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Literature Text
Our Faith is the ironic nonbeliever
in anything beyond this earthly flesh.
She writes about the future as a lost bohemian utopia,
a place her starving readers need,
we who have known
in our deepest parts a feeling
like forgetting how to climb stairs
mid-step,
we who have dreamt of mattresses
on deflated inflatable beds, weekend eyes gummy,
mouths sticky and full of a taste we can't spit out
while we wait for more time
and for the train to arrive, finally.
Our Faith writes a someday like cheesecake in our mouths,
thick and real as childhood dreams of flying,
and when we're waiting for nights of humid neon freedom,
waiting to ride the swells of another body
and breathe in the heartbeat from electric skin
without looking over our shoulders to see what God has to say,
her somedays taste like long-lost elegance and laughter,
like driving nowhere through summer fields, windows down,
and like big-city balconies, watching car lights on the beloved faces
of those who will miss who you really are
when you're gone.
in anything beyond this earthly flesh.
She writes about the future as a lost bohemian utopia,
a place her starving readers need,
we who have known
in our deepest parts a feeling
like forgetting how to climb stairs
mid-step,
we who have dreamt of mattresses
on deflated inflatable beds, weekend eyes gummy,
mouths sticky and full of a taste we can't spit out
while we wait for more time
and for the train to arrive, finally.
Our Faith writes a someday like cheesecake in our mouths,
thick and real as childhood dreams of flying,
and when we're waiting for nights of humid neon freedom,
waiting to ride the swells of another body
and breathe in the heartbeat from electric skin
without looking over our shoulders to see what God has to say,
her somedays taste like long-lost elegance and laughter,
like driving nowhere through summer fields, windows down,
and like big-city balconies, watching car lights on the beloved faces
of those who will miss who you really are
when you're gone.
Literature
Singing to Star-Light
I had shed my wings
as war-cries in me,
hiccuped to the brink
unexpectedly.
I looked around here
as a star cried out -
and I saw stardust
tinged with doubt.
I had seen neglect
in the eye before,
but one that listened?
I see no more.
For there are none now,
willing to breathe
because they fell
to my balcony.
They fell and I lost
feeling in my hands,
they told me listen -
to understand
that the star that fell
is to cry and see
but only enough
to rain on me.
If she cries no more
says to you no less,
tell her that we miss
her light star-caress.
Tell her that the sky
beckons to her only.
Just sing, Hey sunshine
won'
Literature
Predict
If you could predict
The future of your life
Would you want to know,
Have to fight through all the strife
Could you imagine
Knowing how you'd die?
Would you be able to stand it?
Would it eventually make you cry…?
It may destroy you
It may be good
Good, for the very few
Do the chances say you should?
Literature
Faith
One late summer, I took a trip to where native grass grew as high as the flanks of my paternal grandfather's bay, the one with the dark line of equine heritage down its spine. He used him as a pleasure horse to ride when he had spare time, but he hardly ever did, especially once his brood started to multiply. That's when grandfather hooked the bay to a plow, turning the soil so he could plant crops to help feed them all.
Grandfather had two broods. The first was five children and his wife who all perished in the influenza pandemic of 1918. The second was five more children and his final wife. They all lived long lives as did the marriage,
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Note: This is the fourth revision. I need to you let me know if the beginning and end have been strengthened/are strong enough, if I removed enough abstractions and weak lines, and if you still like it/like it. Thank you 
Ohhhh, ~Bandaloop-searcher. I'm glad you knew this one was for you.
Give it hell, boys. And girls. I have no specific guidelines for critique-age, but let me know what you liked and/or didn't like, what was strong and what was weak, what images worked, what sounded awkward, etc.
EDIT: Some people who read this in my Poetry class said that it's really "mysterious" and hard to see the point, or hard to follow. One girl mentioned the "thick and real like childhood dreams of flying" line in particular. Thoughts on this? I obvious understand it, as does the person I wrote this for, but I could use an outside opinion.
Critique for
: [link]
Ohhhh, ~Bandaloop-searcher. I'm glad you knew this one was for you.
Give it hell, boys. And girls. I have no specific guidelines for critique-age, but let me know what you liked and/or didn't like, what was strong and what was weak, what images worked, what sounded awkward, etc.
EDIT: Some people who read this in my Poetry class said that it's really "mysterious" and hard to see the point, or hard to follow. One girl mentioned the "thick and real like childhood dreams of flying" line in particular. Thoughts on this? I obvious understand it, as does the person I wrote this for, but I could use an outside opinion.
Critique for
: [link] © 2012 - 2024 oracle-of-nonsense
Comments19
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Overall
Vision Originality Technique Impact1) I don’t think it’s mysterious at all. The imagery is a tad surreal, perhaps, but it is easy to follow logically and to see the picture building up behind those surreal images. Then again, maybe you shouldn’t listen to me- most of my writing pieces are exceedingly surreal and abstract.
2) To me, the “thick and real like…” line wouldn’t have stuck out all too much if you hadn’t pointed it out, but to me it is one of the less surreal lines, because it’s where you actually say, “this poem is surreal, this is a series of dream images, now look behind them.”
The poem builds a solid picture, and I get a very good understanding of how you see the person you wrote it for. Lines that stuck out to me in particular were “of cigarettes waving around the brown and green gleam from glass bottles” and “…writes a someday like cheesecake in our mouths…” The first line I mentioned is a very solid image, not too surreal, but it is smoky, like a more solid image…probably not a dream, but foggy enough to be one. The second line I mentioned is truly a masterpiece of heavily metaphorical poetry, because its wording seems nonsensical enough, but if you take the time to read it and actually picture it into reality, it loses the surreal background while keeping the dreamy foreground, if that makes any sense.
All in all, this is quite an excellent poem, although I admit that I do tend to prefer highly metaphorical pieces. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/f/f…" width="15" height="14" alt="
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