I don't know what I would do, but I would do it at the DMV because they
always seem to make the day a lot longer...

Dare I say her name for the wind could catch it
And carry her name for 1000 years, never to return.
I will try its touch on my lips,
The word, beautiful as a dream catches my breath.
The name, as splendid as it is, cannot come close
To matching her enchanting beauty.
A beauty that is told in fairy tales of old.
I savor the time we spend together for she gives
A piece of her heart in everything she does.
I only hope to grasp a small part of her heart
Being content with the smiles and laughter
She is so willing to share with the world.
As the birds sing a joyous song,
I am again reminded of her,
For the birds can catch her name in the wind
And the birds, so willing to make the world happy,
Loan me her name to be used in a time of sadness.
For when she is away I do feel the pain
A pain so deep that only Romeo knows its name.
Since I have meet her I notice the desolation
Of the world has been lifted.
Color has been added to the rainbow
Like a circus day filled with vibrant balloons.
I no longer seem to be locked in the cell
Waiting for the bells to toll, marking
The passing of time with a mere scratch.
I now get to watch the butterflies soar
Above the children playing in the park.
While I dine on the festivity called life.
I know she, once upon a time, has cried
For I have seen the perfect rose.
A rose that can only grow from her tears,
And from her tears I have found life.
And I shall call upon Excalibur to protect
This angel of mercy from ever seeing sorrow,
Because she is an angel who carries this name.

I would like to hear what some of your favorite poems might be.
Here is one of mine:

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I never said everyone would enjoy every piece. Although William Carlos
Williams is in the literary canon, I don’t like some of his works, but
again that’s an opinion and not a criticism.

I have been to book readings where the author is in attendance, and I
will say he does want to hear what is good and what is bad.

The critic should appraise what is read. Much like a car should be
appraised for value. Just to say a car is crap is not criticism, to say
the car needs a paint-job is criticism.

Yes, a writer can pass sour grapes when told they have no talent, but to
praise what is written and to praise talent are two different things.
For example, Hemingway is considered one of the best American authors,
but when asked about his poetry critics said he sucked, but that does
not mean he has no talent.

Some writers can’t handle “unsavory comments” and others can. You can
say all of my writing sucks, but I would want you to give me reasons so
I can fix or explain why I wrote it like I did. The world needs critics
and we on this form are no different. If you see a way for me to improve
my writing, please tell me, but if you say it is garbage and leave it at
that…is that really criticism or just an opinion?

“It is not necessary to be a skilled craftsman to criticize one,s [sic]
actions... especially artistic merit.”

I believe if you read Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Criticism, you might
see that your statement is not supported.

“While in college I had to take a class in creative writing, in which I
developed an appreciation for poetry.”

So, you took “one” class in creative writing and you learned to have an
appreciation of poetry. Does this mean you have learned all types of
poetry? What exactly do you appreciate in poetry? Do you like rhyme
schemes, rhetorical accents, iamb, trochee, couplet, closed couplet,
stanza, ottava rima, or the figurative language? Please elaborate to
give me an understanding of your appreciation.

”I go to readings here in L.A., and occasionally San Francisco and New
York. I do not claim to be a professional critic... but I know senseless
dribble when I read it.”

I can tell you’re not a professional critic or any other type, for you
do not appraise, which is what a critic does. Define “senseless dribble”
and how it pertains to poetry. I am a little confused on your use since
you do not support its use.

”It is a waste of time to get nasty with the critic... if you want
people to cheer about the worthless... start paying... otherwise, be
happy a critic took the time to read your writings.”

I believe Pope, John Dryden, John Milton, Dante, Horace, and many other
writers would argue with you about it being a waste of time to get nasty
with critics, and I am on their side. The only thing that is worthless
on the forms is unsubstantiated and unsupported criticism. I believe all
the writers on the form would love to have a critic look over their
work, but that has yet to happen.

Nice poem about rebirth through resurrection. I have never thought about
being born through death. I like the concept...

There are different types of criticism: new criticism, reader response,
deconstructive, historical, postcolonial, cultural, psychological,
feminist, and Marxist. If you claim to be a critic, please refer to one
of the above methods of criticism, because “what,” “I don’t understand”
and “huh” are neither part of the critical process nor a sign of someone
skilled in the art of criticism.

The good thing about poetry is the imagery used contributes as much to
the meaning as the words, but one must have an imagination for this
process to work. Percy Shelley once wrote, “Poetry, in a general sense,
may be defined to be ‘the expression of the imagination.’” Due to
ethnocentrism, please forgive me I know the need to keep this in its
simplest form; everyone has their own imagination. The essence of a poem
is the different meaning to those who read and create meaning of the
poem.

You say an artist “will” be criticized, but can the critic be criticized
as well? I can say your criticism holds no argument because you have
neither supported nor defined your criticism, which leaves me to believe
that your criticism is in actually an attack of the writing and not
criticism.

A sadness encompasses me
My time is coming to an end
I look at my tattered armor.
And realize the battle has taken
All that I could give.
I am not sure if there is anything left of me
All the scars are on the inside away from life.
As I lie here looking up into the sky
I wonder if this is how it is going to end.
If I close my eyes will it be forever?
I have fought this battle many times
And now I wonder if I can win again.
I now have thoughts of failure
And this failure will cost me my life.
As the pounding starts again
I don’t know if I can take the pain.
I am at the crossroads of my mind
The path to freedom
Is nowhere in sight.
As it starts to rain I welcome it.
The rain is a friend that hides the tears
So outside appearances is well
While inside the battle rages on.
There is no glory
There is no winner
Only salvation.

As the daylight broke into the dawn,
I walked across the dew filled lawn.
Leaving my tracks fresh and new,
While the sky seemed amazingly blue.
The birds sang in a cheerful song,
And the appealing notes they held so long,
Let me know that I belong.

And in their song I believe I hear,
The name of someone that is so dear.
This might have been a longing desire,
But the source of this I could not acquire.
Seemingly to float on the edge of the wind,
As I watch leaves twirl and the limbs bend.
It is a hand the trees lend,

Pointing towards the path I must travel,
I take the path in hope it will unravel.
The mystery that builds upon my mind,
Not knowing who or what I will find.
I know this path will lead to the end,
Wishing to see the message it will send.
It was time to begin.

Along the path I meet an elegant fairy,
She is not what I thought, on the contrary.
She wore wisps of silk, around her hair,
If I said she was striking I would not be fair.
She held sweet flowers of a spring bouquet,
Looking as beautiful as a bride on her day.
With nothing to say,

I throw my arms up in sweet surrender,
For her touch is warm and tender.
I learn this is not my paths end,
Instead I am to travel forward again.
Before I go, the fairy whispers to me,
Of all the things I should come to see.
“Be true to thee,

And you shall see what is meant for you.
I know by this time you have not a clue,
But always remember what is in your heart,
This is the only place you will find true art.”
So I leave the fairy with sadness and regret,
To travel this wonders path and not forget,
My hearts debt.

I am not yet in love,
I totter on the brink,
I am not yet in love,
It might take a wink.

Her hold is getting stronger,
Her eyes hold me tight,
Her hold is getting stronger,
How come it feels so right?

I am not yet in love,
I can hold off awhile,
I am not yet in love,
It might take a smile.

She whispers in my ear,
She makes me yearn,
She whispers in my ear,
Something in me turns.

I am now very much in love,
I no longer have to lie,
I am now very much in love,
It shall last until I die.

That is what it's for...to have a laugh and this is the only time it can
be funny ;)

Something happened during the night,
And I don’t know what I did,
But from across the table looking at me
It looks like she wished I were dead.
Her eyes were blazing hot as the sun
Her mouth was set and grim.
I could tell by the lack of a voice
The trouble I was in.

I thought about what was said
And I came up with a blank.
I am a loving person you can tell,
And you know that I am being frank.
The demon came out when she spoke
And I had no protection from the wrath.
Seems in the night her ass should meet,
Water— because of the toilet seat.

As I sit out of the way, at the corner café,
Away from the ocean, but close to the bay,
I remember clearly, afternoon, not gloom,
The different flowers blossomed, or bloom,
Along a scant breeze, I saw the leaves, bend,
By the soft gentle wind, a message it did send,

On the breeze was a perfume, from slight lass,
Came from a wonders pass, sharp as slivered glass,
The perfume with a story, which is a mystery,
Of a lovely lady, who once lived in my history,
She’s beautiful; with no compare, against I dare
Mutter a word in shame, or the wrath I share,

But absent she went, with her beautiful scent,
I am not worrisome, for the memory she lent,
Brings to my mind, of a unique long ago time,
When she was my true love, and I in my prime,
We would dance, dance, might have been a prance,
With all the natives, giving us an extended glance,

Now it comes from the west, little harder at best,
In the breeze there’s a sound, a beat then a rest,
Do I believe my ears, to hear what it was bringing?
A female soprano singing, the melody a ringing,
How long I have forged, into the echoing gorge?
For song of long ago reminding of mother’s storge,

Gentle like from above, flying on a winged dove,
Singing like an angel, whispering words of love,
A song from when a lad, not yet exceedingly bad,
Before I broke her heart, made her all too sad,
Now I am the sad one, for not being the good son,
And forever her love is gone, and I now have none,

The wind now from the ocean, causing sick motion,
As I watched the sailors weep, without their potion,
On the ocean that windy day, Mother Nature I did pay,
For the winds awesome waves, on the boat I did sway,
But on the old wooden ketch, the fish net I did fetch,
For all the large fish, on the day was a massive catch,

Truthful as the sunny sky, this is not a fisherman’s lie,
We caught all the fish in the ocean, ay, might be shy,
With day long gone, and the memory of the dawn,
Time to set forth into the night, with ropes drawn,
The shackles hoist the canvas sails, in search of tall tales,
Looking to meet the man, swallowed by the white whale,

When the bright moon rose into the sky so soon
Topping out over the sandy, sea oat filled dune.
It was in the twilight, after the windy daylight,
That brings the chills, of a cold crystal night,
The day did not extend, and met its woeful end,
This spring day, I will miss like a long lost friend.

As I sit out of the way, at the corner café,
Away from the ocean, but close to the bay,
I remember clearly, afternoon, not gloom,
The different flowers blossomed, or bloom,
Along a scant breeze, I saw the leaves, bend,
By the soft gentle wind, the message it did send.

All it means is: eating spicy foods before bed sometime causes weird
dreams...and this one is weird...not real but weird.

I dreamed there were a monkey, a flea and 2 white mice
Sitting on the corner shooting dice.
When the monkey did a back flip and landed on the flea,
And the flea started singing there's a monkey on me.
Then the monkey climbed a tree with a green tambourine,
And started singing the yellow submarine.
The 2 white mice started singing along
when the flea brought out a Chinese gong.
The flea hit the gong with a short tailed cat
Instead of a boom the cat went splat.
The 2 white mice ran up a tree,
And yelled at the flea to leave them be.
This did not seem right,
So no more pizza for me at night.

Hi CCP,
I like your writing as well. I have been going back and looking at what
I have missed...I have found a lot of good works by you...

Thank you for your kind words...I am glad you get it...

I woke up this foggy morning
With a tattoo across my ass.
I hope it is a beautiful name,
Of a lovely but foreign lass.

When I looked into the mirror
What do you think I seen,
But a name that did not know,
Ring a bell or even mean thing.

The fog of the booze started—
To lift and clear my hurting mind.
When the events of the night
Last past started to rewind.

I remember words of happiness
And tender words of love.
And this is where it started
For I remember the latex gloves.

I remember getting naked
While the music played so loud.
She had golden blonde hair
Soft as a heavenly cloud.

I was looking in the mirror
At the name that looked like this.
“Relley Dlo” I still don’t know,
But I can remember the kiss.

There came a brutal knock,
Upon my wood front door.
Standing there was a massive man
Someone that you can’t ignore.

I asked him what he wanted,
And with a twinkle in his eye.
I want my shirt I left last night,
Was his gentle, sly reply.

I never seen this man before,
But he seemed like a nice feller.
I asked about his name,
And he said Old Yeller.

Sheets bellow in the wind — white.
Your head resting, soft pillow.
Eyes shut slowly as dreams await
Connection made for the night.

My soul prepares to travel,
As it comes to you tonight.
My soul will join your soul,
To Tango throughout the night.
My soul will whisper words of love,
And a smile will grace your face.
Your cheeks will have a rosy glow,
As your heart starts to race.

My soul will place a tender kiss,
As not to wake you from your sleep.
On your lovely lips you will
Feel a memory you can keep.
A memory that you can see
Is real beyond all your dreams.
Our souls are lovers for the night
It’s a lovers passion so extreme.

I slide into my satin sheets — Silky.
I shut my eyes slowly as dreams await
Connection made for the night.