Hope on - rocks in your barrel or not makes no difference. And the logic isn't.

I like the rhyme, the brevity, and her eye-liner. What I don't get is whether the sloppy hair is yours or hers. Doesn't matter, I suppose, a fad is a silly fad.

Even with helter-skelter grammar, inordinate juxtoposition of voices, and line breaks that a novice could complain about, I followed it and liked it.

I thoiught I had commented on "Parkinson's, but aparently not. That one was well written with a touch of believability. It was nice to compare with your usual metaphors.

As for this one, I especially like how memories become enemies. No I don't like it, but it's true. But "dead leaves" left me wondering, as if memories die eventually - wishful thinking, I think.

Perhaps "You are my yesterday" would bring into the present, carrying the memory if you will. The last 4 lines of that verse are good.

Not sure I like the word "cadence" at the end. Seems too unresolved, maybe that's right though.

A nice fancy. Dreamy.

Much too repeatative to carry what little interest there is. These are commonly heard statements that might be made interesting if couched in something unique.

This is a nice sentiment. The copyright note is not needed; you own the poem without that. I would prefer to read your new work, rather than something from 2003.

I'm sorry you said, near the end, that the car has dual controls. Up to there I imagined you on his lap in a fine rainy day romp along an Indian lane.

This starts off well, but I think the Ben Franklin quote falls short, especially with the irrelevant word, "wealthy." "Healthy" and "wise" are applicable though. Also "wonders" should be "wonder" I think, to match the subject "I." But the thing that causes me to want to argue is the implicatioin that a healthy and wise person is perhaps more held in His hands than the other.

It was not the last day of your life, but could have been. But how were you to know? I believe you mean "through," not "though." "Whims . . ." is a line that be scratched, I think. Otherwise good. But I think some hint would be in order as to why the narrator thinks it could be the last day.

Better than your other one. Here the narrator comes to a crossroads, and rather that taking the path the average poet would have made him take, he chooses life. And the style is better here, has meter and some poetic phrases.

It's great to sit around with a friend an get crazy, talk ceazy and laugh over a beer or a glass iof wine. I guess, having never done more, it seems unnecessary, but who am I to know. Not a bad description, I'd say.

My comment on the deleted one was a bit snide: “I'm sorry you said, near the end, that the car has dual controls. Up to there I imagined you on his lap in a fine rainy day romp along an Indian lane.”

Striving this time to inflict wounds of a friend, please take a few goddess stabs at an angel:

Trees sway.
The heavens storm.
I’m sitting at the wheel,
driving to drum beats of thunder
while the instructor watches.
‘Left indicator, brake a little,’
he commands…
I clutch and find first gear,
move on slowly… there’s a hump ahead
clutch again and shift to two,
accelerate a bit,
almost confident, I shift to three
and speed on.
I shift to the fourth,
speed away,
confident now, I forget he’s there.
I thrill at being in control,
transferred to a world of my own,
till I come to a junction;
the rain’s pouring,
and I don’t know how to stop.
My instructor suddenly presses
the brakes..
and then I realize
he’s got the controls
on his side too,
and I’m saved in the nick of time.

Lord, how could I forget
You’re in control of my life?

During a debate a month or so ago, I said that if you would post a poem, I would give an honest review, not some outburst of slanders as you perceive to have received before. Having read this and the above comments, I can add little to what they have said. I agree with Ranger and Amanda.

But I would like to add something about your coming to the conclusion that “It really has never mattered” – all you have tried to accomplish, all you have done to make them see. This is a wonderful place to be, because when you know that to carry on is not for them, not for what anyone recognizes, but only for its own sake, then it begins to make sense. Art springs from a position of not caring what they think, much more than by pandering to their wishes. If you are really in a place where you can proceed, not caring what anybody thinks about it, then art can begin. I think something outside myself kicks in then.

In your usual condition of nincompoopery, I have to ask if you are worthy of attention, even enough attention to confer words like “doggerel.” Usually, you are so busy making mud pies in the slum that you cannot imagine a resort holiday by the sea. You are not selfish enough. You desire too little. But here perhaps you’ve caught a glimpse past the poop of nincompoopery, and I hope it grows.

The haunting opening quote, written in third person, as if it were from a novel, and maybe it is. Then the peace lily, an ornamental indoor plant, which I suppose grows wild by some midnight pool. And finally, the uncertain, dreamy language conjures vague reflections, as a dream would, or maybe really did. I feel haunted by the scene, but can't put a finger on the specifics.

At first, I stopped at: "the zoo in him is his cage." But it's quite clever now. In s3, I'd suggest, "It’s a roar hollow as carrion." I think that's stronger. "when they met they were kings" says it well.

I hope everybody has at least one day in their life when they say to those gathered around them, as I have, “We are the living truth. History is unable to subjugate us and our inevitable victory of intellect.” Check the grammar, but I like the spirit of this.

I love this kind of thing - colorful glimmers reflected from a pool of urine, for example. And the cadance is nice here, but with some glitches, at lest to my ear.

Night lights shiver
softly glimmer
Upon a broken glass

just a thought.

Please pardon our crass Dark Angel. He used to be an embarrassment around here until we all accepted his charming artlessness like the bums in Santa Monica. As for artlessness, I’m afraid this too qualifies. Please try to say these often said things in a more original way.