Poetry Forum

judywritespoetry - all messages by user

9/12/2017 3:47:31 PM
Critique please. Is it poetry or song?	Jack Webster & Darren White ... Thank you for taking the time to read my work and for the awesome encouragement and excellent suggestion. I have no training in writing poetry other than my grandmother teaching me to rhyme and count syllables at a young age. This is the first I submit here. This type of rhyming flows easily out of me and I do find that I can get very wordy. Sometimes short lines ... sometimes longer, but I tend to start with the intent of making it short yet ending up with a long piece. I'm also a huge lover of music and believe that much of what I write can lend itself nicely to lyrics. So thank you for THAT encouragement as well. Judy
10/16/2017 11:11:39 AM
THE LOBSTERMAN (really this time) :-)	This poem is based on a photo I took of an elderly fisherman, hunched at the shoulders, standing in his dinghy rowing to his fishing boat ... at dawn. I was very moved by the picture. Hushed silence as the dawn begins unveil Faded ribbons of beauty appear ever so pale Morphing in depth and passionate splendor Eternal, inspirational gifting of nature The density of darkness vaporizes to light As all that was shadowed comes into sight Casts upon the harbor the soft glow of morn Life’s daily symphony begins to perform The dawn draws to life each and every thing With the rising orb new life does it bring The soft glow of light, the harbor awakes Lobstermen appear as the new day breaks This endless ritual begins always the same Moonrise and sunrise in eternal refrain And this day, as in days of decades before He stands in his row boat and raises his oar Hunched from the weight of years of hard work Family and responsibilities never to shirk He nods as he paddles without saying a word Brothers in a bond that doesn’t need to be heard The ache in his body is worse on some days He goes about his work in a reverent haze This is all he can do - all that he knows Lifetimes ago ... twas the life that he chose. Or maybe to say the life that chose him To sink or to swim is the lobsterman’s hymn He was raised on a boat, always in boots He bleeds it from his pores – it’s inbred in his roots Leaving the harbor barely breaking a wake He steers his old vessel into the daybreak Irrelevant is the cold, the heat or a storm His performance perpetuates each new day born His story but a drop in an ocean we don’t see His dedication and ethic simply humble me Haunted by hunched image in silhouette as he oars To his life in the harbor whence it is moored.
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