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Rainjacket
pockets full of clouds
the shower of light
from the lamps
gleam like shards
I can feel the waves press
upon the solid shore
I can feel your breath
in the rains that fall
forever on this day
as if the sky were weeping
for winter that is lain aside
and heavens drizzle
staining all the tide
that lonesome haunt holds
fast
happy winter
will you love us at last??
Editing stage:
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Comments
Geezer
Mon, 2011-12-05 07:32
I always see...
such beautiful scenes in your work. I have a couple of little crits, to offer on this one.
Instead of [the] shower of light, I think that you might say; [a] shower of light.
Gleam like shards of what? [Although I suppose that shards being slivers of glass or something brittle, you might suppose] ....
Having [I feel] twice in the same stanza, just doesn't seem to fit in this poem. Maybe say; [I see] the waves press upon the shore? I don't see the need for the word [solid] unless you have it there for a particular reason. All just suggestions, but I think it might read just a little bit better. ~ Gee
There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.
Esker
Mon, 2011-12-05 13:59
tired
I love your offered crits Gee
just too tired at the moment to
truly appreciate them today
Will come back again
Thank You
Nordic cloud
Mon, 2011-12-05 10:48
Winter is so subtle
Sir Gee,
I liked the solid shore against the watery liquid of the sea,
also powerful of course; and the shards of light,
as the falling of rain divides the lights into fragments
of travelling fiery white.
Steven your personifying of Winter is so subtle
I love it, as I always love your poetic mind.
Ann.
"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.
Esker
Tue, 2011-12-06 13:44
Happy to know I have a poetic mind
I keep telling of trying to write poetry for years
and it was stumbling and atrocious
and it was poetry that saved me from going off
completely the rails
and it is poetry that I move into now and live
with the random and abstract in its beauty
its sudden frustration at times
Thank You Ann!
Eduardo Cruz
Mon, 2011-12-05 16:03
Title,
it is perfect for this ingenious piece of writing!
Eddie
LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE
Esker
Tue, 2011-12-06 13:43
I love titles
Im not as clever as some
(I have other poetess's I follow on different sites
and they are young geniuses with the most
wit filled clever titles)
but I enjoy my titles as much as the poems
In reality I do not wear rainjackets
but when I feel so inclined I purchase
rain ponchos from the army surplus store
nor do I carry umbrellas as I love to see
the skie and dont mind getting soaked
at times The rain making me feel
so I still know Im alive
rather then the bland comfort
thank you
Eduardo Cruz
Tue, 2011-12-06 14:41
understanding,
The true gifts of our universe. Rain being one of the important ones.
Eddie
LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE
wesley snow
Fri, 2011-12-09 11:23
When I look back...
... I realize what writing poetry was like when I began and I thrill to think I have something of a grasp of it. When I look forward, I come to grips with the reality that I cannot write for shit and never will. That you can admit to struggles in your writing is encouraging. wesley
W. H. Snow
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Esker
Fri, 2011-12-09 16:13
Yes Wes
no one is perfect
to be so
Wouldnt that be something
No my writing is just that writing
nothing more nothing less
Poetry is an emotional and intellectual
outing a place where feelings can
be delved and pondered
I am after all Imperfect
and therefore and imperfect poet!!
wesley snow
Fri, 2011-12-09 18:00
And yet...
... a startlingly good one. wesley
W. H. Snow
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley
Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about