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Only Time Died (Storytelling in verse workshop)

I'd been but ten years in this manifest
when first I knew my destiny was death.
I well remember, when the thought expressed
it blew so cold it took away my breath.
So do we then conclude, cease to exist?
 A fear, a terror wrapped, I did not know.
 As fast as it had come, the thought dismissed,
 ‘twas early yet to question where we go.

For raised on land with seasons good and bad,
 bereavement was a weary truth to awe,
 acknowledging life ends, although ‘tis sad,
 esteeming nature’s reasons for her law.
Then, as a nightingale in my own right,
in servitude of health, I found my way.
In starched-up uniform and veil of white,
I saw the grimmest reaping every day.

And psyche saw, although it kept its tongue,
with visions, messages for me to heed -
the universe’s warnings shown in action -
unrecognised until I found the need.
For, all the while acceptance was unbroken,
with thought we all have somewhere else to go,
until complacency was rudely woken
to make me question everything I know.


We’d know within eight measured minutes bating,
 if Sol the sun who shines for us had died,
 but Earth turned once, then carried on rotating,
 before I knew my own son’s light expired.
 At poetry in my Elysian fields,
 while singing, dancing, tending chariots,
 oblivious to dark inferno’s yields
 and painting only bright, appealng portraits 

I was then but an infant in this life -
not having yet partaken my set role -
about to learn the lesson from a knife,
that reached into and slivered half my soul.
It shattered as a prism ruptures light
from strands of harmony and soft infusion,
convulsing my existence, white and bright,
into kaleidoscopic-hued confusion.

I thought my years no longer worth enduring,
my cosmos broken, trust in all things drained;
no longer smugly finding life alluring,
for what was life, if only death was gained?
And what was death? I’d never really wondered.
I’d, so naively, tacked with life’s ebb, flow.
Enormous loss made more bewildering
with ignorance regarding where we go.

It only vaguely heard, my broken spirit,
 insistent, gentle calling through the pain.
Then, reaching through the veil, he swept it up,
 and helped me put it back to whole again.
 And as he did he took me on a journey,
presented me abundant proof in rays
not only was his light still shining safely,
it shone exactly in its proper place.

His footsteps slowly led to my conclusion
that every light can never cease to be;
so come with me along the path I’ve trodden -
I want to share the truth he taught to me.



As Jabberwok to Kafka's cockroach crumbled,
the strangers dressed in blue - those manxome foe -
a huge absurdity cryptically mumbled.
The canvas stretches, twists up - did you know?
While mirrors cracked, and saints and demons bonded,
and time slowed down so much it seemed an aeon,
I stood beside the Tumtum tree and wondered
just why was life and living going on?

If we have lost a pair of eyes that glitter,
if there’s a laugh that we will hear no more,
if everything so easily went bitter,
how could the world stay wrapped around its core?
The oceans should be churning, mountains grumbling.
So why was sun-shine burning extra bright?
I pondered why the plants were not now crumbling;
how birds still held their flight; the wind its bite.

Both mind and body slowly fading, numbing,
the oxygen not reaching to my lung,
and wishing wildly someone would say something
while hoping too that all would stay struck dumb.
Away, just leave me be, someone please hold me.
They are divulging in a dreadful lie.
It cannot be the truth, I’m thinking shrewdly,
the stars have not all fallen from the sky.

So why does everything seem so surreal,
and why do they just sit there, bloody coppers,
determined to their fallacy reveal?
The world keeps turning, buildings haven't tottered.
Across a wide abyss, those evil lies
resounded in a grievous dank stillness,
engraving on my heart eternal 'whys'.
The words all echoed in a round so ceaseless.

Why did my heart keep beating? My soul screamed.
My own temptation mimicked Tantalus'.
Imagination running riot, it seemed
I'd been transported straight to Tartarus.
While quenching waters 'round my feet all licked,
above delicious fruits grew succulent.
Evoking terror from the suffering pit,
foiled every time I reached for sustenance.

I won’t believe, I thought, there’s hope they’re wrong,
as seeping stupor overpowered my being.
Until I touch and find there is no song
I won’t believe; the truth will be in seeing.


 ‘Twas five long days before I saw my son,
and when I did they’d tightly sewn his eyes
and lain him on a block of polished stone
awaiting my caress and kiss goodbye.
So cold he was, but I was even colder,
for death-birth agony tore me apart,
as strong, contracting anguish from my centre,
in spasms, rippled up to wrench my heart.

From there this onslaught, detonating free,
exploded through my chest to carry tears.
In one great breath my love reached for his body.
I doubled up beneath a flood of fears.
Reality is stretching crazily.
I ask, ‘Where has he gone?’ My soul affright.
He cannot, can he, cannot now not be?
What’s happened to the fire of my son’s light?


The young do not belong beneath the ground -
a funeral’s for they who have lived long.
Throughout my mind one single thought resounds,
repeats and resonates, the world is wrong.
His music playing, mourners sitting stunned.
 I close my eyes to shut in tearful heat,
 envision him, when to rock songs he listened,
 head moving, bobbing madly with the beat.

They’re playing, now, Metallica’s piece, One.
It echoes in my head, so heavily,
the words reverberating like a drum -
Please God wake me.
A fluid world, incredulity,
alone amongst a crowd, my thoughts consist
of apperception of mortality -
Do we really, then, cease to exist?


When, driving in his friend’s car to the wake,
a song was playing loudly, made me wince -
a noisy harsh metallic lick and break -
I’d never heard before, and never since.
While lost in sadness, sorrow, aching pain,
felt unexpected peace, as to my ear -
We’ll meet up somehow, someway, once again.
The words, above the noise, heard loud and clear.


When personal loss of gemstone stops the breath,
an aimless boundless chorus calls a fracas
to find, divine the animus of death,
as life becomes more cryptic, out of focus.
The empty chair when family sat to meet -
no appetite, each meal was just a memo
that he and I would share not one more feast,
not Christmas, birthday - all had moved to limbo.

In fact there would be no more memories
for us to make together, sad or fun.
No laughter shared, now, over his mad stories.
He had had such a zest for life, my son.
The world was upside-down and inside-out.
There was no point to anything it seemed,
and my existence, now, was filled with doubt
re worth of any kind of future dreamed.

I fumbled through a twilight, overwhelmed
as day and night no longer held allure
and melded into one another’s realm,
to form my new, inevitable detour.
By day I’d wander barren thoughts of death
but every night in dream-scapes he was here.
I’d wake each morn with lightened, calmer breath
that instantly would fill with loss and fear.

The agony of loss was overwhelming,
inane disdain ensured a time insane,
where love and laughter seemed to be for fooling -
the only real immortal thing was pain.
I’ve labelled them reverse-to-labour, ergo
they come from Aphrodite’s deep reside -
immediate, excruciating cramping low,
that rock in waves and end in slow subside.

With each re-called forgotten memory,
a paroxysm – agonising throe -
commenced convulsions washing over me
that undulated deep within my marrow,
subsiding slowly till the pain was small,
eventually dulling to a gleam,
acclimatising me to all recall.
So, in this way, the wound was washed, stitched clean.

And as the world and life around kept flowing,
I somehow found the strength to still endeavour
(although cognising not where I was going)
to move my footsteps forward through forever.


And then I heard a tale, a new bright sun-ray -
for Josh. my grandson, only three-plus –half,
had, firstly, known his Dad had ‘gone away’
(and this upon so many was a salve).

He told a story, obviously a dream -
his mum had taken him to hospital,
and under a blue blanket he had seen
his dad, who’d told him he would not be able
to see him for a while, he had to leave.
He told his son he loved him, hurt would mend,
and not to worry, not to ever grieve
for all would work out alright in the end.

And, secondly, the next night he declared
his dad had come, with God, in a light beam
and taken him to play in heaven’s air,
insisting all the while it was no dream
(and still believes e’en though the years have passed)
I asked him only just the other day
if he remembered - his reply was fast -
‘It was no dream, too real, no dream, no way.’

‘I don’t remember much,’ was his reply
when then I asked him what this ‘God’ looked like.
‘I was too busy watching Dad nearby,
but he was dressed in robes of brown and white
with sandals on his feet that laced and thatched
across his calves… and taller than the roof.’
I was intrigued; for this description matched
the archangel I hear they say guards Malkuth.

Forgotten memories came flooding back
of flying in my dreams when just a kid,
of precognitive incidents I’d had,
and too, a vision that my mind had hid.
Amazed, I was, that I’d forgot that visit.
‘Twas from my grandma after she had died, and
with Jeremy’s decease a perfect fit,
for it involved her holding his small hand.

So many years ago, when he was six,
I woke from doze to see them by my bed
in pure, bright light – I stared at her transfixed -
Don’t worry for I have him, she then whispered.
His hand in hers, he wore a happy grin,
I’d settled back in peaceful glowing bliss,
until my rational mind and thoughts kicked in -
My Nana’s dead, there’s something here amiss.

I’d panicked, run to Jeremy’s bedroom,
expecting tragedy of something vile
as that enormous bliss had turned to gloom,
but found him sleeping soundly, with that smile.

This recollection was an opiate,
for then I realised my Nana’s presence
had reached through space and time’s emotion’s gate,
preparing me, for future reference.
It prompted something for consideration -
a memory that’s been with me always
throughout this life, this present incarnation,
from childhood to adult, unchanged by days.

Above the ground with gentle smooth floatation,
I'm headed there - for somewhere -  with no sound.
A nebulous affect of glum negation,
not wanting to not what? I’ve never found.
Observing children playing down below,
then I am one, but somehow I'm still me.
above I see a smoky face fade, billow.
I wonder to myself, 'Who can that be?'


Now life goes on, and life will always bring
responsibilities I have to mind,
and one, within the reaper’s early sting,
was leaving two young little ones behind.
Her name was Margaret, friends we had become.
We talked at length about this state called dead.
I told her of my grandson’s dreams, so welcome.
She listened, earnestly, to all I said.

And, when she gave herself to death’s refrain,
it left another lesion needing suture,
so unaware, I was, we’d speak again
at an important meeting in my future.


And meanwhile, still, I saw him in my dreams,
and there, because I did not comprehend,
I talked with him of mundane simple themes
and cursed myself when waking at the end.
The old time healer laboured while I slept
and, as he ticked on past the scar of death,
I noticed I was waking less bereft
when taking dawn’s first vivifying breath.

My Jeremy soon offered me a sooth,
he showed me how to climb out from the pit.
I took some time acknowledging this truth,
for ingrained social reason clouded it.
Entreating with a small and gentle voice,
so nearly not perceived within frustration
existing in the mournful, empty void
of quiet, cacophonic devastation;

manipulating disbelieving cracks,
with tiny miracles to demonstrate
the whispered cryptic words and simple facts
of wisdom’s light, afire and animate;
he walked me through implacable denial,
and steered my feet away from windy cliffs
and weeping worlds, and adverse words like ‘final’,
to sights and sense of manifest's pure gifts,

At first there were the second-hand reports,
that somehow seemed to ring quite true and clear.
But ere too long suspicion would exhort,
to oversee that doubt was always near.
A girl I worked with – didn’t know her well -
approached me, shyly, near reluctantly -
a message from a psychic. I could tell
she didn’t want to speak but felt a duty.

Reciting words believed to be for me,
a Jason (I read Jezza) some such name
had said he loves me; not to worry; sorry
he’d left so suddenly; we’d meet again.
It left a strange impression in my mind
that what she said was true. I felt release,
and I was puzzled in a way to find
the message, strangely, left a sense of peace.

And sometimes I imagined the suggestion
that he was talking, walking next to me.
I seemed to hear the answer to my question,
and each reply made perfect sense, you see.
And then, a while, would science have the reigns;
if we be sentient, one can’t dismiss
we need the genes arrange the bits and brains.
How could we still exist without all this?

With hope both swinging up and falling flat,
the first connection made was very strong -
a valid vision - insight I begat.
But even then, I thought I might be wrong.
’m almost too ashamed, now, to admit
that, after, I was more concerned than not
that, if it wasn’t epileptic fit,
I might have, as say they, just lost the plot.


It’s when we least expect it that we find
a minor wonder often comes to be.
One day when he was not upon my mind,
he suddenly was teasing me, beside me
unseen, but there I swear, I heard him utter;
so keen the sense, the air electrified.
I heard his voice, I felt the fabric flutter.
His presence couldn’t calmly be denied.

Twas strong, I automatically gave tongue
to questions that he posed to ‘give me grief’.
The moment was near lost before begun
but left me high - elated with belief,
and, for a little while, my life seemed just,
and full of joy and need of celebration.
with time, however, absence grew distrust
and wondered if I’d had hallucination.

That’s when I sank to mourning’s deepest low,
for Reason seemed the thing of most importance,
and looking back in retrospect I know
what happened next was no co-incidence -

encountering Jezza’s oldest friend
(and, strangely, we have never met again).
From spirit, it’s my firm belief, twas sent
- a book he handed me, that kept me sane.
It was the very thing that I was needing;
it showed me ways to view the path he’d trod;
it guided me to further research, reading,
and find Einstein, himself, believed in God;

had, also, faith in our continuation,
with research showing energy won’t die.
And Mary’s Message to the World’s narration
was something I felt everyone should buy.
And, also, I had found intriguing tales
from people who were near to death, and who
claim crossed to wondrous sights - here to there pales.
My curiosity now simply grew.


Those claims encouraged me to contemplate
the people I had nursed to their last breath;
compare those things I’d read, and then equate
experience I’d had with those near death.

Near death, but she’s still lucid still aware,
no wish to be alone with leaving near.
I stay with her, she sees something mid-air,
and asks me, ‘Who’s the girl who sits up there?’
I look but see no-one, I tell her so.
‘She has such golden hair, she’s there,’ she says,
‘and bright blue eyes. She waits for me, I know.’
She dies before the sunshine breaks the day.

A smile so broad and full of love and joy,
he’s waving happily to empty air,
exuberance to match that of a boy,
no notice taken of those gathered there,
then his demise, an unexpected one.
We spoke of it at coffee break that day,
and everybody said with true conviction,
his wife, she came to ferry him away.

So many other of these observations.
I wondered how I’d just forgotten them,
along with knowledge of continuation,
the moment I had lost my precious gem.


It seems that tragedy needs company.
I’ve found it never comes along alone.
Just why this fact is so is still a mystery,
but my belief in this has simply grown.
For soon another sadness, yet again,
was sent into my world to shadow, pall.
I rang my best friend, Tony, to explain
because of my son’s leaving I’d not called.

He’d shifted interstate to cooler climes,
for sake of health when diagnosed with AIDS,
and contact had been sparse, we’d talked few times
for, sadly, one finds one’s own life invades.
He’d mentioned, during one phone conversation,
the chemotherapy was most unfair.
He said ‘you wouldn’t recognise me now, hon.
I’m nearly bald; I’m losing all my hair.’

His partner took my call, his voice was weak.
He said, ‘to contact you, I had no way.
I have to tell you, Tony passed last week.
The funeral was only yesterday.
The gaping wound so raw inside my chest
re-opened wide and gushed with silent shriek,
to fill it black and heavy, to infest
such pain and pressure so I could not speak.


Then, like a child, I went back home to parents,
for life was too damn hard for me to fight,
and Dad said, ‘Hey, I knew that you were coming.
I dreamed you at the door the other night
while wearing an extremely large brimmed hat
of brown and cream small checks, ‘twas rather novel.’
I laughed and said, ‘I’ve nothing quite like that,’
not knowing this would one day ‘ring a bell’.

So for a while in tranquil, needed rest,
I hibernated in my parents’ garden.
I washed distress there, in my childhood nest,
and watched the afternoon-sun- death-ray deaden
and spread its blood on crimson roses, play
a tune with jasmine, scented white and gold.
In fractured light, that flickered finished day
I’d sit and reminisce on times of old.

And there was once a moment I implored:
‘Oh, damn you, Tony, it is most unfair.
I would have liked to see you just once more -
to say goodbye, not leave all in mid-air,’
when suddenly I felt him there with me.
A physical strong presence stroked my calm.
I felt his friendship, personality.
I felt his love, and it was as a balm.


And then I had a singular encounter
with someone I knew hardly then at all -
a young clairvoyant, had described me to her,
and asked her to get me give her a call.
Now, Laurie, Jezza’s mate, who’d been right there
the day he'd died, had heard I was to pay
a visit to this psychic, he declared
'I’m interested in what she'll have to say.'

I wondered if it might not be a scam,
but now believe that 'there', just as in art
and life, to find the working medium
for best effect, one needs one with twin-heart.
Communication’s hard enough o’er here,
when vibes are mixed, then conflict will occur.
When I met Dawn it was, to me, quite clear
that she called me 'cos Jeremy chose her.

The first of spirit to come through was Margaret,
the girl I’d nursed, it seemed so long ago.
She thanked me for assisting her accept,
and understand she had somewhere to go.
I pondered for some time as to just why
she was the first to contact me, come through.
But soon, with logic, reason recognised
the unexpected rang so much more true.

And after her, before she brought my son,
grandparents, cousins – such a happy air;
then, Tony - I am sure he was the one
who smiled and laughed, while combing out his hair.
'He says to tell you that he is right there,
here with you with the roses – now he laughs -
especially when you said he was unfair.
He wants you to remember as he was.'

A steady stream, she brought so many more,
but who I wanted seemed nowhere in view.
'Is there a Jeremy? I did implore,
and only then, he finally came through.
At last, it came - what I had waited for,
with no mistaking Jeremy’s description.
I asked why he was so long coming forth
in making any kind of acclamation.

'Twas he was hard to hear, the only reason.'
She said, 'He was emotional, that’s why.
He says to tell you, he's met up with Sean.'
And my heart at once acknowledged 'twas no lie.
For, Sean, he was the furthest thought from me.
I hardly knew him, from his loss aloof,
died long ago - a friend of Jeremy’s.
Again the unexpected brought me proof.

At times I felt a lifting of the fog,
so much she knew, this spirit-gifted person.
Suffice to say I was amazed, agog,
at what this stranger knew about my son.
But something that she said just didn’t fit;
had me confused, again, is it a scam?
She said a butcher’s outfit was his kit,
with knife and silly grin, holding a lamb.

But when I told him, Laurie showed full interest
and turned to me, mouth open in a gasp.
It seemed, at first, a strangely odd request -
'Was it a sheep or lamb?' Was what he asked.
'I guess a lamb,' I answered, 'for I’m sure
she said that he was carrying it. Why?
Why? Does it make a difference?' I implored.
'It does to me,' was Laurie’s soft reply.

'Before he died, we butchered us a lamb
for dinner. Made a muck of it, we did,
and Jezza joked that, when we got to Canaan,
we both would pay real heavily for it.'
Again it seemed that truly we were brought
a gift of proof for both his friend and me
for, at the visit’s time I’d known but nought
of these last moments spent with his mate, Laurie.


My father grew unwell, his date was near
 and mum requested that I that talk with him,
 concerned he couldn’t function through the fear
 of death, that caused his spirit’s light to dim.
‘I’m seeing things,’ he cried out in his need,
 ‘hallucinating, and it makes me scared’
 So ‘Mary’s Message to the World’, to read,
 and things I’d seen through life, with him I shared.

We talked of flying dreams back as a lad;
 of science, spirit, mind and life to come.
 I told him of experience I’ve had
 when nursing those whose time was nearly done.
 We spoke of Josh’s dreams, as well as mine,
and who was waiting for us ‘over there’,
and when it finally came, the dreaded time,
I bent and whispered ‘there is naught to fear.’

Resounding round the room, his booming voice,
no longer weak with dust of age accrued,
but full of vibrant spirit of rejoice,
and words full of conviction:  ’I know Jude.’
I had an intuition he’d a knowledge -
had learned of something while he lay in sleep -
perhaps a part of way across the bridge?
Then he was gone. ‘Twas time, again, to weep.

So while this living globe spun 'round Sol twice -
revolved, devolving, mixing good and bad,
with sickle He had visited, now, thrice.
I’d lost my son, my friend, and now my dad.



I stumbled through the days all in a twirl.
Now half believing, mostly still unsure.
But, when I slept, I dreamed him in his world,
compared to which, this one is so less pure.

One day I woke to birds' harmonious chorus-
a clear sun-birthing, feather-painted bright
with dance and symphony averred to Horus,
and, in the new born day, I sensed first light.
I sat in still, to seek or to escape,
and felt pure golden warmth white-wax my soul.
I watched a colour-filled dynamic landscape
of smokey lights, that swirled in loops and rolls

from blues to greens, all with a touch of grey.
I felt a gentleness unwind, unfold,
then sensed, behind, a glowing entity
that radiated warmth and peaceful gold,
its loving soothing washing over me,
and through and over me again, again,
with billowed healing, I could almost see
the balm reducing and removing pain.

With every wave of heat the being quivered,
and I vibrated, too, in unison.
With every pulse of love I rippled, shivered
from peace that passes logic's comprehension.

So meditation found itself a convert
attempting to recapture mystery.
Addicted to tranquility and comfort,
reluctant to resume reality.
Encountering a placid place to live
I realised a peace I'd thought I'd lost.
For gone was chance to find the perfect olive,
and life itself had somehow lost its gloss.


With need to make more contact with my son,
I went again to see the medium.
Perceived it hard to doubt from where they'd come -
the words she shared imparting such pure wisdom.

'And where is Ron,' I asked at my next visit
'Would someone wake him up, please,' Dawn then said.
And, thus, I did believe, I could not doubt it,
for he was always napping, was my dad,
and how would she have known this in her world?
Thing such as this convinced me she was true.
At 'readings' simple messages unfurled
that slowly modified my world-eye view.

With meditation, medium and books,
by layer after layer I unpeeled
my own interpretation, my own outlook
on that which rational reasoning concealed.


I can't discount importance, too, of dreams.
From intuition to imagination,
so many answers to my questionings.
just one, for now, I think deserves a mention.

Though I was nowhere near at suicidal,
with knowledge that perfection's out of reach,
thus vision dulled, to see, I was unable,
the point persisting within such a breach
that was the hole, where once had stood the signpost
that held the old blueprint, my lost life plan.
To bed, these contemplations uppermost,
I drifted gently into wonderland...

....with joy and expectation welling, bubbly,
I'm seated in my car, a passenger.
A smiling driver I see, who is me....
I float behind myself, and I'm the chauffeur.
We head toward bright lights of multi-hue,
that sparkle in the distance, seem to fizz.
I'm talking to my passenger, but hereto,
so oddly now, I can't see who it is.

... Now we're having coffee, sweet and hot.
My eyes refuse to move away from him -
a stranger, but somehow a stranger not.
Platonic adoration all-encompassing;
emotion much too huge, defies description.
When I remember it, I feel soul-hungry.
He is the all I see as pure perfection.
His name is Greg; he's somehow part of me.

And Jeremy is there beside me too.
I hear his laugh, just over to my left.
And then, as dreamscapes tend to often do,
the scene fazed, blended, as we changed the set

... to passenger, the driver - my, then, partner.
We pass the place I know as Greg's reside.
I know my Jeremy exists right there.
My wish, despair, desire to stay, I hide.
With spoon, an ice-cream creates serene glow.
A zepher whistles by, hurls it anon.
Utensil snatched from hand, tossed out the window,
then devastation, as when he'd first gone.

I want to scream now, 'stop and let me out,'
with no real explanation, only see
intense sharp pain, that to my reason shouts,
that spoon's connected to my Jeremy.
I look down at my hand and I am holding
some three spoons, that have very suddenly
become a bundle, and I wake unfolding
the meaning, who the spoons were meant to be.

The three would be my other son and grandsons.
Ashamed, accept life's gifts, I will accede.
A purpose undergoes some restoration,
and hurt of seperation dulls, receeds.
I somehow know he's safe where his love grows,
for, though I'm still unsure where Greg may be,
the fact that they're together keeps him close,
because I know that Greg's a part of me.

(A postscript to this dream, I write today.
The siblings of my grandchildren, each one,
all see me as their nana in some way.
The joining of two families gifts a fortune
resulting in some seven more small boons.
So I've had even less reason to grumble,
there's been a little tribe of shiny spoons,
and so, you see, I also got the bundle.)


An icon guarded well by sentinels -
a photo in a corner of my world,
that's safeguarded, secured by candle angels
who oversee an urn his ashes holds.
Our years spent here together are now over
(We managed only three more than a score).
The ancient one, He called him early home
and thus, in flesh, we're doomed to meet no more.

But know the ever stream of consciousness
has many branching creeks and rivulets.
Although he's journeying another way,
the waters still embrace and still connect.
Throughout the coloured, earthly latticed banquet
we weave together tapestries of gold,
so 'though we may now seem to be so separate,
strong knots of shared exploits connect our souls.

The whole is there, forever I proclaim,
and doors to all experience divine.
They're labelled in assorted and strange names -
those such as space, dimensions, and too, time.



With awe, I watched as God used paint today.
On bright blue canvas splashing silver hue,
He joined with breath his works of brushes play,
creating dog and dragon, kangaroo,
then blew them all apart, to float defeated
and dissipate in depths of gentian void.
I contemplated time, how past’s retreated
and lost, as those soft clouds now seemed destroyed.

My vision strayed towards the tiny casket,
that holds the ash of stardust suit he wore
while here in cold of manifested secrets.
I knew a fear I may see him no more -
at once remembering the sky of crystals,
when cloaking sunlight no more can conceal
another world, comprising countless candles
that light directions, other sights reveal.

Performing rhythmic, circled dance each night
respective diamonds all contribute spark
and shine there, each displaying perfect light
within the deep obscurity of dark.
When comes the day, they seem to disappear,
as potent rays of morning slowly creep,
but even so I find I hold no fear -
they’ll all return when Sol’s, again, asleep.

With beauteous splendour, wondrous to behold,
nocturnal intuition, calm repair
wafts softly and I, somehow, am consoled.
The glow that lived in eyes abides yet somewhere.
And he has kept the door to there ajar,
so I’ve no need to worry for his welfare,
but, as the sheen of sunshine cloaks the star,
so where he is, is hid by logic’s glare.

I understand that all is not as seems;
that soul becomes invisible, not gone.
For, as the day's soft artwork of God's dreams,
we blend creation, change form, then move on.
To Consciousness I'll drift, someday, somehow,
and, in that golden warm refreshing tide,
we'll meet again some wonderful new Now,
because I know, ‘twas only Time that died

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


The first 47 stanzas have already been submitted in 4 parts -

but there has been comment that people would like to read these stories we are writing as one piece, not divided up... so here i have submitted those stanzas again and continued to include all of part one of my story

- there is probably more to be added before i begin part 2
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

A beautiful story of your contact with things that take a while to come to grips with.
I feel for your loss and that you suffered so, but now I can see that you really know of the places we may go.
The journey the pain and then the understanding of not losing but gaining an insight to something so beautiful.
I have many hours of the children talking, now they only come and talk a few times a week instead of each night, I tried to transpose their talks into a story then again I tried another way, another story but I was told that it was not needed and that I could tell people of their ways without the tapes, and the elder that spoke to me said that the children would not come in so much to talk.
Now your words from across the world with a little girl very much like Sadie there with your Grandma:-

‘Who’s the girl who sits up there?’
I look but see no-one, I tell her so.
‘She has such golden hair, she’s there,’ she says,
‘and bright blue eyes. She waits for me, I know.’

If you have ever read any of Sadies Diaries and the description of her, in "One Love Two Worlds" you would know how and who I talk with on the tapes I have. Sadie is an old Spirit that appears as a young girl with lovely golden hair and bright eyes, her tasks are to rescue the children that become lost in between the two worlds. Your Grandma must have a past child as the one she saw???
Your sadness and your journey to where you are in this piece is written as we should without pretence and with that truth that we will then begin to understand how things are, it also gives a better picture of who you are.
Yours Ian.T

PS:- We have found that if you think send to them they will hear you also that you can send them gifts, as we did with our Charlie, this was done independently so that there would be no same thought act, so that it was verified, that you can send them things from here. His Mother sent Charlie one of those Boat swings without telling me and he was so pleased with it and the other children are playing with charlie in control (Not Really Control) but he tells them that it is from his Mum..
Sadie told me a few days later while we were talking, I think that you will understand..

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

'the understanding of not losing but gaining an insight to something so beautiful.'

i guess that's the way we learn - we have to give up something, the greater the lesson the higher the fee

thank you for the read - did you find it hard to keep on with the length - or did ir interest you enough, and did you find the rhythm smooth, easy to read?

thanks again
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

Your piece was easy for me to read as it is a part of a place that I am blessed to travel to and with.
I have lived within the Spirit world with daily talks to the children for a few years, where they taught me of just one tiny facet of the existence, where the group I talked to belonged or wanted to be.
If I told a lot of people about them I would end up being locked up lol.
The children have been such a part of my life over the past couple of years, and a comfort to be able to just talk of different aspects of their world.
In its simplicity, it is hard to explain the way they are, and how they interact with each other, I have over the last few years gained such an insight to their ways.
The sheer beauty of the colours, the think talk, and just the being there with unconditional love is most times hard to explain in writing, but I just try.
My Son made me a web site where all my writing is being put as and when I have the time, this will be for my Grand children to read and sort.
That's on:- I sent Joe a copy of some extracts from Sadie and also sent a tape to Jayne in Aussie.
I have had no feedback from either, Joe says it is not time to hear the tape (He is deeply Catholic) as to Jayne I am not sure if she has listened to it or not..
If ever you need a tape of them talking to me then just ask..
This will do for now as I do go on sometimes, your piece was really lovely, though they are never ending stories.
One way is to say that they broke contact with you, and later they will talk some more..
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

You resubmitted on a brand new page and I received no notification. Darn you. I'll be back after work to catch up. I will do my utmost to be brutal in a kind and gentle way (can one?).

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

looking forward to you tearing this to bits lol
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

My battery is dying and I'm not at my plug, so I want to say these things and I'll return for the other half.
You know it's good.
Just thought we should get that out of the way.

You know.
The only thing I can hope to do is pick on little things to help you tidy up. I won't talk about story because it is moving so slowly it's not really realistic to do so just yet, but don't worry... I'll tear you a new one if this doesn't use the appropriate components. The exposition, of course, is as clean as can be and the complication is obvious, but must carry on to display its different characteristics. We both know that complication is spelled with an "s" at the end.

Here are some little things I noted. I'm not going to pick about the meter too much because the emotional level you're maintaining requires it fluctuate. If I make note of it, the line seemed too much out of sync with the rest for me to go by.
In stanza 8 and 10 are the first examples. 8 could be fixed, I don't know if 10 really needs to. Look at them.
Stanza 11 needs to be present tense in the last line to match the tense in the rest of the stanza.
Stanza 12, second line is a little cumbersome to me.
In stanza 17 the line ending "aeon" is too long, but aeon (or eon) is a noun and I think you can get away with losing the article. Think on it.
Same thing in 26 "overpowered being" would work.
Running out of time here.
30 - Whoa.
I'll be back. Sorry I didn't proofread this.

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

I only had time for a quick look at your suggestions
a couple of those lines you feel are too long are feminine lines, I don’t find them a problem… I wonder how many others do…. they seem good to use when wanting to pull the write up a little….
anyway, will check them out more carefully when I get a chance

you say the write is too slow – do you mean all the way to stanza 114?

love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

Don't go changin'. By slow I meant it was progressing at a slowly measured pace. Not too slow. That's why I felt it impossible to comment on story just yet because it has not effected enough change in itself (remember I haven't made it through it all yet... I "like" to read my poetry slow).

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

I am going to go through your story stanza by stanza so may be some time, though the first of I know it's poetry but I think these long pieces need an intro, not much just a brief history if history or real life it is.
I did the same for mine (Cata) but have since taken it off the more that people read.
What are your views on an Intro no matter how short ???
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

an introduction as that of a blurb of a book? maybe would be helpful to set the scene for the reader

but wesley tells me a good exposition and introduction will do this

I also, when using poetry, like to unravel the story for the reader

so, you can see – I am of two minds

I lean towards feeling it is not needed
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

thought I'd stick my two cents in. I understand the idea of an introduction, but I have a couple of problems with it. One of course is the idea that the poet's work SHOULD stand on its own. If one cannot write and be understood with the writing then something is missing in the writing.
So... when I was asked by friends to create a glossary and my Capitulare, I put up a serious squeal. "The poetry is on its own!" Blah, blah. When I created the glossary to explain some of the archaics used and the summary to describe the action in the individual canto, suddenly people read the damn thing. I mean, like, all the way through and liked it. So...
That's tough.
The other is the amount of time it takes. I'm not making enough progress on the big poem as it is, but give me ancillary pieces to contend with and the time is doubled. You understand that part.

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

Yes I suppose you are right, if the reader can't get into the story from the beginning then there is a problem with the write.
Stories like this, one that seem to reflect a personal life experience though, I feel that the author should take care that their works are interpreted with care.
I have written works short and long where others seem to feel sorry that I have been beaten as a child and many other things when the piece was fiction, where do we differentiate one from the other, we need to have some idea..
Maybe a fiction/fact box on the submission side..
Take care out there, Yours Ian.T
PS:- on this one Judy has put:- I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back..
This story seemed to come from the heart, and from something that had happened in the life of the author, so I for one treated it with a compassionate read...

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

I am not a person who wears her heart on the sleeve

I do not write for sympathy, but to share a story I think worth telling…

I don’t want a ‘compassionate’ review – an editor would not be so kind

thus the ‘I want the raw truth’ button is not pushed by any accident
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the emotionality of it, so let's talk about a story technique.
This is my exploration, so if it doesn't make sense or offer worth, I am the one to blame.

In my youth I was an actor (Equity card and the whole thing). I did a fair amount of directing and discovered through it something that the best stage shows had in common. I very quickly transferred this to literature, movies and of course, poetry.
It is this.
Like the Universe, a story needs to start from the smallest single component possible, expand from there evenly to depths only the storyteller can determine and then, evenly again, return to that very same smallest possible component utterly changed.
These are the stories that leave me the most satisfied for my journey.
This piece appears to be so personal that I have trouble discussing it with you, but as storytelling it is powerful and (most of all) complete.
All four of my elements are clearly defined.
Now, I will offer a suggestion. Again, this is mine and not something I have learned from reading the learned scholars that I spend time with.
This is how I clean up what I call "language clogs" that are difficult to find when reading and working the poem.

Memorize it.

Before you choke let me tell you that I am a man of only slightly above average intelligence and yet I have memorized Canto One through Sixty Two of my large poem over the last seven years. Approximately 20,000 verses. At around 16,000 I stopped trying to maintain it as it took too much time, but I still work my final draft of each canto through memorization. I am right now memorizing Book Two, Canto Eight which is only around 140 verses at present.
Just print out a section, stuff it in your pocket and mess with it through your day. Not only does it give you something to do while you are ignoring annoying people, but it gives you the opportunity to write away from your "desk" (don't forget to carry a pen).
If you try this, I guarantee you will be amazed at what it reveals.
I do not tend to memorize my little poems (I don't really know why). Had I done so, I would not have screwed up my octogram, but then the little ones have always been essentially just exercises to train my mind to better write Caco, Man of The Morning Star.

Judy, we both know the poem is marvelous and when I get over it, I may be able to tell you why.

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

thanks very much for the great comments and especially for letting me know that all the components are there – the exposition was my biggest worry… if I had it right or not

as for the personal side of it – please do feel free to say what you wish – I truly wouldn’t write this if I couldn’t take it…

I have added some stanzas - 108 – 124 – would appreciate your thoughts on those

as for memorising – lol – I carry the WHOLE poem around with me and constantly make little changes
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

thanks so much beau for the read and helpful comment - it's good to know that you found the pacing ok - to see any little discrepancies in one’s own work is one of the hardest thing i have found when writing in length
love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

I had forgotten how long it was. I wish I had your edits. Will begin again tonight and see what I can say that's different. Then read the small one and see how they relate.
By the way, my epic poem is over ninety canto long each averaging about four to eight hundred lines. So the length is glorious on your poem.

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

I look forward to your comments and suggestions

I have done the edits.... copied them in manually (lol not able to use the computer file on my tablet - there must be some way I can synchronise the two - I'll have to look into it) so I reckon there'll be some errors, as I'm too tired to check atm....
Part 1 is not yet complete - still things needing to be added...
Part 2 only consists of the beginning and end.... more yet to go in the middle....
And I've added the epilogue, so you wont have to go over to the other page...

Love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

to this little box.
I will endure. I can still scroll.
Okay, I reread the introduction (we call that a "protasis"). The rhythm is sweet don't mess with it.
I'll tell you what. I want to help with this poem and see what I can offer, but I'm going to pretend there is nothing "real" about it... I'm going to treat it like fiction and that will make it easier on me emotionally.
Is that cool?

Sometimes I seem to lose my place in the influx of metaphors (man, I wish I could do that... Claire is straight out and in the dirt... so to speak), but I always found my way.
On to part one with your permission.

Now, here is some reading materiel for you to "critique". It immediately follows the canto one you read (and liked!). It concerns a time, place and character out of the present flow of storyline. It stands alone and is mostly retrospection of a chief character just beginning to be used extensively.

You see, I tricked you. I brought you here again not only so I could play with your poem (something I've wanted to do for a while), but I've forced you to participate in my rough draft (I do hope you'll read it and comment).

Canto Two ~ The Age of Waste.
No living man now remembers though it lasted untold thousands of years. Due the absence of civilization on even a modest scale no records were kept. It was a time of forgetting. It was the punishment meted out to Mankind after their affront to the Essence and His Angels.
Princess Claire will not sing to her grandfather for seven thousand years.
The swordsman, known as Palan in this time, is abiding with one of the thousands of tiny bands of humans scraping to stay alive in the sand covered environment.

Canto Two

He’s belly down upon the sand
and stealthy crawls hand over hand.
Dim twilight beckons. Lizards bask
preparing for the long night’s task.

The heat of day, relentless, cruel 5
is peer to midnight’s frozen rule.

They gather warmth now while they may
to see them thru ‘til light of day
when once again they’ll try and hide
from scathing sun that shan’t subside 10
until the nightide falls again.
The cycle’s never ceasing zen
disturbed but when the life has failed.
Brutality is all entailed
and so it’s been millennia. 15

An Age of Waste and phobia.

The man is come to burdens lift
and brings a most desired gift.

In such a land, Death’s swift release
is precious and life’s only peace. 20

There is a broadsword on his back
and bound within an ancient sack
of unknown fabric masks its sheen.
In truth the weapon’s flawless, keen
and fearsome edge has not seen light 25
in generations, for the rite
‘twixt men that calls it forth revealed
is long uncommon. Men need steeled,
in such an Age as this extant,
against conventional torment 30
less man made in its origin.

Starvation is a vain doctrine.

And still ‘tis never past his touch,
though no one weens beneath the mutch
of aging textile all its lore 35
including he who fed it gore
of Angels and remembers not.

Thrice cursed the swordsman and begot
of murder, madness, loneliness.
No knowing left him to confess. 40

He moves so slow, it seems he’s not.
Shouldst startle them their speed is fraught
with weightlessness. He will not mark
the path they take. It is too dark.

He hunts alone and always has. 45
A man prosaic, yet whereas
his character seems unremarked,
the weapon, skills, e’en voice come harked
from dream like realms unfathomable.

His tunic’s paradoxical. 50
Its leather hardened as for war ~
a concept now extinct. Folklore
as spread throughout the hungry clans
have nary tale of battle plans
for Kingdom or her enemies. 55

Moreover, other mysteries
are there. The beast whose toughened hide
was sacrificed to thence provide
protection has not drawn a breath,
nor any of its like since death 60
had this distinct one overcome,
in more than two millennium.

He draws from out a pouch two reeds.
The darts within are toxic seeds
of cactus plant. Each sharpened spike 65
with care implant ere start the hike
that brought him to these level dunes.

It’s been two bleak and hungry moons
since meat was had. Of any sort.
The female and her pale escort 70
must weigh at least three pound apiece.
Their tails will hold a clabbered grease
that Maris will appreciate.

And now he settles down to wait,
the reeds held closely to his face. 75
The male will take a single pace
deciding where his mate will turn.

The sands are hot enough to burn
and still he does not move. No harms
to muscled, scarred and weathered arms 80
he thinks too much in this exchange.

Heat vapor tries to mar his range,
but he’s looked thru this veil before.
Uncounted times he’s followed spoor,
yet nothing but the skill remains. 85

Perhaps ten years are all that stains
his memory with clear detail,
but never does he fear to fail.

Tonight he brings six pounds of meat.
The male shifts to his fat, back feet 90
and so the hunter draws a breath.
A moment and a silent death.

Hearthstones will burn fraternal bright.
There will be much to share tonight.

~ ~ ~

Seth’s eyes are wide. “What do you hide?” 95
He knows. And now his smile is wide.
The hunter swears. “No beast of scale
nor marbled sinew in its tail
could hide beneath my arms to be
slow cooked on coal. Your wife must see 100
ere do your eyes, you famished fool.”

“Come now, be kind!” Seth whines as tool
is found too fast. Oh, all too fast
to skin the flesh he knows at last
will be his task. “Our hunter’s coup. 105
You never fail. What will I do
when she wants you much more than I?”

Coarse Pálan’s answer is a sigh
when Maris enters blushing bright.

“You are my only true delight, 110
but Pálan mustn’t think me cold.”

She hands Seth woven mats she’s rolled
and kisses him with tenderness.
Her smile is awe she can’t suppress
when Pálan gives to her the pair 115
of lizards without flaunt or flair.

Around about the open tent
the little tribe has caught the scent
of blood and gathers anxiously.
Old Docent lifts that she might see, 120
small Eva and gives her a wink.
“A celebration I should think.”

~ ~ ~

The sun sets beige this time of year,
the only sign that spring is near.

A seasonless and static land 125
of hot and cold. Few understand
the formlessness that represents
existence, angst that ne’er relents,
was once unknown. The rise and fall
of sun and moon did more than crawl 130
from one bleak day unto the next.

The man called Pálan sits perplexed
and knows in his sad, agéd mind
he should recall. He yet can find
no recollection past these days. 135
So quickly reminiscence greys.

He has no means to count a year,
for nothing like it passes here,
but rhythmically the suns still rise
and numbers he may realize. 140

Each day is tallied and though naught
of what each had consist is sought,
the numbers never fail. A score
now rote for him. A waning lore
of trauma scarred, forgotten weight. 145

This people he’s been with of late
could never hope to comprehend.
Disheartening they think him friend,
but how to clarify a tale
of such a vast, confusing scale. 150

‘Tis late and they are soon to eat.
He broods upon the fierce, white sheet
above and somehow trusts the stars
have little changed. He ponders Mars.

The pinprick red has ever been 155
reminding him of buried sin.
Some retrospection bears ripe fruit.
Broad pond’rings time will but dilute.

What had he done to gain this loss?
Engaoled alone in who’s cosmos? 160
These dunes are distant. Pálan stands
at dusk. Far out across the sands
he watches Maris and the camp
prepare the meal. The night feels damp.

A goodly sign though odd ‘twere thought 165
if not for what he’s found. The lot
of all the world is drought and death.
He draws a very lonely breath.

Dear Maris falls in love with him
and so he must depart. Though dim 170
and shrouded as all else, he once
had lost his heart. Absence
has caused the fondness grow despite
he cannot see her face tonight.

He kneels and wets a hand in spring 175
of salted water wondering
just how the sight will startle them.
A bit of joyful wrought mayhem.

This consecrated spring will be
salvation ‘gainst The Drying Sea. 180

Thru nigh one hundred thousand days
the man has wandered all the ways
of this o’er blighted world of dust.
The water trapped within its crust
would scarcely generate a fog. 185

He looks upon the pool agog
as will the rest, but close within
as often true, just ‘neath his skin,
he dwells on dreams conjectural.
This realm is not perpetual. 190

The world was once awash in life
and he had shared it with his wife.

Or was she? He cannot recall.
Such love they shared until… a Fall,
that moment lost in time as well. 195
He often wonders if his Hell
began in one fell instant lost.
And thence two thousand years of cost.

Scarce memories seem let to stay
that he may live from day to day. 200

Specifics buried under pain.

Climacteric beneath mundane.

The disconnected dreams recur
without he sense what they infer.
So haughty they and bellicose 205
to siege blest lands arboreous.

Did reason play a part in it?
To dare reclaim what they had quit.

In every dream, he questions all:
majestic gate, its mountain wall, 210
the plain whereon the winged horde
was led to die, their mighty Lord
bewildered at steel’s first advent.

If truth he weens ‘twas him who lent
the sinew ‘hind the first fell stroke. 215

The instant in which mind was broke
and heart relieved of clemency.
The rage of all Men Kind let free.

And far above, so distant seen,
its high boughs in clouds thin and lean 220
unheeding of the carnage wrought
beneath its spreading limbs of thought,
stands nascent green and white throughout
the only dream he does not doubt.

How can he know when all he’s dreamt 225
has changed profoundly all it’s meant.

How could sweet Maris understand
the beauty ere this Changing Land?

He can but misconstrue the scope
of what he was. How then to hope 230
that others may perceive what he,
enlightened thus, could never see.

Such fear he causes when his steel,
bright forged, undraped he would reveal.
He knows the means by which the smelt 235
of iron is accomplished. Pelt
of fur and walls of brick and stone.
Dunes hid beneath what men had grown.

And water falling from on high.
The sound of it to make men cry. 240

For all the Hells that he may seek,
for all he’s fled from lands antique,
what Demon keeps him fleeing blind?
Was this a choice? Is he Man Kind
or something baser even so? 245
He keeps no friend, he knows no foe.

Manslaughter is his withered soul.
Could he but know his cosmic role,
this cruel trepan, the God he hates
and slaughter bring to all The Fates. 245

“If Gods there are,” he whispers faint,
“allot the curse or save the saint.”

One hundred thousand days and one.
He holds no hope. He has been shun
by all but Death and yet ‘tis he 250
that Death desires least to be
released unto His final care.

By his own hand he cannot dare,
so Pálan wets again those hands
and drinks the blood of Changing Lands. 255

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

In my big poem I have this fantasy. This idea that I might actually publish it. It is fantasy, I don't dwell on it.
However, I have a trick I use through this "fantasy".
If I were actually offered the opportunity to do this thing the first item on the list would be to edit the shit out of it. Shrink it demonstrably. Break it to its literary bones. The thing is too long, too complex, just plain to much.
This is my poem we're talking about. I invite you to look at this poem the same way. There is sometimes too much. I know the problem. All is good. All fits. But there is still too much somehow.

Fiction remember please.

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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To quote Oscar Hammerstein - 'If you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?'

Do you have this write published on your site? I can't find it - can you give me the link?
or am i to crit it here?
sorry for not getting back earlier....
I'm rather busy with work atm, but i will spend some time with it over the next few days and get back to you.
I'm not sure how i can help.... perhaps if i start with where the meter stumbles for me, and where i feel you may be repeating yourself?
I've only had the chance to read it a couple of times, so please bear with me while i get my head around it - i promise I'll have some comment before the end of the week....

As for my write, if it helps you to crit it by treating it as fiction, please feel free.... it really doesn't stress me in any way - i was totally aware of my actions when hit the 'raw truth' button...

Love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

I would simply like you to read it and tell me these things:
First, it is a Romantic, Fantasy Adventure.
I don't want help with the poetry. I've had plenty of help in that respect and I'm loosening up my poetry, so it is not as strict in meter as it was.
What I want to know is it "romantic"? Not love romance, but fantasy romantic, adventure romantic.
I want to know if it is a story that can be followed.
The rough drafts I'll give you here on this thread are from Book Two, so you will be a bit confused, but I think you can follow... I hope you can follow.
Gotta go. More to say.

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

Definitely Romantic
the obvious hero with the beginnings of an inner struggle gives it away lol

And yes - very interesting and easy to follow
makes me want to find time to start at the beginning (and I will one day)

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

Here is the beginning... I won't make you read the rest of it.


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

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

The imagery was sound and invocative, but I had trouble with the liberties you took in meter. Some of it was too far off the beaten track.
I appreciate the progression as a story. We've had our exposition... I anxiously wait the complication.
Sorry I'm so slow at this.

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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