Consider my grave your resting place too,
An empathetic soul who rests here.
Worry not poet, it haunts no more,
Covered with maggots, I've rotted here for a while.
These sockets are now emptied, I see nothing to judge.
With my brains swallowed,
I am no critique.
Only bones adorning dirt and bugs.
Justitia, you can call me.
Lend me your ears and I'll spit the truth.
They cherished me when lived,
Now left in a churchyard to rot and suffocate.
Did I not serve them well?
Recall the fights I fought, for our pride poet.
Yet, lie here, with mates, died in my lap.
Never craved for this grave,
But a life, unafraid.
Early, wasn't it?
My beard never turned grey, in fact.
Celebrate my story, in a poem in your next birth.
Each critique, a dart that sharply lands,
Piercing through the depths, unveiling the strands.
Presentation skills rightly come to play,
Dissecting flaws without dismay.
Gentle whispers soothe the gloom,
Like honey poured in the labyrinth's bloom.
Empower the frail, an onus to shoulder,
Utilize the might in ways one can only ponder.
Chaotic hypnotic robotic symbiotic Carotic hieratic proglottic automatic
The wind blows in any desired style
Any day every once in a while,
Man's comments to it are just a riffraff pile.
The sun will give you some chilli sensation,
With no fear for it needs to take no consultation
From mankind whose whimperings cause no affliction.
Yet you still worry about what they'll say
When you know, they only speak once a Day.
No other day is given, for them to play
Take your clay-
Remember, just to mould a craft-
Trust your guts-
They help you, for no matter your move,
The tongue will move-
In critique.
But listen, "There has never been a statue erected for a critique",
I heard so...
Under the moonlight
You create critique grotesque
Borderline sighting.
commentator wrote a critique that was six times longer than the poem itself
He demanded the poet explain her intentions
the critique sounded irritated and annoyed
Frustrated and insane
She laughed when she read it
She had spent six seconds penning her six lines
he had spent possibly an hour rewriting his critique
She stared at the poem
Not remembering it
When had she written it?
She looked at the date
One a.m. this morning.
She laughed even harder.
Her one a.m. self
and her four-thirty in the afternoon self
did not recognize each other.
She wrote back these three words
“get over yourself.”
Two chicks were sent to scope out what the rabbit had done.
He was losing it a bit, having weird ideas about what is fun.
The chicks found eggs hidden in the grass, which was good.
But the rabbit had also hid them under a pile of wood.
Those eggs were all smashed up oozing out candy of course.
He had also hidden some under the hooves of a horse.
Might have to appoint a new Easter Bunny the chicks reported.
To get the eggs under the haymow, he must have been seriously contorted.
Judge me not, just wear my biting shoes
And then see, wear no blinkers of views
Of which little I care,
Nor care such shoes to wear,
And there’s no room I think
To paint peacock’s eggs pink,
Or else wait and hope I lose my muse.
______________________________________
Limerick | 06.09.2022 | Humour
Poet’s note: Every writer, prose or poetry, every performer, painter or player passes through this phase—to feel like shooing off the critics like a speck of dust on the dress he wears. It is good to feel sure of what one writes. But every lump of gold has to pass through the test of fire to purify.
*Image of Freed Fountain Pen by Pixabay.
Coffee Crumb Cake Critique
Coffee, dawn's waker-upper, cause to rhyme,
The second cup broadens your eyes, sublime,
Noontime, pot perking as penning moves on,
Performing phrases ... possessed noumenon,
Evetime trance poured milk and Kahlua,
Like Jericho's walls, pen falls ... Joshua.
2022 June 04
I'm here to share with you my thoughts,
untie some knots;
I try to learn
how gold to earn.
I'm thrilled by this advanced technique,
evade critique
when it's on me;
I'm proud, you see.
I know I have to write this form,
It has its charm,
made me reflect;
please don't reject.
When finishing a project
That’s all yours and thus unique,
The last thing that you want to hear’s
A negative critique.
Yet when you’re going public
Anyone can have his say
Despite the fact the way he feels
May spoil your lovely day.
In giving an opinion
Sometimes holding something back
Is better than the words which seem
Too much like an attack.
For honesty, at times, can cause
A person to be hurt,
The outcome I would do my best
To very much avert.
...I have a next door neighbor who
is not the same color as me,
but I never much thought of that,
he easy-going, friendly.
We both got along well-enough,
until his sister did move in,
and brought along a yapping dog
who’s barking was as loud as sin.
I put up with this for some weeks,
then I went over there and asked
if they could keep him in at night,
in the sister’s eyes anger flashed.
She claimed I hated ‘black people,’
that was why I was doing this,
treating them like normal neighbors
somehow made me a racist?!
On days off I do like to hike,
like to go to the great outdoors,
the quiet of a mountainside
lifts the stresses that I abhor.
But then I saw an article
claiming going off to the woods
was somehow racist in itself,
and that doing so wasn’t good.
At this point I just rolled my eyes,
the truth was abundantly clear,
these people had no principles,
just sought to rule us all through fear,
If all is racist, nothing is,
and if this woke bullsh-t persists,
the only people worth knowing
will be ones that they call racist.
Are you our sort of writer?
Do you write
Stories or poems
Memoirs or nonfiction
Or some other form?
Blank pages wait for something new, do you
Put something on it before you walk away?
Stop waiting.
Open your notebook,
Empty, empty, do you need a pen
Click it and write
A passage or metaphor
And with it
Will you marry your thoughts
It is your destiny.
To rest your eyes you’ll see
Something with your mind
You’ll take stock of your life
And leave your heart naked
Do you want a disguise-
Rouge and bright
Will you marry your lines
Will they shatter or fade with the sun
Will they weaken with the passage of time
Others remember you by.
Now your muse is weary
I have an answer for that.
Come on friend, sit at the table
And see what you make of that.
Your thoughts will be silver
Your words framed in gold.
A shimmering life if you look
Images for the heart
It will sing to you.
It works, even if just a little
Your story has a hole, a ghost to tell
Behind your eye, you have an image
It’s your time to shine
Will you marry your lines?
Thanks to Sylvia Path for her great works. My poem is based on her piece, titled “The Applicant.”
I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
I like almost every poem. I want to elevate and raise.
Reading poems is a hobby that makes me feel good.
I know I should critique. As if that I could!
I have barely been writing poetry myself, for just a couple of weeks.
I know when I got my feet wet, people gave me all kinds of tweaks.
People were ever so kind, no matter how silly my rants.
Critiquing a poet? I am afraid that this fits in with my can'ts.
I do not feel knowledgeable enough about poetry yet.
So I will have to stick with what I know, which is to praise every pet.
The poems I do not understand, the ones over my head so tall,
I simply skip over, and do not comment at all.
I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
It has served me quite well, all these poem-reading days.
Reading poems is terrific, it gives me ideas galore.
If you need critiques from me, you are barking at the wrong door.
I must confess to feeling like a cat
peering at the shadows of fish.
I want to clap my paw through the surface,
and curious,
pull each out
of the trembling waves of light.
from my critique for eckho scott, whose poem may be read here: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry/forum/topic7487-critique-please.aspx?MessageID=14459#post14459
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