Da_Yog

Thanks for the comments. Yeah, there's always something about a "boy and his dog" story that is touching and must end sad. Of course, a lot of that is due to the fact that the child always outlives the animal and so the experience becomes the childs first real experience with death.

1 2 3 4 6 8 10 12 9 8 6 4 3 2 1 Almost perfect syllabic symmetry. I imagine that was rather difficult to pull off. I find the oscillation between comforting and disquieting imagery to be intriguing. It presents the darkness as something to be welcomed and feared at the same time. Very interesting. I am curious about one thing though. Were lines 7 and 9 supposed to have the same syllable count, or was the symmetry supposed to be mostly visual? (I counted 10 syllables in line 7 and 9 syllables in line 9.)

"Yog smash wittle Elfie!" The tall slender gentleman, looking rather less perturbed than he should, merely sighed and brushed back his long dark hair with one hand. "Dear sir, "He said, and let the air settle about him with an exaggerated pause. "Don't you know it is entirely improper to refer to yourself in the thid person? Besides, I'm not little at all. Why for an elf..." His diatribe was cut short by the sound of cracking limbs and a pastel of autumn leaves falling about him as the most enormous and unsightly club he had ever seen came crashing down towards his head. If, in fact, he had been paying attention to what was transpiring instead of correcting a very perturbed Troll he might, in fact, still be alive today. But instead, he was too busy formulating his next words in the most elfishly calculated manner. In short, the last thing to pass through his brain was not a thought at all, but a blood-stained mithril spike perched atop the aforementioned enormous and unsightly club. He did manage to utter, "Oh no, not again." It is widely thought that if we knew why he uttered, "Oh no, not again," then we might know much more about Middle Earth than we otherwise do. note: Any symblance to a writing style, though still english, but from a vastly different style of book is not purely coincidental and should be taken with as many, or as few, grains of salt as any particular reader needs to. Thank you. And if you do happen to encounter a huge black troll in the forests of Middle Earth and this troll in particular happens to wielding an enormous and unsightly club with a bloody mithril spike perched just so atop it...For sake of the Undying Lands, don't correct him!

Thanks, I love resurfacing old concepts of a timeless nature, especially those found in ancient mythologies.

Wow, very nice! I do so like a poem that grabs you by the throat, shakes you around a bit, and leaves you gasping for breath. The anger and strong sentiment really shines through in this one. Incidentally, young black children in the African diamond nations are sometimes called "black diamonds" because of their value as slaves.

The New Gods I bear witness to the new gods! Fat Man and Little Boy incased in steel The might of Huitzilopoctli gleaming, smiling— Reflecting menacingly from their surface Anticipating the sacrifice of blood to come! I cringe at the rumble of the great western dragon As she roars in preparation for flight, A young god snuggled lovingly in her womb Ready to spring forth in full battle regalia! A weapon that makes Ares’ rage pale in significance. Not even the aegis of Athena offers protection! I crumble under a torrent of flame— Pouring from the mighty crucible That Hephaestus could not hope to contain! It is the flame the gods feared! The sin for which Prometheus will be eternally bound! I collapse under the rending, burning, disintegrating… The young god’s nubile wrath! Osiris—giver of life—shatters in its wake Could Horus ever be reborn from this? Were that Isis’ magic were so strong! Were that the gods of man’s imagination— Were stronger than those of his reality! Two days—two cataclysmic flashes— The might of Magni and Thor reduced to myth! The bones of Ymir and Surtur no more than aging fossils! Less threatening than a child’s fairy tale. All that is left is ancient Ragnarok Laid low by the new gods!

A couple of lines immediately grabbed my attention with this one. Line one of stanza one and line three of stanza three. I thought at first it might have been the internal rhyme but after further thought the internal rhyme only attracted my ear. What I really liked in line one was the negative implication of the hospital white, it was stark and even in the dark it's still there. The juxtaposition of dark and light was an interesting touch. In line three of stanza three the internal rhyme came a bit fast...but I liked the message. I think perhaps it might be worth looking at lengthening the line a bit so that the rhyme doesn't come quite so fast. Just a thought, I could be totally whack.

Oh, why thank you. I tried writing this two ways: Once as a sestina and once as a vilanelle. I much preferred the vilanelle to the sestina and it seemed the form of the vilanelle suited the subject better.

The Monster in the Glade The setting sun Imparts last rays— As something baleful—in glade wakes Long legs stretch, it cares not for play. It crawls from black hole—where it stays Onto gray branch, a thirst to slake The setting sun imparts last rays— Ageless instinct guides it on the way For liquid supper—it must make Long legs stretch, it cares not for play. From low branch down—to waiting day A strong web to ground it must stake The setting sun imparts last rays— Circling round spokes it makes its way In dark center—sleep it must fake Long legs stretch, it cares not for play. Hours will pass awaiting prey Until chance cause insect’s mistake The setting sun imparts last rays— Long legs stretch, it cares not for play.

The Meaning of Whiskey whis•key [hwis-kee] –noun 1 An alcoholic liquor distilled from a fermented mash of grain, as barley, rye, or corn, and usually containing from 43 to 50 percent alcohol. 2 A drink of whiskey. This is not a story about drinking. Drinking has never been a part of my life. This story is about a brown-eyed beauty, and it goes something like this … The first house I remember living in was on a two-lane road between Smyrna and Marietta. It was not the ideal place to raise a young child. Cars would come out of nowhere and dart by the house far faster than it seemed they ought to. Nor was it a neighborhood; it was more a clustering of six or eight houses, spaced more or less evenly along this one stretch of road. The house itself was a small, one-story, red-brick home with a carport big enough for just one car. A row of hedges lined the front porch from the driveway to the front door. I remember very little of the inside; that area was for eating and sleeping. What I do remember is the back yard. That’s where all the memories go to play. The back yard was mostly an open expanse of green grass surrounded by a towering chain link fence. At least it seemed that way to me at the time. I was five and everything seemed bigger and more grandiose than it seems now. In the center of the yard, encompassed by a red-brick square, was a place where grass was not allowed to grow. Mom had planted a strawberry patch there, and the strawberries were sweeter and juicier than anything bought in any store, or so I remember. Off to the left was another place where the grass couldn’t grow, for the ground was constantly shaded by the most magnificent specimen of tree, the crabapple. The blooms of spring had long since passed, and the tree was full of small green fruit. Their mouth-puckering flavor, still on occasion, comes back to me. My dog Whiskey was there, trotting close behind me on her white-socked feet. Her loving brown eyes watched my every move. As I ran to the water hose for a drink, small beads of sweat formed on my brow and flowed down my flushed face. Whiskey’s head tilted, first right, then left, as she watched me struggle with the strange, green, palm-sized, metal ring. By applying both small hands, I finally got the valve to open, and the welcome sound of flowing water greeted my ears. I followed the water down the length of hose, my eyes searching for the brass rim that signaled the end of my thirst. Whiskey softly padded around me to stand in front of the gate, then realizing that was not my objective, followed me to the end of the green rubber hose where water was pouring out onto the grass. For a moment, our brown eyes met, and we both began to drink—me from the metal rim of the hose, her from the water spilling over my mouth towards the ground. I drank until I could drink no more. She drank until I stopped. Standing there with the hose in my hand, she there with her tongue panting in and out, our eyes met. She darted off a full half second before the spray of water hit her. The chase was on. Back and forth across the worn grass we ran. She was always close and watching but just beyond the edge of the spray. Finally I stopped, breathing heavily, my red and blue tank top clinging to my skin. As I stopped, so did Whiskey. Our eyes half closed, chest heaving, a cool breeze washed over us. Her head tilted first left, then right, watching me carefully. A couple of seconds later she trotted up beside me and sat down. Without even knowing why, I dropped the hose and began gently stroking the coarse brown fur above her eyes and behind her ears. She rewarded me with a tremendous slurp across the side of my face, an act that elicited giggles and a hug from me. A voice came from behind me, from the kitchen window. It was a voice both stern and loving, “Turn the hose off!” A moment later, when both Whiskey and I turned to face her, our heads both tilted to the left at the same angle, Whiskey’s left ear raised and mine would have, had I been able to do so. Mom said, softer this time, “We shouldn’t waste water.” Whiskey tilted her wet, dimpled nose up and to the right so that she could see my face and watched me nod. I did not see this as I was far too busy gazing into my mom’s eyes, studying her face. It was pale and freckled and surrounded by a mass of softly curling red hair. She smiled at me. I smiled back. I looked from my mom to Whiskey. Our eyes met, and we raced to the faucet. She arrived just ahead of me then turned to face me. Her eyes watched while I rushed by her to the knob and began turning it clockwise. She circled me and sat down in front of the gate. After completing my duty, I sat down next to Whiskey on the brown patch of dirt in front of the gate, wrapped my arms around her neck, and rested my head against hers. She sat down beside me for a while, just the two of us on a patch of dirt in the back yard. Slurp! Our eyes met. She chased me to the green and red of the strawberry patch, dancing from left to right, but always right behind me. Glancing around the small green plants, I searched for a tasty berry. It didn’t take long; there always seemed to be plenty. Reaching out I carefully plucked one, twisting gently so as to break the stem without bruising the fruit. The strawberry was exceptionally fat, with two round bulbous humps near the top. I pulled the star-shaped greenery from the top of the red, seed covered berry and bit off the bottom half. Smiling a childish smile as I devoured the sweet taste and delightful smell, I wiped the juice that was dribbling down my chin with the back of my forearm. The remainder of the berry I gave to Whiskey, who smacked her jaws several times to consume the fruit. She seemed to enjoy it as much as I—or so I remember. That’s the way it was always done. Whiskey and I playing in the back yard, her making sure I never went through the gate and near the dangerous road. Sometimes I might catch her with the hose, and she would shake out her soaked fur, dousing me with a shower of water droplets in revenge. I never was able to shake the water from my body quite like she could. God knows I tried! Sometimes I’d play under the crabapple with my toy bulldozers and she’d be there near me in the shade—her eyes directed at me or, at the very least, an ear pointed in my direction. And sometimes we’d sit at the strawberry patch and share. Those are the memories of that first house. A couple of years went by. I was now seven years of age and felt physically no different than I was at the old house, but this place was taller, and so was I. I was just at that age when I was growing faster than my body could adjust. I was tall, skinny, and ungainly, but I was not yet fully aware of any of that. What I did know was I was in this new two-story house, with three much older stepbrothers, a stepfather, and a gigantic, mean, gray tabby cat named Bow-wow. That damn cat would saunter around the house like he owned it, and as far as I was concerned, he did. My mother, of course, was there. It was her second marriage the year before that thrust me into this situation. Whiskey was there too, still keeping watch on me whenever she could. This house was a whitish brick and whitewashed cinderblock construction sitting atop a small hill. The sharply down sloping concrete driveway led away from a one car garage. Next to the driveway, near the garage, was a dirt trail cut by a car driving over the grass hundreds of times. The back yard had no surrounding fence, but Whiskey was never the type to chase cars, and I had learned to stay away from the street. It was also safer here, as the cars driving by on the street below were not nearly so reckless, barring an occasional teen or drunk. Two of my favorite things from the old home, the crabapple tree and strawberry patch, were missing, but there was a wooden sandbox for the toy dump trucks, and life went on. Whiskey, for her part, seemed to have adjusted to her new home better than I. She even managed to work out some sort of arrangement with Bow-wow, a feat I would never quite manage. When I wasn’t around, she would sit under the stairs of the back porch— always in the shade—while Bow-wow would lounge like a king upon his throne at the top. If he spotted a strange dog entering the back yard, he would raise his head, let out a low pitched guttural wail, then slowly lay his head back down. From beneath the red stained wooden stair, a streak of barking brown fur would erupt and chase the intruder until it had run clear of the property. That was how many a day passed: Bow-wow sitting watch while Whiskey protected her new home. Apparently one spring day Bow-wow was not on porch duty and my guardian had a moment’s indiscretion. Several months later, near the end of summer, Whiskey’s belly had swollen considerably. She had been eating quite a bit more than before and was spending a considerable amount of her time sleeping. Mom had told me with a gentle smile on her face, “She’s pregnant.” Then when my response was to rotate my head to the left and raise my left eyebrow quizzically, she said, “That means she’s going to have puppies.” “Maaaaam,” I said rolling my eyes, “I know that.” Mom smiled gently then set about making Whiskey a bed of old blankets in the basement. It was quite a pile. A ragged quilt was on the bottom folded in quarters but long since having lost its neatness. Two old thermal blankets were piled on top of that, and an old comforter never used by the family lay atop it all. When Whiskey was trying to sleep or stay comfortable, she’d pad over to her bed, turn around three times, and gently lie on top of the pile with a loud sigh. She’d face the door I was most likely to walk through. When I did, she would look up, our eyes would meet, and I’d walk over to her and sit beside her for a while. I’d scratch behind her ears or just hug her neck and rest my head against hers. Every now and then she would raise an ear, tilt her head, then nose gently at her hairless belly. Sometimes she would roll over on her side holding one of her white-socked front paws in the air, so I could more easily scratch her chest. Sometimes she would go to the back door, and I would let her outside. That was how those last few pregnant days went for us. The presence of the bed in the basement and Whiskey atop it seemed to transform the entire area. In a strange way, the wooden supports of the ceiling were now more visible. Their intricate grains lent an organic feel to an otherwise formless area. The varying shades of the wood blended with the browns and whites and blacks of my Whiskey dog. It seemed as if there could be nowhere else that was more fitting for her to have her puppies. One morning soon thereafter the sun came up, and as always at that age, I was up with it. A gentle, prismatic spray of colors danced about the room: a trick of refracted light from a collection of hanging prisms in the window. I stretched and went down the hall in my own pair of white socks towards the living room to watch morning cartoons. As I walked past my mom’s room, I stopped. Something was amiss. She was not there. I began wandering about the house quietly calling her name. “Mom?” said the darkened bathroom echoing my call. “Linda?” mocked the empty kitchen at the end of the hall. “Mom?” replied the den in an ominously vacant tone. “Linda?” whispered the white porch on the back of our home. I called her so quietly that I heard no response. I heard nothing but crickets, song birds, and the yawning of the morning sun. I didn’t even hear my own footfalls; the carpet muffled the sounds of my tiny feet. My search led me down the golden-brown carpet of the front stairwell to the basement where soft light spilled from underneath the dark brown door. My hand moved slowly to the doorknob, then paused for a few seconds with my forefinger lightly touching the brass knob. The clicking sound of nails rapping on concrete stopped me for a moment, then I smiled curiously and gently pushed the door open. Inside, the single naked light did its best to illuminate what was happening The first thing I noticed was a smell I had never smelled before. It was a strange smell, a distinct smell, a salty smell. It was not unlike how my mom in later years would describe a new baby’s smell. It was, in fact, the smell of new-born puppies. On the concrete floor, wet with fluid stood Whiskey licking a tiny black and brown puppy. He was so small and frail that he couldn’t even open his eyes. His little legs were sprawled across the concrete floor and cute little grunting noises emanated from his wrinkled face. Each lick from his mother moved his tiny body and elicited another series of grunts. His tail, seemingly the only thing he had control of, was curled up into a tight spiral and raised high in the air. Mom was hunched over a cardboard box lined with one of the thermal blankets. She was smiling a worn, haggard smile that was reflected in her bloodshot eyes and slumping shoulders. In the box, the puppies were mewling about in a little knot and grunting the way all puppies do. As Whiskey finished licking the last puppy, she raised her head and our eyes met. She’ll always be there for me, no matter what. I went over and hugged my Whiskey dog as Mom picked up the puppy. It snuggled under her chin, and she held it for a minute before putting it in the box with the others. It wriggled and squirmed into the mass looking for a warm spot and didn’t seem to stop until its wet, matted fur began to dry. Mom looked up at me and smiled gently, “Would you like to hold one?” My eyes opened wide, all sleepiness forgotten, as I scooted the short distance to the box and sat on the cold concrete. Whiskey trotted slowly over to me. Her head was down, and her eyes were half closed. She watched her children intently for a minute or two. Both of her floppy ears raised, and her head tilted to the left, then she leaned over and gave me a slurp on my left cheek. I smiled, giggled, then wrapped my arms around her neck. For a while, I scratched my Whiskey on the back of her head with one hand and a puppy with the other. I looked up from the squirmy black and brown puppy with his corkscrew tail. “Mom, can we keep it?” “We’ll see honey. We’ll see.” “Well…What’ll we name it?” “I don’t know.” After a pause, she looked from the puppy to Whiskey then back to me. “Do you know how we got Whiskey?” I answered by shaking my head from side to side. “Well…you were little, less than a year old. At that age you were hardly more than a mass of blonde hair, rosy cheeks, and chubby little legs.” With that description, I scrunched up my nose. Mom just smiled at me and let her right hand that was gently stroking a squirmy puppy come to rest atop my hand. “Well you were,” she said, as she scrunched her nose up in mockery of my own. “Anyway, your dad knew a man who worked with him in the Boy Scouts up at Camp Rainy Mountain.” “Where’s that?” “Do you remember where Lake Rabun is?” My hand came to rest under my mom’s, and I nodded. “It’s very close to Rabun. Well, this person your father worked with had found two abandoned puppies at Red Top Mountain…Lake Allatoona, but only wanted to keep one. When your dad told him we were looking for a puppy, he stopped by one Saturday morning to see which one we wanted. “Well, we couldn’t decide. They were both female. Both had the same cinnamon brown coat. The same bushy tails. The same brown eyes. The same height. The same weight. The same everything. I mean they were just identical. We couldn’t tell them apart. “Anyway, while we were trying to figure out which one to take, you went up to Whiskey, and she gave you a big slurp on those rosy little cheeks. You immediately wrapped your arms around her neck and let out the biggest giggle. Well, that decided who we were going to keep right then and there.” “Mom…” “Yes?” “How did she get her name?” “Well, your dad thought she was Whiskey colored, so he named her Whiskey.” “What’s Whiskey?” “It’s a kind of drink.” “What’s it taste like?” “Hmmm…It’s kind of hard to describe.” “Can I try some?” Mom smiled and quietly laughed to herself as I stared at her intently. A few contemplative seconds later she replied, “When you are older.” “How much older?” “About eleven years older.” “Why?” “Because that’s the law.” Why?” “Because alcohol can inhibit judgment, and young people need all their judgment.” “Why don’t old people?” “Well…old people know when and where to drink so that it will be OK to have their judgment impaired for a while.” “Does Dad?” Mom paused for a minute. She was still petting the squirmy little puppy, and I was sitting next to Whiskey with my arm wrapped around her neck. Whiskey suddenly looked up from her puppies and gave her oldest child a lick on the nose. At last mom found the answer she was looking for and said, “No hun, he never grew up.” Mom just smiled and shook her head. It would be some time before we named the new puppy. Six years have passed, and I no longer played in the sand box. We were still at the two-story house, and I was as ungainly ever. The puppy of Whiskey’s that we kept had been hit by a car one day while she was still young. Her death insured that we would get a chain link fence, although strangely this fence didn’t seem to be as tall as the one at our old place. The fence meant that stray dogs no longer wandered into the back yard. Even if one was to somehow get inside the fence, Bow-wow’s call would not be heard. Cancer had claimed his life a few years back. Nor was Whiskey in any shape to be chasing stray dogs. That duty had fallen to me. I seemed to perform it instinctively, albeit in the front yard. It was summer again, which it always seemed to be in the memories of my youth, and Whiskey now spent most of her time in the basement. It was a gray place. The floor was plain gray concrete, and the walls were made of gray cinderblocks. On the far side of the basement from the stairs, tools and bicycles were stored. On the right, up against the wall, were a plain white washer and dryer. Near the basement center Mom had reconstructed Whiskey’s bed from years earlier. The blankets were perhaps even more worn and frayed than they had been. This was now her sanctuary. Dirty clothes, formerly piled in a heap in front of the washer, now had to be placed in a clothes hamper. Failure to do so meant risking having your clothes become Whiskey’s new bed. The unpleasant odor so embedded in your clothes often took several washings to eliminate. The same pungent odor that she embedded in everything she laid on followed her around wherever she went. The area under her tail was always swollen and inflamed. She relentlessly chewed the base of her tail, and it was now scabby and missing a significant patch of hair. The teeth she used to chew with were yellowed and many were chipped, broken, or missing. Her formerly shiny brown coat was now dull and graying. The white patch of fur on her chin had spread to encompass more of her face. Her stomach was round and heavy. The exposed skin, no longer a smooth tone, was now brown and blotchy. Her eyes had milky disks, and she no longer heard with the clarity of her youth. She watched me when she could, which wasn’t often, but she was still my Whiskey. If I needed her, I know she’d be there with all she had, with nothing more from me than a glance, a meeting of the eyes. Lately, she barely got up to eat and struggled to go outside to take care of bodily functions. The basement smelled. It smelled of stale urine, of feces, of Whiskey’s strange pungency, and of something else, something I had never experienced. Mom knew what it was, but she didn‘t want to. I just wanted my Whiskey to stop hurting. I wanted the vet to fix her, but this was not the kind of thing vets can fix. I hated going down to the basement, but I did. I went for my Whiskey. Finally, a day came when I was sitting at Whiskey‘s bed with her, scratching behind her ears, listening to her labored breathing. My mom came down the stairs and opened the basement door. In her hand she held a red nylon leash. Tears formed in her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks. “I’m taking Whiskey to the vet,” she said as she turned away from me, blew her nose, and tried to smile. I had no such luck, and the tears were freely flowing. I managed to utter, “To get her fixed?” There was a long pause before she answered. Her momentary success in smiling faded in an instant. “No, not this time,” she said while choking back tears. “But the vet can fix her Mom. He always does. I know he can. Please!” In a moment, my entire life seemed to pass. I stared at my mom through watery eyes, and she stared back at me with her eyes filled with tears. Finally, chocking back tears, she blurted out, “I…I can’t talk about this. Not right now. I gotta go.” “Mom, no! Not my Whiskey dog,” I said, as I stood up on wobbly legs choking on my own tears. Mom walked over slowly, planting each foot one in front of the other, as if to make sure of her balance, to take control of the one thing she could make sure of on a day like this. Her makeup was a mess as she struggled to hook the leash to Whiskey’s collar. She tried to speak, choked on her tears, then just pointed, her finger drawing a circle around my Whiskey dog. Whiskey’s milky eyes turned to me one last time. Our eyes met. I leaned in and wrapped my arms about her neck. I scratched her behind the ears. She gave me one last slurp on the cheek as if to wash away the tears. Our eyes met… She’ll always be there for me. It’s now over twenty years later, and whiskey will forever mean something different to me than it does to most people. For my dad, whiskey was something to get him drunk and the color of that drink. For my mom, it was something that impaired your judgment and the name of our first family dog—a dog she loved dearly. For me, Whiskey has forever meant one thing: whis•key [hwis-kee] –noun 1 A medium sized brown-eyed beauty, with a white patch of fur on her chin, who loved a boy more than anyone will ever know. I love you, Whiskey dog.

I rather like this. The repetition of break away in isolation really brings forth a sense of lonliness and determination for distancing oneself from an untennable situation. The lack of a period at the end gives a sense of continuation...perhaps the beginning of the new... The only thing that really stood out as a question for me was the first line of the second stanza, "It whispered while the say". I'm not really sure what you were driving for here...typo perhaps? http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif

Empty Spaces: Important Places I have often heard it said that free verse poetry is structure less. On this matter I cannot disagree more. The real beauty of free verse poetry is that the form allows for structure to convey meaning. As an illustration of this try reading both of the following. One is a short essay and the other is the exact same essay presented in a poetry format. (There were some minor word changes in the poetry version.) The big question is: Is the poetic version really poetry? There are times when every poet should think about how to draw attention to a key word or phrase. Sometimes you may wish to be subtle and sometimes you may want to be bold. Either way you decide to go, there are several techniques you may wish to try. First, consider the use of empty space. Adding a single space before or after a word can be quite eye-catching. For a more dramatic flare, use four or five spaces. For real emphasis, try placing the word on a line by itself. Similar things can be said about stanzas. To draw attention to a stanza, add lines before or after the stanza or vary the spacing of the stanza. Second, consider the effect of words that seem out of place. Placing a word at the end of a line, especially after a period, can really draw the reader’s eye. For a less dramatic effect, rearrange the sentence structure. To really catch the reader’s eye, break up a single thought across two stanzas. A third thing you can try is to play with pauses and punctuation. This is poetry. You have more freedom here than in any other written form. A well placed—and maybe a technically improperly placed bit of punctuation—can really grab the reader’s attention. Commas, colons, periods, exclamation points, semi-colons, dashes, hyphens, and question marks are all at your disposal! Don’t be afraid to use them. A last technique you may wish to employ is the use of alliteration, assonance, or rhyme to attract the reader’s natural curiosity. We humans always perceive patterns as we progress through life. I hope you see that you should feel free to take full advantage of this fact. Similarly, if a poem uses one of these techniques as a matter basic form then departing from it for a line or two will immediately draw the reader’s attention. In conclusion, as a poet, you have many options available to you for grabbing, holding, and maintaining the reader’s interest. You should attempt to use many of these techniques as you write various poems. However try not to overuse any one technique in a single poem. When readers become too familiar with one technique they will tune it out and it will thus loose its impact as the poem progresses. There are times When every poet should think about How to draw attention to a key word Or phrase. Sometimes You may wish to be subtle And sometimes you may want to be bold. Either way you decide to go, There are several techniques You may wish to try. First, Consider the use of empty space . Adding a single space Before or after a word can be Quite eye catching. For a more dramatic flare— Use Four or five spaces. For real Emphasis Try placing the word On a line by itself. Similar things Can be said about stanzas. To draw attention to a stanza, Try adding lines Before and after the stanza Or vary the spacing— Of the stanza. Second, Consider the effect of Words that seem out of— Place. Placing A word At the end of a line, Especially after a period, Can really draw the reader’s Eye. For a less dramatic effect, Sentence structure you might rearrange. To really catch the reader’s eye, Break up a single thought Across two stanzas! A third technique You can try Is to play with pauses— And punctuation. This…is poetry! You have more freedom here Than in any other written form! A well placed —And maybe improperly placed bit of punctuation— Can really grab the reader’s attention. Commas, colons, periods, exclamation points, semi-colons, dashes, hyphens, and question marks, Are all at your disposal! Don’t be afraid to use them. A last technique You may wish to employ Is the use of alliteration, assonance, or rhyme To attract the reader’s natural curiosity. We humans are always perceiving patterns as we progress through life. I hope you see that you should feel free To take full advantage of this fact. Similarly, if a poem uses one of these techniques As a matter of basic form Then departing from it for a line or two Will immediately draw attention to itself. In conclusion, As a poet, You have many options available to you— For grabbing, holding, and maintaining The reader’s interest. You should attempt to use Many of these As you write various poems. However try not to overuse any one technique, In any one poem. When readers see the same technique Over and over That technique will loose its effect And the reader will tune it out.

Oh lord I've been there. Nice stream of conscious explanation of what it's like to try and write but get nowhere, well maybe somewhere after all...

This was fun Regel. I like the way you keep the reader in the same suspense that the recepient of your ire is in. It adds a nice touch by imparting more meaning to the situation.

Thanks Wyvern. I can understand the difficulty with the first stanza. The banshee reference in particular could seem antiquated but it serves, in my mind, as an important link with the first pair and last pair of stanzas. In the first stanza it stands in as a double metaphor: one for the obvious death symbology and then again as a more subtle reference to the screaming of incoming artillery or mortar rounds. The second is much more inferred and can be done without. The linking to the last stanza occurs in the form of the linking of myths. In the last stanza pairing the boy hears the screeching of an owl. The myth, at least in southern folk lore, is that if you hear a screech owl three times in one night then someone you know, usually a relative, will die. This provides an obvious link to the banshee of stanza one...if you are familiar with the myth. Hopefully the question you are left with is to wonder if this is an eternally repeating cycle? Does the boy become, the dead father, the hateful killer, the childish statesman, or does he forgive and go the way of the mother? At any rate I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Sheesh, hi everyone. Been gone a long time. Over a year now. Was busy trying to afford school and had to let my internet account go bye bye. At any rate I've found the site again and will be popping in and out from time to time when school/work permits. This is a very visual poem relying on layout for much of it's effect. Unfortunately I can't for the life of me seem to get the layout right in this format. I therefore present you with two options . You can download the attachment for the beter version hopefully appearing here...Steps_in_the_Sand_4.rtf...or you can read the other version to follow. Either way I hope you enjoy. The original inspriation, should you wish to reference it is "Lullaby" by William Blake. I think the only thing that really remains from the original is the overall tone of the poem. Later all. Take care. Steps in the Sand Deep in the hell of this oil-black night The ceaseless wailings of banshees curse. In a blackened hole resides my shivering soul Scorched earth covered his form—formerly a friend When our faerie of death stopped screaming. Bloody, vacant his face appeared Hollow eyes—once full of life—leered. “Frank! Frank!” I cried! “The curse of war is upon me—died… What vain desire…What seething fire… Has perpetuated such infernal ire?” Blackened pits glare from windswept sands Each damn gust—just another deadly curse. Like Aladdin’s Spiteful genie twisting every gift Hate, ash, sand, and bile—compressed by ignorance—pile. Until deep beneath the viscous oil boils—black. Glistening in the sun it rages and roils! Waiting for the World again to wound. “Jihad! Jihad!” He cried! “A curse on those whom I was taught to despise! Curse the open hand, like steps on windblown sand… Such are the lives of man!” A boy in The House—holds a toy up high Strings from wooden crosses hang— He twists and turns and spins and plays While the dummy on strings clumsily obeys. Across the room green plastic men pose, While the statesman’s wife straightens his tie; A message on parchment his chief aid brings. “Frank. Frank.” He sighed. “I’m terribly sorry that you died. You said, no blood for oil… But if not for oil, then whose blood do we toil?” Salt laden drops fall to the ground, Mixing and swirling—rapidly blending With summer squall from Heaven sent. Men in green—smartly dressed Medals and ribbons clipped to their chest Forearms rigid, fingertips to brow A mother’s eyes, hollow—to folded flag peers. “Frank! Frank!” She cries! “A curse upon those who make sons die! A tear on a rose…A wilted pose… May the rain wash away our desolate woes!” Long into the night the battle rages But all he can hear is the owl screeching. Deadly calls in the dark, heavy air Screaming sounds as a woman of terror. Then in the witching hour, he bolts from bed He calls out for safety—for his father But the son could not be heard from within war’s den! “Dad! Dad!” He cries! “It’s your absence I most despise! Will I ever be wise…Able to intelligently surmise… Or will hate be the legacy of your demise?”

I thought about the rhyme scheme for a bit. I tend to find that rhymes tend to add an airy and carefree nature to poems. There are several reasons why I chose to keep it as is: 1) There is a somberness to the poem as a whole and I think it stands out well enough. The rhyme scheme reflects the little girl to me. She is that kind of person, most often found in children, that seems to be able to see past the surface of things and care not for the outward appearance. In the man is that little girl waiting to get out again, yet he never fully will. He's too old, but he can glimpse it enough to smile again, and that is enough sometimes. 2) I didn't really set out to write a poem with a rhyme scheme, that's just the way it came out. It flowed well enough and I kind of like it this way. 3)There is a sense of hope in the poem and I think the rhyme scheme reflects it well. Without it, I think it should be too dark. Anyway, thanks for your comments. :-)

Holidays I glance about this place And gaze upon a glowing face What energy What love What joy A delight to see the mind race. Laughter bounces from the walls As happiness fills the halls What energy What love What joy The bonds of family gently calls. Parting with a smile A hug seals the memory file What energy What love What joy Won't see each other for a while.

Forlorn images come to mind. Expectations unfulfilled. A life that could have been something else, something much better perhaps...

A friend said I should post these up so here they are. Yeah, It's been a long while. :-) Sweet Sorrow I smiled and said goodbye today Not to life or everyone But to one person above the rest It was a goodbye with a tear Accompanied by a genuine smile A goodbye that should end a book While you wait for the next to begin. A new life begins and the job is real Yet a sadness still clings to me And will not leave without a fight The world has gone mad yet again Only entropy fuels such change. I watch from afar unable to stop it Nor would I be willing even if I could. I watch patiently unfolding events Waiting for the pattern to emerge Hoping my place is still there Fearing above all fears it will not Knowing that force should ensure That my fear will be realized So I do naught but smile and wait. Symmetry Of tiny spaces we dream No stranger things it seems Wrapped up in a ball It resonates through all The tiniest of things Life vibrating in strings. Desert Rain In the sky the raging sun sleeps Until the wispy widow weeps And when a droplet chances to collide Where the hungry earth resides For a time the flowers shall bloom Until again the dryness resumes. Autumn Wind A cool fall breeze glides in from the East Russet leaves dance and cover the land Those who stay prepare with a feast For soon all will be covered by winter’s hand The trees all about give up their green Birds high above, to the south wing The world all about bathed in an autumn scene Squirrels bury treasure to last until spring The fields lay barren, harvest is over Slowly with time the woods grow quiet Until once again blooms the clover And life bursts forth, a tumultuous riot. Hugs and Tears It has been many years since that day That lazy day in the midst of may That day when the children came to play I was sitting on my porch asleep Hiding from the world, trying not to weep Alone in the world, all alone with my fears Hiding from my doubt, running from my tears A tired and wretched shambling disgrace With a mass of stubly beard upon my face It was in such a state that I lay The day the children came out to play. It was a day when children love to play That is to say it was just another day A miserable day in the month of may The children jumped and laughed and whirled From a mournful sleep, fitfully I stirred I rose up, full of ire from my chair The children, eyes wide with fear, did stare Terrified they stood, all ready to run All save one, a tiny jewel in the sun She looked up at me sadly as if to say "Oh mister tell me, why don't you play?" The tears began to flow from me that day That beautiful spring day in mid May When that child stopped from her play While I cried she tottered slowly to me She was concerned while the rest chose to flee With arms spread wide, a hug she supplied Big crocodile tears I continually cried For no apparent reason she hugged me tight And for a time the world seem allright Because that day the children came to play And one little girl decided she would stay. It's been many years since that fateful day That day when the children came to play And one little girl, with great love, did stay I cleaned myself up and found a little pride Each day she would come by with arms open wide We would sit and talk of life for a time And speak of a world full of poetry and rhyme Of how simple little acts of kindness and love Can forever change a pigeon into a dove And every year in the middle of May We hold a private celebration on that day.

Friendship Lost Still waters ripple in the wind Will you once again be friend Honesty compels the truth be told I once again fear to be so bold To risk my heart in such a way To once again have such dues to pay The pain of loss I cannot bear Upon my soul this burden does wear. I once did call you friend Then you abandoned me in the end The trust that I once felt Feels like a crooked hand you dealt And I can no longer know Whether you be friend or foe To be friends you say you desire But in your heart what doth conspire?

Summer Storm Wisps of puffy whiteness fly by Chased by heavy grey masses form the sky With sweet vigor do cleansing rains fall Drenching the ground in a summer squall In the distance thunder clamors and roars Bellowing to the world what is in store Lightning explodes and arcs to the ground Making furious streaks without a sound Energy dances, playing in the night air A carnival of lights at a summer fair It is at wondrous times like this When nothing in the world seems amiss That happiness can be easily found under a porch, in a chair, on the ground.

Heehee but then 105 doesn't imply a computer binary system like 1101001 and since the whole thing is about relationships over the computer it's more symbolic that way. :-)

LoL It was supposed to be 8.

No, the number has no significane other than it is a string of 8 digits in binary. :-) If you must know it's the number 105. 1101001 In a room, painted walls In a chair, on a swivel At a desk, near a window Staring at a screen, darkness outside Electricity pulses, ones and zeroes zip by Darting to and fro, in wires of copper and aluminium Carrying information, travelling to places Opening new doors, showing new people In such a manner are new people met New friendships forged New cultures realized New lifetimes viewed Without ever seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, smelling I wouldn't give it up for the world!