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If you read somebody’s poem and it makes you want to say,
“I think this piece is wonderful; it really made my day,”
just go ahead and say it – feedback like this is good,
but saying why you like it will please them (well, it should).

If someone that you don’t know says, “Please comment on my writing,”
and you look at it, and find it … let’s say, rather unexciting,
then don’t forget – be tactful, find something good to say
before you start on finding fault – don’t ruin someone’s day.

And if you think it’s terrible, be careful how you speak.
Some people write as therapy; their life may be quite bleak.
Don’t be too harshly critical and leave them feeling worse,
but simply go to look elsewhere, and just ignore their verse.

Some poems, though, may leave you with a puzzle or a question,
or even make you want to give some tentative suggestion.
There’s nothing wrong with doing this – just get it off your chest,
but don’t think your ideas are necessarily the best.

With members, though, who claim they are God’s gift to Poesy,
(if there’s nothing to commend them as far as you can see)
you can state your own opinion – of course you have the right –
but don’t forget the golden rule: *be honest but polite.
I have to confess, I wrote this one some tme ago for a different site, where it was boringly common for people to ask you to comment their writing, without commenting the other person's first, which explains the somewhat grumpy two stanas now deleted.  The principle, however, still stands.
If you want to make suggestions, etc., as in stanza 4,  it is by far the best to do this by private message, so that you don't appear to be setting yourself up as some kind of authority.
These children
round-eyed
absorbing what the world offers them
or silently wandering in their own
imagination
must lose their innocence and grow
older but not necessarily wiser.
If I wanted to write a poem for you, what would I write about?
   - Better not go too far
Other eyes than yours may sparkle
    - Better be very careful  
Other lips may smile
     - Better not say too much
Other cheeks may blush
      - Better not seem to have said too much
Other names may have music in them
       - Better say nothing at all
But my poem would not be for others; it would be for you
        - Better not even consider it
So this is just to say, this is not a poem
        - But it could have been.
From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do?
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save.

I have always known
that you feel it,

but now,
so do I.
As some of you will know well, I didn't write the original version of this one.  Very sadly, I am no longer in contact with the writer, so I can't get agreement or permission to use it.
Nobody's perfect,
but you come pretty close.
Or if that's too many words,
just stop at four.
("Nobody's perfect but you.")

That's what I said at first,
but then I thought – No.
It's literally true.
Nobody
is
perfect.

Especially you.

Because the more I get to know you,
the more imperfections I find,
and your imperfections
are what makes you ...
... well, you.

And loving you
as I do,
perfect or imperfect,
then I love your imperfections.
They are, after all, what make me feel
you are perfect.

Why can't there be some language
that says what I really want to say?

Ah, but there is one.
There is such a language.
It's Poetry.
I saw you last night
in your bath
playing
singing
preparing for bed
three years old

as the camera approached
I saw in close-up
to the depths of your eyes
your deep­­­
­­­­deep-brown eyes
and caught a glimpse
into your soul

but after hearing you sing
so innocent
so spontaneous
so free
so absolutely
so essentially
you  
I know that for me
Incy
Wincy
Spider

can never be the same again
HOT
Blistering hot the other day
Humid heavy air
I prayed to the heavens
For more pleasant weather
And I thank the Lord
For making it cooler
And more bearable
Praise the Lord
You answered my prayers
Everywhere I go
Everybody wants to know
"Where's the lady"
They all ask
I answer, hiding behind a mask
Of smiles and laughs,
And say to them:
"She's gone, she won't be back again;
I don't care"
And shrug my shoulders.
But now my life is so much colder
I walk alone, the crowded streets
And tell my tale to friends I meet
Then I turn, walk on with the truth
With tear-filled eyes
I think of you
Water  rushing  down  the  drains.
And  through  windswept  country  lanes.

Trees  brushing  water  away  with  their  leaves.
Birds  sheltering  under  the  eaves.

Pools  on  the  lawn  appear.
It,s  a  dreadful  night  I  fear.

Pitch  black  little  to  see.
A  new  day  may  set  us  free.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
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