baxter85

Wonderful demonstration of using line breaks to control the flow of the poem. Nicely done.

Very good flow. It is easy to read and comprehend and I like the interesting choice of words you use such as "mush" and "shudder." Personally I am a stickler on rhyms, and you start off with a beautiful rhym "flutter" and "shudder," but towards the end the rhyms seem to be too easy like "true" and "you." I also like the flow in the second stanza, but the third line seemed to hit a speed bump when I read "But it knows fear" and then the flow continued. These are just minor changes though. Good job.

Thanks for the feedback guys. Much apprciated. This was the first poem I have wrote in a while and I'm happy that it was recieved so well

Cool poem Peredhil. I like how every other line can be read almost as its own seperate poem. I also liked how peace is met with a sense of pain in the following italic line. Definitely worth repeated reads.

Great choice of words and wonderful flow. The last line was by far the best for me. I liked the description of silk sand.

The other night I walked along the Rio Grande Beneath the scattered moonlight, and Amongst the suffering heat of summer. Side by side holding Death's shivering hand, I walked Along the Rio Grande. We paced unseen on the caliche road, disturbing not one rock with our strides. His bones cracked and mine were left behind Lying beside the cane in this hellish land Along the Rio Grande. When we came upon an opening On the river bank and stopped to gaze Into the swift flowing current. It's green Water passed, carrying off the sand that rests Along the Rio Grande. It was then he pointed out yonder And I saw others rise from the current, With empty eyes and translucent faces. They ushered me with rotting hands, to leave my place Along the Rio Grande. The fear had overcome me now, I turned and ran, back to my shell beside the cane. This was not how it was suppose to end. This couldn't be my maker's plan, for me to die Along the Rio Grande. I reached my body lying there motionless, Stiff, cold. The blood coagulated In the holes that rittled my chest. I knew there was no return. I was damned Along the Rio Grande. A special fate waits for those Who pass away along this river's banks. I rose and returned to Death, when the fear subsided, Choosing to stand by him Along the Rio Grande. It was time, I was ready To leave all I knew behind and Accept the the fate before And leave the land behind Along the Rio Grande. The others stood with hands outstreached While I entered the river and waded to them. I became like them and joined my place Amongst the damned who rest here Along the Rio Grande.

Haha, awesome! I like how you incorperated the cliches into this story, but I think that it would do just as well without pointing out that you are using them. I love how it all comes full circle at the end with the tumbleweed. Nice touch.

"Burt Williams hangs a Confederate flag in front of his house because he no longer feels the pride in waving the usual fifty-star flag that represents his country. His pride has been shaved down to the core with the politicians that now dictate and accuse veterans like himself." "Accuse?" Andy said with one eye cocked "That is a little harsh don't you think? I mean, we all live in this country together, you would think that a veteran like him would understand the need for us to be united." "Well he sees the world differently than you and I." I said, " You and I can't relate to Burt because neither you nor I have seen what he has nor could we possibly relate to his experience in any way." I've never seen a man's brains splattered all over me, or seen a grenade explode and rip my comrads apart." I took another drink of coffee. The air was crisp today from the rain we had the day before. The ground was still wet but since the sun was coming out it would probably dry up quick. A mother wearing a windbreaker suit and a pair of those large sunglasses that women like to wear was jogging along the sidewalk at the park across the street from where Andy and I were having our lunch. There was the usual noise of cars and horns in the background, and the overcast sky brought some sense of peace to me that I could not bring to words. All this talk about Burt had made it difficult to believe that only twenty years ago we were living in occupied Seattle. Burt was my father's buddy growing up, and they both got drafted when the Koreans launched suprise attacks on Las Angeles and Portland. It wasn't long before the Chinese sided with the Koreans and we found ourselves in WWIII. When the call for duty came, my father proudly answered, and so did Burt. He had been like an uncle to me, and losing both of them to the draft was unsettling to my young self. The coastal cities were the first to be obtained by the enemy and I remember as a boy I would always ask where daddy and Burt were, when the were coming home. She would always tell me that they waere going to save us, that they were somewhere else fighting for us. I believed her, at least I wanted to. The Chinese soldiers in the streets flooded my succeptable mind with doubt and their language was quickly becoming my own. "I thank God everyday that I don't have to see what our father's did." Andy said, relieving me of my nostalgia. "They lived like rats in those hills and bunkers, but to hang a Confederate flag? A symbol of rebellion and oppression seems anti-patriotic if you ask me." I stirred my coffee some and tapped the spoon off on the rim of my cup before looking up at Andy who was staring at me in his neatly combed hair and silky suite with his hands on the table and fingers interlaced. "To Burt it doesn't represent slavery if that is what you are implying by oppression. To him, it represents determination, honor, and sacrifice. He fought hard for each of the fifty stars on our dear flag, but ever since our dear new president said in his speech that we were a nation of cowards and that we share the blame for providing the enemy with the rational for their attack, Burt has not felt the same. When the Secretary of State said that we were indebted to the Chinese for our devistating nuclear attacks, he lost it." I took a sip to calm my nerves. This topic always ignited a spark in me that was rarely seen. Burt had been like a father to me when my father was killed in action. I could see where he was coming from, and I cannot help but admit that I agree with his reasoning. If the country that I took bullets for called me a coward and sympathized with the enemy by admitting fault for their attack on us, how would I react? I often pondered this but found myself lost. As if a link in the chain were missing; the link that could only be obtained through personal experience. "To him," I continued, "the stars and stripes have lost their meaning. They are empty." Andy sat quietly and looked out the window. I could see the searching look in his eyes. Looking for a way to continue the topic, but the words could not form on his lips. His father was in the war yes, but he found his usefulness in computer decoding, which tucked him far away from the action. Andy knew this, and Andy knew that I knew. Topics like this were hard to change, and I didn't know what to change it to. What would I do? I thought as I glanced at the overcast sky again recalling the smoke and gas that used to fill it when we were occupied. So much has changed since then thanks to the blood that once flooded these streets. I never could bring myself to ask Burt why he flew that flag in his front yard. I speculate that it is because he feels like a rebel. Like his country that he held so dear no longer stood for the strength that he once saw in it. It was because of those damned politicians who fought for popularity and found it in the criticism they offered to their own countrymen. How can we be a strong nation if our leaders sympathize with the enemy and renounce the efforts and lives that our veterans have offered for our freedome? I speculate, that being the soldier Burt was forged into being; he needed a symbol of pride that he could hold on to. Something that he could say 'This is what I fight for, this is what I'd die for.' Everytime I would visit Burt to deliver his groceries, he would wheel himself out in his chair when I walked back to my car. A blanket covered where his legs use to be and he always looked up first to see that his flag was still there; waving in the occasional breeze that blew. It is hard to argue with the pride in a soldier's eyes when he sees his flag still flapping, and Burt found his in the bars and stars of that rustic design. Somehow, it felt right to me too. "Did you hear the forecast for tomorrow?" Andy asked. Bringing me out of my nostalgia once more. "No." I replied "Said it was supposed to be sunny." "Guess we'll see." I said as I finished my last sip and let the cup softly clank on the saucer.

I watched Tucker as he shut the door to his car and drive down the street after completing his usual grocery delivery. He was a good boy, like his father was back in the day. I decided to sit for a while in my chair on the front porch for a while since the air was brisk and the cool September sky lingered above. I came to appreciate days like this after the war because I remembered the doom that use to dwell above during those darker times. When the air enters your lungs and it is not filled with smoke or the smell of spent cartridges, you knew it was going to be a good day. The breeze battled gently with my Confederate flag and I examined it to ensure that no tears or frailed edges had developed since yesterday. Nothing had. When you have been surrounded by hell, you notice the small things. Nancy was walking with little Susan. I always waved, but Nancy never took to kindly to my flag and always hurried Susan along when they crossed by my house. I knew why, and I had become accustomed to the awkward looks that others cast in my direction. Sometimes I wish that they knew, but then again, I would never wish for anyone to see the carnage Tucker's dad, Henry, and I saw. I know Nancy thinks I am an old racist cook. Old and cook I can give her, but racist? I am anything but one of those damned skin headed nazi fucks. I've had brothers who were black, hispanic, and hell I even considered a few asians my kin. If it hadn't been for Germaine Johnson popping that smoke grenade and dragging my limp body off Washington Street, I surely would have been a sponge for all the lead screaming by me. We were family, but that is something the new generation would never see, nor would they be able to see why I flew that flag for them, the second family I lost, since veterans like myself had become a source of blame for the aftermath of the war. Those we laid our lives down for now targeted us with serpent tongues and even fellow countrymen took the freedom we fought for and abused it to promote the political evils we tried to suppress. It was a shame, all those nights I slept in a sewer or vacant building I never thought my greatest foe would be the one I couldn't shoot at. This was my silent battle, my gun without the bang. At least with this flag I knew that men had believed in it, and their country would have still believed in them. The sun shined down across the neighborhood, but fell ten yards shy of my porch. While the chill air felt good in my lungs, my battered joints had all they could handle and I retreated inside. The floor beams in front of the door creaked whenever I crossed over them in my chair, but after that I heard nothing. I wheeled over to the near empty space that should have been a living room, but without the need for furniture and no desire for a television it was empty. Empty except for the bookshelf in which I kept some old literature on republic ideals and past conflicts. Prominently set in front of these were the few pictures I had of my brethren back when we were occupied. There was Germaine with his M249 resting on one shoulder, Henry with his M4 slung around back, little guy Mark brandishing a shotgun, Raul knelt in the foreground flaunting two AK-47's, and I was on the end with a cowboy hat and my grandfather's M1 Garand. It was always funny now to see me standing. I had the M1 Garand mounted on my wall next to the bookshelf. It was the only ornament I had displayed. The damn thing was nearly a hundred years old during the war, but an old rifle can kill just as well as a newer one as I can attest to. Those days midway through the war were the most difficult. The government couldn't supply us enough arms to fight, so the M1 and I became good friends. It only held six rounds and every time I heard a click instead of a bang I darn near shat myself. It had been a good gun, defended its country twice. It's just a relic now. Guns like that defended a country that stood by the men pulling the trigger, but in today's world a trigger pull damns the man who pulls it. Even if those damning him are the ones he or she is trying to save. I know Tucker had heard enough of my political ramblings and the poor boy probably got bored every time I opened my mouth. Sometimes I think it is Henry I am talking to, but Tucker does well to play the part. Who else could I vent to about why I had abandoned the flag for which we fought and died under? There was a knock at the door. Odd since I hid from the world minus my occasional materialization on the front porch before I faded back into my world of obscurity. I opened the door to find that it was Arnie Higgins from next door standing there. "Afternoon Mr. Williams." He said in a perky tone but maintained a stagnate expression on his face. "Good afternoon to you too Mr. Higgins. Can I help you?" Of course he wanted something. "Yes... sir, ugh a few of the neighbors and I have been talking and we were hoping that you could work with us on a small matter we have." I was willing to bet anything that he was here by the will of his wife and not his own recognizance. "What's that?" "Well we've been talking and we think that it would be to the benefit of the whole neighborhood if you could maybe... change your flag." I said nothing for a moment to let him squirm. "We just think that it would make the us all seem more, friendly and open to others." "Thank you for talking with me about this Arnie," I said. "I'll tell you what, when you have all verified with your own eyes that I am under six feet of dirt and you are positive I won't be waking up anytime soon, you have my absolute approval to take that flag down. Till then it is all I got to live for so I'm not done with it quite yet. You are welcome to come in if you'd like, I got some sweet tea in the fridge if you want to share a drink." "No, no. That is alright, I got to be heading back anyways. Ugh, pleasure talking with you and I hope you can see where I am coming from." Arnie stumbled back a step or two when he finished. "No problem at all Arnie, and thank you for understanding. Don't be a stranger." Arnie waved and then returned to his home like a wounded muskrat fleeing a hawk. I rolled back to the bookshelf and picked up a copy of "The Inferno" and turned to the page with the dog ear fold on the corner. In here the traitors against one's country are trapped in an icy Hell. They denounced their fellow countrymen and now suffer for their sins. But what if it is the country that is the traitor? I often wondered this. If that is the case does the traitor become the patriot? All I had now was to wonder 'What if?'

Interesting topic, but I couldn't help the feeling that your story was being rushed. I would like to see more emotion and description of your characters and more than just a lab exploding. Were the vials cracking, sirens sounding, people burining? What did the story feel like?