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Blood on Roses
Viciously
Thorns dig in palms
That carelessly
Steal summer's beauty.
Life defends itself
No matter
How small or feeble.
But winter falls.
Withering petals float
To distant tarmac.
At last
The hand has healed.
Bare stalks stand rigid
Covered in morning frost.
Hi Doc,
#169 Takes the opposite view of wintr from the usual ho-hum disgruntled acceptance of the status quo of the average man on the street. That's some phrase "Breathable whiskey" -- if you could patent and bottle the literal version you could retire in luxury.
#174 The imagery is fanciful-- whimsical, almost. Three--count 'em--three--artistic allusions, Mozart, the boozin' poet, and the nihilistic author. Beyond the strikingly imaginative language, yours fooly can't quite grasp the meaning of this one, though.
#176 This one works well because of its specific imagery. It'slike the speaker is taking a tracking shot with a hand-held camera (one that comes equipped with judgemental opinions!)
#181
Not sure you need the adverbs introducing each strophe ( or stanza.) They seem superfluous, and besides, they "tell" too much. Even so, the first four lines are the best, seem truthful about the self-preservation mechanism imbedded in all life-forms. I'm not a doctor (I don't even play one on TV) but I also believe that it's highly possible for a wound to take two or three seasons to heal (for emotional ones, even longer.)
I read your winning story and will read the expanded version soon as I get a chance.
Thanks so much for reading, Aunt!
I think you're right about Blood on Roses. I just gave it a haircut.
Best,
DH
Nothing
Nothing has replaced the flame
I used to light my cigarette with.
West-coast jazz tried for a while.
It couldn't understand
That the very breath its trumpets
Blew all over the sofa
Made me yearn more.
I can't fault whisky; it was there.
"I'm different," it said, "but so what;
It burnt, I burn just as well".
But its burn was inside.
Not on the skin.
Humans haven't tried yet. Good.
Their regular compassionate tricks
Exhaust my patience.
So, here: above an ashtray
Brimming with years of youth
I float.
And nothing
Has replaced the flame
I used to light my cigarette with.
Breakfast
Broke now, broken,
I wander city streets.
They get soaked patiently
With hesitant rain;
Neon unflinchingly
Continues to flash
To and fro.
Behind me, in the bar,
The piano still aches
With slow, deliberate stabs.
Whisky keeps burning dry throats.
Jacks and aces and queens
Still strut their stuff.
The game might change
For someone else this morning
Someone who might have cancer
Like Stevie the dentist
Or someone with an angry wife
Back home, waiting with darts
Of distance and insults
Like Stevie and all the others.
But not for me. I'm done.
Emptied of cash and thoughts
I wander still-life city streets -
Failure, rather than a burden,
Working instead like angel wings.
The sun will soon break
Through crumbling, weakened cloud.
An early bus roars by.
I turn my face up
And breakfast on the rain
And on the morning air
And on regrets.
Weeks
Weeks flash by loudly
Like mad ambulances
In the rain.
Approaching
With every breath
A weekend;
A coming of age;
A painful knee.
When will it slow?
Solving that riddle
Conjures a tombstone
And fragrant incense
And glasses raised
To absent friends.
Hi Doc,
This reply isn't going to be all kudos, though I won't go so far as drowning puppies, mainly because somebody would write a scathing denunuciation about it in poorly constructed verse full of abstract-ridden lines of broken-up prose.
#184 suffers from an acute case of the pathetic fallacy, namely West Coast jazz (which btw is usually described as "cool" rather than Satchmo-like "hot"),whiskey (the heat analogy's good, but it's way too much to give it the gift of human speech (though I know, that's "the liquor talkin'.") Was all of this a way to tell us that the speaker has quit smoking, or has he merely switched to safety matches? Oh, I kid, I kid.
The personification is more realistic, and takes a less strenuous willful suspension of disbelief in #185: "jacks, aces, and queens/still strut their stuff." Overall this one strikes me as wallowing a bit too much in self-pity, but the three closing lines are pretty dramatic.
Finally, #186 is the best of this trio, resonating with the sensation old(er) folks such as yours fooly have about the swift passage of time. The opening image is very apt. I'd lose the line about "solving the riddle" -- it's somewhat of a hackneyed expression.
Your (not really mean at all) fan,
Auntie
Thanks, Auntie. Your responses always give me perspective.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Re: meanness, I think I've been watching too many episodes of Dr. House. It'll pass. :)
I am not much of a critic Doc, but you have never written anything I have read that I have not admired. I feel at home in the world you write within.
Weeks flash by loudly
Like mad ambulances
In the rain.
Randomly selected. Would I want to read more by somebody who wrote this?
Yep.
You are my kind of poet.
BTW. I just stumbled over the fact that you wrote the winning short story (2012). I voted for it. Well done. Belatedly. Keep writing. One day one of us will go get published.
Jerry, many thanks for your kind words.
Embrace
I embrace a rock of ice
Tall and immovable like misfortune.
My eyes freeze solid.
Heart crawls to a halt,
Breath growls are quietened.
Soon, very soon now,
Ice will embrace me back.
Corpse-stiff, blurry,
I will vanish
Into the winter's soul.
I really like Embrace, Doc. I like the others, too, but I like this one the best. Am I mistaken, or is alienation a frequent theme of yours?
It's opposite day! These poems are terrible.
J
Thanks, qimi! I suppose alienation feels right to write about these days.
Jack, so very good to see you, pal. :)
:lol::lol::lol: Wow, does that bring back memories. I used to have a student who would say that-"It's opposite day, I hate you, I hate you!" He was funny.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jack of Hearts