A trio of my recent poems.

[WX6[ck]]

Hi people of Lit-Net here are a few of my poems. Hope you will enjoy them.

Counting past One.

When I was small,
I could not count at all!
I'd count to One, but then I'd be done.

If only I knew,
How to count to Two.
Then I would count to three... or four!

Or Five or Six or Seven!
Or even up to Eleven!
But why stop at all? Could I count more?

Yes!
I'd count to One hundred or Two.
Then past One thousand through and through.

I'd count to One million.
It would be fun!
Oh how I wish that I could count past one.

A-E-I-O-U

Each and every word I say
Helps prolong a lousy day
Therefore vow I silent to be
To listen to words now said by thee
To forget about the tribulations of I
And instead admire symmetry in your eye
To learn about you what I don’t already know
And watch how quickly that you grow
To better witness actions that you do
To better think them through and through

Time

Time is not measured by shuffling hands,
By ocean tides or lunar cycles.
Time is not measured by wrinkled faces,
By worn knuckles or sweated brows.
By falling sands or fallen leaves.
By Flowing rivers, roaming mountains or the Earth’s pirouette around the sun.
By Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, or all.
But by remembering the good times.
Remembering the bad times.
The fun times and the boring times.
The sunny days and the cloudy days.
The week that just wouldn’t end or a summer just too short.

And all of time can be stored in a moment as long as there is a memory.
And all memories encompassed in a single thought.

No combination of digits or dates or both can unlock the memories of thought.
Sheer will and brute force cannot unfold the origami of one’s mind.
Patience and perseverance cannot reclaim times forgotten.

There is but one key to memory which we all displace too hastily.
To which we don’t embrace and cherish.
It is that which binds us all together and keeps all of us apart.
The empirical accounts of everyday.
The cold touch of the first spring rain.
The faint fragrance of a flower on a windowsill.
The sound of pages read.
And the familiarity of any of these summons forth that which can only be stored in memory.

[hillwalker]

3 quite different poems - and sounding as if they were writen in chronological sequence of maturing.

The first is a nursery rhyme of sorts - almost becoming too whimsically childish - but of course there are other processes going on behind the exercise of counting, such as realising the seconds of one's life passing by perhaps. The final line is a fitting end to the conundrum.

The second piece starts really well - solid rhyme and rhythm, but by line 3 it trips over and never quite regains its balance.

'vow I silent to be' - words now said by thee' - 'tribulations of I'

seem constructed in order to maintain the rhyme, but twisting sentences in this way is done at the expense of everything else. They sound awkward, don't really make a great deal of sense, and the engine is still not firing on all cylinders. Much of what follows is also rather weak because you are trying to regain control of a form that has already fallen apart.

I would suggest rewriting this after dimisssing any attemots at formal rhyme - keep it short and simple and try to avoid unnecessary cliches like 'think them through and through.'

The third poem is much stronger - some really memorable lines, vivid images and a good deal of original writing.
My only quibble would be that it goes on rather too long - you begin repeating yourself (as if looking for a new way to say what you already said earlier in the poem).
Also some of the longer 'statements' read more like prose than poetry - but I'm sure you know which ones those are. You have a gentle touch and a fine eye for what captures the imagination of the reader. Concentrate on these qualities rather than on philosophising about the concept of time and I think you have a winner here.

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

The first of these is a wonderful evocation of a child's voice with his characteristic self-doubt, given thathe can and does do whathe doubts he can.

The second illustrates one of several talents we all need to develop as writers:

1) Not to rely overly much on technique such as, here, rhyme, to carry us through a poem that doesn't really have all that much energy;

2) The ability to put our poems or stories aside for a day or so and then come back to them as much as possible with the eyes of a stranger, to ask What does this poem or story have to offer me?


;963489']
Time

Time is not measured by shuffling hands,
By ocean tides or lunar cycles.
Time is not measured by wrinkled faces,
By worn knuckles or sweated brows.
By falling sands or fallen leaves.
By Flowing rivers, roaming mountains or the Earth’s pirouette around the sun.
By Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, or all.
But by remembering the good times.
Remembering the bad times.
The fun times and the boring times.
The sunny days and the cloudy days.
The week that just wouldn’t end or a summer just too short.

And all of time can be stored in a moment as long as there is a memory.
And all memories encompassed in a single thought.


and 3) the ability to STOP when one has said all one really has to say; to prefer an interesting or dramatic final line or two - such as the above - to dragging the poem on because a) one just love writing and/or b) one doesn't trust one's reader to have gotten the point. There is what is called Writer's work and reader's work, the latter meaning to trust that you have sufficiently gained the reader's attention and respect and then to leave it to him or her to bring something of themselves to the poem.

[Delta40]

I found the first poem to be a lovely rhyme to recite in the hand of a child.

I rather liked AEIOU although I would remove 'that' from L8. Perhaps the rhyming, while providing a tempo may not do it the justice it deserves.

Time measured in the 3rd poem seems to take some time and I think you could say alot more with less

Time is not measured by shuffling hands,
By ocean tides or lunar cycles.
Time is not (Nor) measured by wrinkled faces,
By worn knuckles or sweated brows.

These first lines say so much already