gospel: silence, rot, and leaf
truth composted beyond belief.


Above, the stars in ancient drift
write symphonies the cosmos lifts.
But they burn blind to gnat or hawk,
indifferent in their endless walk.
Each orbit sings in molten scale,
unmoved by hunger, claw, or trail.


Yet here we stand, within our scope,
declaring truth through lens and hope.
Not knowing what we’ve never known,
each verdict carved from self alone.
We call things fact, we brand them real
but truth is shaped by what we feel.


And so the bug, the mouse, the kite,
all navigate a different night.
No gospel wrong, no cosmos lie,
just windows framed by where we lie.

We are not bound by the truths they see,
but only the limits of our own galaxy.


For truth does not walk straight in line
it spirals, loops, forgets, refines.
It doubles back through time and thread,
alive in what is left unsaid.
A map redrawn with every glance,
a song that changes as we dance.

Firstly, let me say that I loved this poem. I think the poem does tend to lead towards the romantic, and why not. The rhythmic patterns here were lovely, and to my mind, formed the central pillar here, around which everything worked.

But I felt that the strict adherence to rhyme limited the possibilities proposed by the poem itself. Truth, as the poem would have it, ‘ spirals,’, ‘doubles back’. And while I see the rhyme regime as working in some way as an antithesis to this, a constant folding and unfolding of truth, the compulsion to rhyme tended to ‘pin down’ or dogmatise truth. It’s probably my own resistance to rhyme, so not really a valid criticism.

I thought the eight beat lines were good, and at first, I felt you were constructing a pattern with a nine beat first line and then subsequent eight beat lines, but then I noticed that wasn’t consistent, with subsequent stanzas beginning with eight beats. But the intention here on the whole was to establish an ordered rhythmic regime.

I wonder if it could have been effective if the rhythm and structural elements could have harnessed to push the point home, that we are ‘ not bound by the truths they see’ limited by ‘ our own galaxy’. In which case, the form and structure could have expanded, become fluid, dynamic, rather than keeping to a fixed system.

Does this make sense? I’m stealing ten minutes in between things, so I’m trying to get this in now, because I’ll probably forget later!!

 

[NivKay]

Ok, I always feel guilty when I leave feedback, so here I am, coming back to qualify that I loved your poem, but I felt the rhyme took away rather than add? Ok, I'll shut up now..

 

[NivKay]

Each Day

Each day, I fall in love with you many more times,
Than the drum beat counts of my heart; traditions
Gather strength from love's weakness to re-align
Hope: shifting it from frustration without prevarication;

If I ever stop cursing, you can end your hesitation to reconnect:
Our affection need not cede to crude demands: after all
who pays pipers for unwanted tunes, or bearers for torn flags?
Promise me, we will plant that flag in vital, loving territory?

If daily love is captured, conquered, and, then, wholly owned,
Can you let me please be taken (not for granted); I will sigh,
Because I always like to sigh thoroughly; and we will moan
Per tradition: And I will sing of falling in love with you, each day.

Méli

I see tenderness here in these words...How lovely!

 

[_Land]

Ok, I always feel guilty when I leave feedback, so here I am, coming back to qualify that I loved your poem, but I felt the rhyme took away rather than add? Ok, I'll shut up now..

I love the feed back, and I asked for it
I was trying to establish rhythm, and the off beat rhythm's somewhat intentional. A imperfect heartbeat.

The poem is part of a much larger essay on holding Truths for my subscriber base. Writing for a wider audience has both opened doors to my writing and narrowed some of the choices I use for words and flow.

It's an interesting journey.

Thank you for your feedback, it's always valuable.

 

[WCSGarland]

SOUL ART

My pulse exultantly reverberates,
Tracing the chambers of my heart and mind,
Echo location of my longing for you.

My breath in susurrant dance performs,
Tickling the edge of my perception,
Telling remembrances of my desire for you.

My dreams though distant envelope me,
Painting color on the canvas of my soul,
Gentle brush strokes of my memories of you.

 

[SmilingLez]

Men feast on her silence.
She offers blood, fire, life
ignored.
Men take, devour, forget
leaving her hollow, ash,
broken.

But from the ashes, she rises
claws tearing through darkness,
vengeance in her eyes
a storm of rage,
wiping them out.