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When fire flares up in the bush or house
Be careful with what you use to put it out
It could well be just an additional fuel
That may shoot up everything out of control

Excesses escalate into extremity in jihad
And holy crusade becomes a child’s play
Generations of able men, women and children
Wasted away like rain flood in hollow pits

When a child bumps into another in game or play
Be cautious how you take this simple offence
Retaliation escalates in multiple acts of revenge
This exceeds in measure the one that provoked it

Look at September eleven and the after effects
The resources we wasted in showing off power
That has resulted in global economic crises
These have sent nations and men scampering

The radical may sound unrealistic to the many
That you should turn the other cheek when goaded
Pray and ponder on the age old teaching of leniency
The extra mile in achieving peace with men on earth

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


...I like it. The sentiments expressed are very real and the language in the poem is solid, if not very "beautiful". But lyric poetry it's not pretending to be.
The last stanza if my preferred. But remember that when Jesus told his followers to "turn the other cheek" it was meant to bring the Lordly down to size. When a powerful man struck a member of the lower classes he did it with the back of his hand. A demeaning way to strike someone. Jesus said to then turn the other cheek so that he may strike again, but this time he will be forced to strike with his palm thereby striking the "lowly" as an equal.
Trivial Historian, wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Your comments are solid, but how do we stop the cycle of violence that has threatened our very existence as individuals and as nations. I know we can not stand folding our hands to let suicide bombers have a filled day and something has to be done to stop them. How did we get into this in the first place?

I get the point that this does not flow well. I have been trying to write something of this kind that should flow, but it is difficult with my limited vocabulary. Can you teach me some new tricks? Thank you very much and best wishes.


A rekindled faith - Dancing in the Light

author comment

I don't think there is anything wrong with your vocabulary. I'm something of a word junkie, so my poetry is full of uncommon and archaic words. Anything used in the last five hundred years is fair game to me.
But your vocab is sound.

The first thing I would do is find a consistent meter. As I said before, there's nothing troublesome about the language. Your point is brought across intact, but because the lines constantly change their rhythm and length the "poem" is not allowed to be a poem. The end result is a rather insightful "essay".
Take the first line. Very little needs to be altered to have it end consistent with what it starts.
"When fire flares up in the bush or (the) house,"
I added one word and the whole line is anapest.
"Be careful what's used when you try put it out."
Now, I don't like the line I offered. It sucks, but I slapped it out to show you the rhythm.
This is just me, but I don't think a poem requires rhyme (as much as I love the stuff). But a poem without meter is just prose. Don't misunderstand. Prose is good, but it's not poetry. My bottom line is this... No matter what the content, if there is not beauty in the words (and elegance in the way it comes across) it just isn't poetry.
I liked this piece because of the glimpses of subtle phrasing and the content. It just needs tweaking to find a meter that you like. I chose anapest because that's kind of how you started.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program

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