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An Ideal Ideogram

My father turns the inky soil
With his bucolic blade;
Readying the ground,
So gravid,
For the body blooming!

He rolls the rocks,
Like Archangels,
To the edge of the balmy beds —
To protect them
From the deluge of rude rabbits
And unthinking rains.

He gathers the sticks insensitive,
Plucks the ancillary weeds,
Rids the bejeweled yard
Of all that is colorless,

Sprinkles the magic remains
Of cut grass
And repurposed vegetables
On the nursing nursery,
In attempts of making something like
An Eden eternal.

With sweat on his bold brow
And dirt on his hardy hands,
He turns the growing grounds
Into an ideal ideogram.

I make my own garden
With fertile words.

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?
Editing stage: 


grave too early

some typing probs
later ok

Thanks lovedly

author comment

It feels like a good attempt to expand your ideas and language options
Yet for or me it feels strangely awkward
Greg this is an opportunity for sitting with yourself; feeling what your up to and maybe a rewrite or polish Its important to feel those little emptiness's inside if you're off kilter and ask yourself do I really love this poem If you don't who will?

For myself I find reading lottsa great poems and feeling the thrill of their power and beauty is the best mentor..... Assimilate...enculturate

DIE in the Past
Live in the Future.
THE velocity of velocities arrives in starting.

Best Z

Thanks, Zebra. Trying to read regularly as well as fill out my poems. Good advice

author comment

Just another thought Suspend literal meaning for a while
Think of words as musical notes long vowels / short vowels playing in confluence with one another ie the power of binary sounds The poem is a song in away Is it a beautiful melody? Do the cymbals come in at the right time? Does the cello weep and break your heart? Read our friend Quills Vein Back for example or here's a phrase from Joyce "A birdless heaven, sea-dusk and a star" Are these not beautiful images and sounds to the ear. A narrative element is only a fractal ingredient in a poem When one hears a song the voice is as important as the vision

with cricket cries. Show me how ruin makes a home
out of  hip bones. O mother,

Best Z

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