Best Critiques Poems
Some of us are secretive at first. We hide our poetry’s soul self,
gently letting her peep out; sometimes regretting it immediately.
Fearful of critiques from people who do not understand that poetry
is something we are compelled and born to do with our feelings.
Your diary entries may form themselves into goodness or badness
before you realize your calling as a poet.
Truths shockingly ooze out, surprising you.
Feelings creep out onto a page, in loud angry letters,
or romantic feelings daintily brush onto a crisp lined page
in the form of sweetness and light.
You are a word player, because you cannot
stop this obsession, but it does not define you.
This poetry gig is but a glimmer of a glimpse of yourself.
You might be a caregiver, or a wonderful friend.
People who count on your smile every day may not realize
you have a love affair with words, and an obsession to write them.
We are each a unique jewel, mined from God’s mind.
Poetry may initiate a whisper of a tiny facet of ourselves,
but our secrets are safe. We not merely poets. We are lovers
of life, and words. Most importantly, we remain gloriously hidden
and unknown to most.
Written 12-20-18 Contest: You Are Not Defined by Poetry
Sponsor: John Hamilton
I leave the daily hustle and bustle
and the cacophony of city sound.
And head to where the leaves softly rustle
in the breeze, and no one else is around.
When I'm alone, I experience peace
that raises my soul to a higher plane.
And anxiety's attacks slowly cease,
free from critical critiques and disdain.
Seclusion fuels imagination;
shaping reality within my mind.
And it's a feeling of liberation;
unrestricted by rules of any kind.
Whenever I seek solitude by choice,
I heed the whispers of my inner voice.
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
I'm only allowed the names of three
so I will write of those that would be for me.
There are so many that this is unfair
but, since that is the rule I must list there:
Carolyn Devonshire who gave me the courage to write
with her words of encouragement on this site.
She always found a "silver lining" in my work,
and never told me that I write like a jerk.
Tho it has been years since I've been around
her help and inspiration never set me aground.
She never left me twisting in the wind alone
as she helped my poorest works to hone.
There is also a Poet Destroyer for whom I have praise
I wish my words to her level I could raise.
Why her "Poet Destroyer" pen name I could never see
unless, of course, you compare mine to her poetry.
Mine is crushed by the words she can write
but I am ever grateful to her for wanting to put mine to flight.
When you have a writer who can put you to shame,
it's only natural that you want to do the same.
CayCay Jennings is my third choice
as she has helped me to "refind" my voice.
I appreciate her critiques of the work I do
all I can give is a big "THANK YOU".
She was one of the first to welcome me back here
and always gave me words of good cheer.
Her suggestions have been given with such grace
sometimes they put a smile on my face.
There is her writing which is also so stellar
as compared to mine, some of which belong in a cellar.
Some of the things she has written down
Have with me, a deeper meaning found.
So these are the three heroes that I must name
but so many more have done the same.
Not only are there poets whose names I could not call
to give them the honors they should have one and all.
Yes, I have heroes here unnamed
because my pen had to be tamed.
But know that I appreciate each and all that you do
Whenever I write, I'm thinking of you.
written: 10/30/15
Roger Ebert~ "At The Movies"
Chicago Film Critic: Pulitzer Prize winner for Criticism.
Has a star in his name, at the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Passed away in 2013 A.D.
~~A Dedication to Roger Ebert~~
Ah, dear Roger! Gone but not forgotten.
Infinitely compassionate, warm and fun!
With you, and many Chicago journalists,
I was so very blessed to run.
You never were too big to come to my
humble home parties!
You brought your journalist friends, too.
When my daughter was just two, she
joyfully opened our front door for you.
Each New Years Eve, you rented a space
for your hundreds of friends,
With drink, food and overflowing
laughter.
Those days, Roger, I will remember and
cherish, today and forever after.
I daringly argued with you about your movie
critiques!
And yet...you were open to hearing the
ramblings from my mouth.
Till a deathly illness, took you painfully out!
But, of your endless virtues and genuine
humanity and creativity,
Of these, dearest Roger, I will eternally shout!
Love,
Panagiota
Panagiota Romios
4/1/2019
THE NIGHTINGALE LOST HER LAMP
Anita’s eyes were brown.
She was the kindest of angels.
Her speech firm with authority
but reassuring with a glass- like
sensitivity; she seemed to know all.
Prompt as a rooster's first crow,
that's how she is.
She stands like a lioness
ever ready to act, a channel
to prolong the patient's life.
Her heart is a captive cog
of dedicated compassion:
as a wife, as a mother, as a Dean,
Professor, and as a nurse.
She stood always regal in white.
Bearing a sanction of life and death
with each shot made by her gentle hands.
She had Tiger eyes for signs and symptoms;
sponges to absorb order and pressures,
she was simply a lamp for a sick person.
Our batch, she handles with iron fist.
Labeled as "black sheep" – for some of us
are noisy cans but empty inside.
Black sheep but later turned into
the cream of the crop. She stood as
our Samson pillars then despite canyons of
doubts and critiques, our batch defies the odds.
Yet, one day a snapshot happened –
She fainted while teaching.
She was brought to the hospital,
scrutinized and observed like
the frog in my sophomore year.
I was one of the nurses who rendered care.
I watched, how the shining light in her eyes
turned to stormy sadness. I have heard
how her sturdy voice now sounded
a tattered tape only syllables and groans,
no more. Her before supple glowing skin
turned a wrinkled ash — all tautness gone.
Finally, she needs only bags of blood
in two days her life passed my Anita...
_______________________________________________________
Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Show but Don't Tell
Placed 3rd...
O.E. Guillermo
5:15 pm, May 19, 2015
WHERE FROZEN EMBERS STILL BURN
When will periwinkle dreams entwine with my lifesong?
deadly winter has blanket me? [Long, ah! so long...]
Has bloody ferns swirl then froze me as falling snow
for acrid critiques cold cloud? [T'was wrong, Oh so wrong...]
Doubts and worries weaken my weary feet
but teeming catalysts from a compassionate God
activate talent embers, once frozen to heat--
telling: "TRUST, GO AND START!", an alarm from above.
Bearing a faith anew, I spread my wings to fly;
walking even over blitz agonizing talk for ply.
Cracking myself from iceberg of fears--
twining myself to God's glory, a clear dear!
Braiding faith and hardwork in cornerstone steel,
spirits shoot hope that guards, a powerful feel.
Unfolding gifts from long frozen hearts to burn,
now mightily restored with heaven's love way turn...
(c)
10:16am
August 22, 2014
I realize limitation
Is an illusion.
My destiny is without
Boundary.
Looking,
Beyond death. Beyond the periphery
Eternal Incarceration
Cosmic chaos is cooking...
Infinite combinations
In infinite situations
Attuned yet unaware,
A universe of oppositions
Frequency and energy
Space, matter
A spiraling dichotomy.
an ascending epiphany.
11-27-14
PLEASE COMMENT!!
CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK, (pos. or neg.) CRITIQUES, OR ANY SUGGESTIONS
I also enjoy simple lists of words, descriptors of an abstract reaction
describe the feelings or ideas my poem invoked or left in feeling or thought.
Even on word. is better than none. Thank you
OGE
Crushed dreams exploded friendships eroded,
stubbornness, selfishness and ego interceded,
expectations of true friendships forever eroded.
Mystique, curiosity gives the urge to peek,
but critiques week after week , send a message
there's a mean streak.
Always like a kid wanting to be applauded,or a
confused adult needing to be lauded, friendly at
times, ugly at others .
Yoyo idiosyncrasies
flexing like Jekyll and Hyde, a crazy pretender,
never had a nurturer, stuck in mixed moods
one that love and friendships eludes
This is me
Laid out before you
Exposed
Naked
Nothing to shield me from your eyes
What do you see
Who am I to you
Do you see the holes in me
Can you see the missing pieces
I am not what you see
I am not who you think I am
I am many things you’ll never know
I hide behind kind eyes
And friendly smile
They shield me from your judgments
I am sensitive
I quietly absorb the critiques
And harsh words
I feel your glares
They cut me deep
I weep silently for missing parts of me
That no one will ever know about
I wander the woods in solitude
Wondering why who I am bothers you
Why do you care that I write
That I love
Who I give my love to
Do you care that my heart is broken
Lost love
Kept secret
Why does my daily routine bother you
I am normal
To me
You should be more like me
Is what I think
Inside my head
Move like me
Think like me
eat like me
live like me
I am me
I am normal
To me
Not to you
Do you see my tears fall
On these quite walks
As I put down tobacco
And say my prayer
Hoping that somehow
My words find the creator
And he gets them where they need to be
I am not a big dumb animal
I am not a beast of burden
I am not hard and unfeeling
I am me
A free thinker
Scared to voice his thoughts
Actions scream louder
Than anything you can say
I’ve shown myself to one
To that one soul
Where did it get me
Damaged
Destroyed
Wrecked
Judged
Judged by you
You’ll never quite understand
Because you’ll always see what you see
And I’ll always be me
In my man cave, is a closet
Which would spawn horrible critiques
Totes full of old computer parts
Some of which my be antiques
Various plumbing parts abound
But Lord knows I'm not a plumber
Game parts, tools, nuts, bolts and nails
Old clothes from winter to summer
There is some work out equipment
For some reason it looks brand new
In the corner is my tool box
With tools scattered most askew
It's been like that for a long time
In a terrible unsorted array
If ever found clean or empty
I must have died or moved away!
Be ware
Putting you words
And poetry out for the public could
be Perilous due to the great numbers that march
against free think ing today. On your artis tic journey
beware of Grammar Nazis. marching day
and night. you are wrong they are
right.write you poems out of si-
ght.seeing every issue in black
and white. They
see art, but not
quite. Drafting more for
their fight.dese ntion is their
greatest gift from the dead
they paste and lift tongues are sharp,
their attacks are swift.. Confrontational
critiques meant to do harm. Twisted
Philosophies do alarm. Gram mar Nazis
March tonight
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
Chimera of visual candy and sounds. I twirl my poetic skirt — the Magyar gypsy in me abandons time and space — the earth is mine — to mold, create as my God whispers splendiferous life, the ways of this sphere and paradise.
vainglorious words
floating in the atmosphere
i pop their bubbles
I free myself, listen to the critiques and adulation, twisted into the audience’s imagination. We collaborate in thunderstorms. I’m not a rock or an island but a diamond in the rough. Polish my adjectives and verbs. Resound the earthquake in my soul. Embellish my nouns and stamp on my heart.
the dew of my breath
joined with the peppermint wind
— rhapsodic rejoice
The world twirls in party spin until I’m dizzy and giddy. Our hands clasped - with centrifugal force — we go round and round. I capture in my mind’s eye the nuances of the ride. Fish fly and birds swim. Babies grow up and adults hush.
the cup and saucer
teatime passes by quickly
— porcelain shatters
Until my dying day, I will treasure this merry-go-round parade. My earrings dangle, my pearls midair, the embers of my hair, heels kicked up in lusty dust, doves cooing, ravens cawing. There’s always more to say.
skirt with pressed wrinkles
the restless iron suppressed
— abandon my death
7/6/2018
Beneath the heavens
An endless garden
The summer sun sneaks
A wink of amorous warmth
Seeks an ardent love
Walking not alone
Humming full of wonder
Critiques, and ponders
Knocking at the door
Of yesterday perfect love.
Crave to release the world
Bound to the pages
Page by page
Another night to drown
In the waves of his
Moonlight blue eyes
Nestle deeply into his soul
Melt and fade away in his arms
Savor honey kiss once again
The Strawberry moon rises
Light cast shadows in darken absence
Smitten with utter stillness
Whilst she weakens giving up to the world
Its myth beneath the heavens
3/26/2020
Does not matter what they say..
Poetry is easy but it’s not poetry…
Hallmark cliché is not a poem I am afraid..
You can spot a poet.. By their words…
Spilt from lips with gusto and fervor!
Grotesquerie gavottes meandering rodents!
Leaving bubonic parasitic critiques!
Would you tell a painter how to paint!?
The pallet they should weave, hehehe…
They’re so underrated, non unique,
sad pathetic ghouls drifting morose,
through the catacombs of their souls,
now chests hollow as is their home,
to breath or hear or feel…. nevermore-
If you’re a poet I care naught your words,
if you’re a poet I care knot your form,
if you’re a poet I care not your sword,
I care that you lachrymose inked your scrawl,
and no one can rate and criticize art,
if they hate your work, remember,
they are critics not artist, ask yourself,
one simple solitary question……
Is it better than a soup can?
Wink*
I am supposed to statuesque a poet/poetess;
But it is not poetry if it is not left to be subjective,
that’s Hallmark and I am not interested in cards,
I am interested in filling hearts or tearing them apart,
metaphorical a woman on here I met is a rampart,
mellifluous canary with crystalline shards her arc,
shooting through the night, a bright light in the dark,
mahogany bonfire in the nigh, ember in the minds eye.