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A Season In Itself

It is the hour between
six and seven

With the soft
Steel
Drip

Of the broken
kitchen sink

The loose shutter
The wind is

Bang-banging
Against the house
Like a mad bird

That has yet to grow
Into its
Too big wings

But not loud
Enough to wake the kids

The silver bark is
Frozen
By the frigid air

While you turn
Firewood outside

Into splinters
and sticks
and slabs

Before the dog
Gets up
And does
Somersaults in the living room

Before the fire
Is made to roar
In the hoping fireplace

And everyone
Is down
For breakfast

As much as you'd like to
Don’t write another
Poem about spring
Or incandescence
The joy of warmth

The winter and innocence
And death

Think about this moment
In between seasons

How it is
A season in itself

Review Request (Intensity): 
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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: 

Comments

Nice, liked this a lot. Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

this a lot. I was a little puzzled with the form, as it detracted from the pattern and rhythm of it. I really think that you shouldn't break the thought into two pieces, because it makes you pause where you shouldn't. Sometimes, form should give way to the betterment of the poem. I think that it would be perfectly acceptable to have two or three lines, followed by as many as it takes to express the next thought. What is the [hoping], I will assume that you meant, hopping? I don't know as I would say a fireplace was hopping; it gives one the picture of a fire hopping out into the room. Maybe crackling, sizzling, bright? Nice title and it certainly fits the season. "A season in it's own". ~ Geezer

P.S. If this is a picture of your house in the morning, you are a lucky man!
.

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I don't know why with so many of your poems I think they are gems when you drop the first stanza.
Here In your first stanza you do not set up the poem, you make a simple declaration which is cliche
and is inherent in the feel of the poem:

Practice the art
Of loving
Where you are now

Just start it

With the soft
Steel
Drip

Of the broken
kitchen sink

The loose shutter
The wind is ....

it continues to a perfect end. A really nice feeling work. The poem is dreamy and poetic. The first stanza is not.

Eumolpus
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

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