[Critique Group 2] Compilation of Pieces for May 23rd

[Abbie Taylor]

These aren't in the exact order in which they were sent because I 
missed Brad's and Leonard's pieces somehow, and they needed to be 
re-sent. Thank you, Leonard, for doing that.

***

###1. Poem from Valerie Moreno

I Don't Know


Can I trust you?
More and more, I waver,
unsure of your honesty,
motives
You call me "friend",
say you understand me,
then, you attempt to control--"fix" me as if I am
 broken
Please, ask before you assume,
listen before you judge,
understand I am able
to live, love,
share in an accurate
appreciation of thought
I will let you in
happily, confidently,
if you see me as
an equal
Until then, I'll bide
my time and patience,
hoping to be let in
your inner world

###2. Poem from Abbie Taylor

THE WOODEN FRONT PORCH


With cobblestone steps and walkway,
bare of furnishings, this is where
I stood with a wood chip for a microphone
while younger brother Andy accompanied me
on an old paint can,

also where rehearsals were conducted
for a puppet show Mother directed
in which I played Winnie the Poo.

>From here, Andy aimed his urine stream,
leaving Mother to wonder
how the grass got so yellow,

then collected morning newspapers
to be folded and delivered.
When Andy overslept, Dad found the papers.
His cry of “Ah Hell! Andy!”
roused the entire household.

Andy spent many happy hours with friends
playing miniature basketball
with a small hoop above the front door.
I hated the thuds and clatters
that resounded through the house.

One hot summer day,
we tried selling comic books,
but no one was interested,
especially since the girl across the street
was selling lemonade.

For years, we traversed the porch
while coming and going
to and from school, the park, downtown

until the house was eventually sold.
Now, a new family graces the porch
with a couple of rocking chairs,
will make their own memories here.

###3. Poem from Alice Massa


Hello!  Leonard, Abbie, Brad, and Valerie:

        During the past few days, I have been working on the following 
brand new and unusual poem.  Which of the three titles do you prefer?  
Could this poem be classified as a poem of the romance-writing genre?  
I sure hope you like this endeavor better than my sonnet of last month. 
I placed double asterisks and the number of the stanza prior to the 
second through sixth stanzas.  The number of words of the six stanzas is 334.

Looking forward to talking with you on May 23--Alice
ajm321kh at wi.rr.com


The Romance Tale of Old Poem and Old Soul

Romancing the Old Soul

Old Poem's Romancing the Old Soul

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa


I am Old Poem.
My lines mark my age:
my rhymes are wrinkling at the ends.
My feet that once were stressed and unstressed
now just amble along
in whatever free verse
that fits with orthotics.
Now, I know I am old
because I am afraid of falling--
terrified of a line break.

** Second Stanza

However, Old Soul is holding me tenderly:
in his warm, arthritic hands,
I relax.
I rejuvenate in his caress
until his right hand's fingers
gently and artfully turn
my dog-eared page--
once a cute puppy-eared page--
languidly to the left
of where I am duty-bound.

** Third Stanza

A-a-ah, the light from the gooseneck lamp
warms and invigorates two more tattered pages
which the Old Soul reads aloud
in his full baritone voice,
as he once read before his class
of English majors mired in verse.
Each metaphor he mandates
makes me feel like
the Old Poem I am
is once again a virgin verse.

** Fourth Stanza

The evening sails into midnight's mooring.
The Old Soul's baritone is now barely a whisper,
yet he reads on.
Once again, he turns a page:
this time, somewhat clumsily, with less care.
Instead of caressing the margins of me,
Old Soul is holding onto me
too tightly
as if by this stronghold
his hands will stop trembling.
Nevertheless, his actions are making me shutter.

** Fifth Stanza

Oh, sweet Old Soul,
he is dozing off.
He is falling asleep--
falling ...
Old Soul is losing his grip on me!
Perhaps, I will glide gracefully to his lap.
Oh, no!  I am falling, falling ...
falling over his lap,
tumbling, tumbling,
tumbling over his knees,
down his corduroy slacks,
sliding off his plaid slippers,
rolling onto the hardwood floor.
What has Old Soul done to me?
Oh, my Muse, I have a line break!

** Sixth Stanza

9-1-1.  I need a Poetry Ambulance right away.
I am at Old Soul's Cottage Lane.
I am Old Poem;
and in a most unromantic fall,
I sustained a terrible stanza break.

(end of poem)

###4. Poem from Leonard Tuchyner

Hi Folks,

This is my submission for our meeting Tuesday after next.

One question I have is whether I should change the tenses in all the 
verses to be the same tense, and if so, which tense should that be.

I’m concerned that there is one image in the first verse that might not 
be clear to those who did not grow up in small New Jersey cities where 
curbs all have green medians between the curb and sidewalk.

Other than that, just do your own things. I’ll try not to get defensive.

Leonard
-----

Child’s Play
         by
Leonard Tuchyner

As a kid I walked abyss ridge,
discerned by some as a city curb.
To me it seemed stretched to world’s end,
though it stopped at the end of my block.
A child’s fancy has no restraints.
On each edge the curve was a cliff,
just one misstep a plunge to death.

We kicked a can on our way to school,
each blow a banging burst of power.
Every erratic bounce thwarts our course --
tardiness from school irrelevant.
Whacking the can is more important.

Avoid all sidewalk fractures and cracks --
each step measured for cadence and length.
No stutter step or stumble allowed.
The world is somehow better for that --
no particular reason, just is.

Walk the rocky woodland path.
Make each stride on rocky top.
Contact not the trodden dirt
between smooth bounces and bounds --
adds more to a simple trek.

Watching dusty particles
flittering, flying, skittering
in light shafts cast through shadow,
never coming to ground --
wondering how they do that.
What happens when shades come down?

Chase a diaphanous thistle seed
winged with gossamer filament wings,
born on the breath of a soft sweet sigh,
gently flying through an azure sky
to mysterious misty isles,
where fairies, goblins and wild things
cavort in a child’s ever-after land.

###5. Poem from Brad Corallo

Greetings Group 2,
I posted this to the list on 5/5/17 and got a bit of positive feedback. 
It  is one of a number of my pieces influenced by Celtic Paganism. 
Though I am  not Druid or Wicca, there is something in their ancient 
beliefs regarding  our connection to the Earth and all that lives that 
seems right to me. There  are many stories and songs about the Green 
Man. I have always enjoyed them!
 ***
 Prayer To The Ancient One
 By Brad Corallo
 Word count 177
 Let us join hands all
on his carpet of grass.
The Green Man returns
and we feel winter pass!
A wise being that emboldens
and quickens the corn.
He pipes the unfolding
the Earth is reborn!
Great Horned semblance
who's glimpsed in the leaves.
He kindles our hearts
green magic he weaves.
More than ever we need him
to be strong like a stone
Against the silicon chip
and the blight in the bone.
>From Australia to britten
he's known far and wide.
He lived for the day
for tomorrow he died.
May he always return
to gather young life.
Let us join in his wisdom
and cast away strife.
The dice have been rolled,
there's less joy than sadness.
Before it's too late
let's end all the madness.
For the Earth is our trust
good stewards are we
to love her and tend her
and all life will be free!

NOTE: This is my tribute to Cinco de Mayo and the wisdom of the ancient 
Celtic Pagan tradition.

-- 
Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbie at mysero.net
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm