A Critique A Review

How do you do?
I am here for you.

Simple for me to say,
I am a container of *dismay*

After Thursday.

What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
words what the sky says to the child, what the man
hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.

On Crossing

if one day,

I am away,

worry not.

if in two or

three days,

there are

no words,

no write,

I am all right.

if a week

becomes

two and s t r e t c h e s

the ache…

to a month

or two in

you.

I have gone

across

the Rainbow Bridge,

to the Other side,

with no regrets…

save not knowing

you, as one of this

Warriors conquests.

broken wings

Across
the sky
cloud smears remain

Gauze
in bunches
white and bright

Winged
ones broken
no flying dared

Spirits
strong births
and weddings still

People
parked lives
in garages safe…

other
places need
earth shaking change

from
flightless broken
wings ill repaired

1968
turns out
a 2015 sequel

Cities
both, streets
filled, with rubble.

One
an Earthquake,
other Equality troubles.

.                                  .

.                                  .

.                                  .

.

.

hay(na)ku – first time trying, two topics, too big,
one word
two words
three words.
For the people of Nepal, and all its cities who have had their lives chaotically altered.
For the people of Baltimore, peace will bring peace, but what will
bring equality.

Want some Plato, with your Whine…

there is good in all,
woman and man to a fault,
(the only bad came the result of a fall from grace)
being a woman does
not disqualify you from
a man’s work,
men take note,
say with me by rote,
‘I must stop being a jerk.”
(chauvinisima)

take my love to the next level
measure it against the bevel of the Platonic
lust is a bust, then there is love, gimme agape
every time after a time,
and after a while you might under-
stand beauty…real beauty…really understand,
take as much time as you need,
you need this time…to understand the sublime.

Clerihew -Betwixt Twain

Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.

Parody Alert (Variation on the) Variation on the Word Sleep (Wrestle) Parody Alert

I would like to watch you wrestle,
with your sheets so white.
I would like to watch you
wrestle. I would like to wrestle
with you, stand above
as a train trestle, noisy tracks
above your bed

pick you up and throw you, show
you my classic move on white
sheets in the dark, full moon casting
doubt that you will resist my
sleeper hold, afraid that
I might leave forgetting, my mask
and championship belt,
for you to remember me; bye, bye,
but then in your delirium
you insult my mum and
I return to the fray, tangling
you in the sheets and warming
all the pillows coldest sides
as I do my
spinning
whirling dervish move
at the head of your bed, I strip
the bed of all its dressing,
so if and when I go you will
have to make it on your own
you are standing there breathing heavy
as I turn to gloat away you simply fall
upon the naked bed breathless

I take one last jump into the air
your eyes open wide and we connect
in that moment, I know you know
I am about to land a hammer elbow &
painfully direct.

..

…

….
Thankyou and apologies to Margaret Atwood, and all my sleep deprived friends, Sorry to my fellow Canadians and fellow Margaret Atwood fans

Nine of Hearts and Story Cubes

Every ninth wave turned red,
The ones in between, were dead
and grey, as her day was, her past,
The man with the biggest pay-check
had the biggest mouth, her job he said
almost went south, without her.

Alone with her thoughts instead of
wearing beer in sleeves, her eyes
wearied from tears as she drove here,
no co-workers to try to cheer her heart.

heart, red, same colour as the waves, every ninth
now fading with her sobs,
fading red and she knew there was
going to be no moon tonight.

Music played from across the bay
as a crab scuttled to avoid the smallest waves, fireworks would begin to display *

the mushrooms began to glow about her

blanket of sand and grass.

She tilted her head back
and looked at the stars
begin to be lit by the night
and kicked her heel and struck
the ground hard, there was no soft
sand but a cloth bag and an
object hard, tied inside.

There was no scent, no stench,
she hefted the bag with two
hands and untied coarse twine
rolled back soft fabric open to find
a large golden egg easily
even in low light, suddenly

she looked around quickly
the only noise was that, that
the dark always made, but
in her mind a noisy trap door
to freedom fell open for her.

x   *

X     *

X      *

X         *
So take a playing card (mine was the 9 of hearts)and take 5 or so minutes to write a story. I added story cubes “Voyages” then you take your story and make it poetry.
My FB and Instagram will have my prompt picture at some point so will my wordpress. DWadeE for wordpress, elverum51 for IG and well my name is my name…fascinating

Pastoral Patchwork

Wires criss cross,

electricity enclosed,

never touch, fencing in,

the sky, the clouds, and where birds alight and touch,

Branches interweave and lace, oxygenation exposed,

roots bury deep,

as the shallow earth is

a deep canvas,

always waiting on the painter of the Light.

From the sky to the dirt tinted ground,

winged fowl to the rodents who bound,

or scurry, as coyotes celebrate a kill, calling

the moon to break the clouds like bread,

with two unseen hands that reach down.

The oceans sounds are the cars that roll

by and the air crests and curls landing

against the beaches made of trees and

hedges, and sitting listening still is the wind

wanting a turn to play coyote and howl,

wanting a turn to play rodent tossing bushes about,

wanting to play birds dance and dance below the

clouds while diving to feed off of the heat of the Day,

to rise way above to see the pastoral patchwork, Earth below.

Blackout – Erasure Poetry

echos

land moving

somewhere
tied to
morning mist.

morning,
she’s
string
that

nothing
is two
bottles

of linen

But, whiskey—–

Getting to know (epic ode)

I know where womb
became breath of air
and I was born
in a hospital there,
place was north of flat,
with wind erosion,
Growing up was not easy I know
with glasses I was an
easy target, until I had single eye
surgery, muscle band
sutured, wore a patch for my pirate
eye, no sword in a hand,
I know what tetanus is and why I
had to get a shot,
Rusty nail through and through a
sneaker, hurt a lot,
I know first love and know too well
rejection, spread like
an infection through my life at that
time, unless I biked,
then the only ones faster than me were cars
and planes and trains
and birds, some dogs, other bigger kids
on bikes, this I know.

I know this is about to get repetitive. I know how important good goalies are in two sports.

I know what bullying was and bullying is,
I know that negative self talk is a disease, still looking for the cure.
I know I was once good, no GREAT at the Pursuit of Trivial things.
I know I have a short term photographic memory, what did I just say?

I know there is a difference between jokes and humour,
I know some-one who has cancer and tumours,
I know what it is to watch my child-ren be born, and
admit there is beauty in my part of creation.

I know
many things. I know what fitness is and what it isn’t. I know that spousal abuse is wrong in every form.

I know friends who have had eating disorders, and how it becomes their personality.

I know what it is to be an adult child when parents divorce,
I know what alcoholics behave to live to drink another day and another and…

I know I graduated high school,
I know how to drive different vehicles,
I know how to operate from a motorcycle to heavy machinery
I know Cadets and I know Canadian Reserves,.

I know what it is like to receive a dear Darrell letter, when many miles
are between, and young love, ends.

I know safety rules with weapons, I know how to properly salute,
I know I once knew how to build bridges in the company of many
men, we will call them Field Engineers, UBIQUE, and a unique lot
they were, I knew I was a jack of all trades there and master of none,
save one, I was a soldier first and an engineer second, now are we
ready for the explosives…

I know how to coach volleyball.

I know marriage, I know that relationships are really all us humans
have of value, of value, I know how to rant a poem, I know communication and the frustration of speaking in the wrong tone,
I know to look for awe, I know that my house is cluttered, I know my dog is old, and though she is not spent yet, that day will come sooner,
and tears, those fucking tears will flow, it is just a damn dog, don’t you know?

I know love.  I know respect has to be earned.

I know when a black cloud moves in and hangs around the head and heart of the one you love, it breaks the little bones in your ears, it pulls
hairs from your nose, it gives you aches and pains and drains the living
energy despite how much you pray it away or pray to be strong, or pray to accept it, or pray for her every waking hour, and too even if you just go along for the roller coaster ride of your lives.

I know Christ Jesus and Him Crucified,
not by anything I have done but by
the love of God for me.

Now you know what
I know and what I am
willing to share, there
is much more, for each of us, didn’t you know?