"reviewers" poems
Every night
at 8:49
I tie the rope
a little bit tighter
in hope that
your last breath
squeezes closer
so when I say
‘Ladies and gentlemen’
my charm overrides the sound of
your palms banging on the glass
as you challenge the water from
making you its cadaver
and choke back the salted tears that
seep from your eyes
like the malice that
seeps from mine
reviewers say it’s clear that I
enjoy this trick the most
but it’s hard not to when I know
your lungs are the
consequence
of
a
dripping
tap
until the basin’s full and you reach your final centilitre of conscious breath at 8:56:02.
With one last tug
you escape by :03
unfortunately
but the papers will say it was your
‘most truthful performance yet’
5 Stars to The Water Torture Bell Jar.
See, there’s a reason these seats fill
as fast as your tank,
Irving and Houdini had it figured first:
if you push a body to its limits
and watch it yoyo to the edge of death and
back again night after night
you will always sell out.
There’s more to being a Magician’s Assistant than meets the eye.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try a new knot.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
Your audience awaits
Silent reviewers at their may
Their whispers cause the grass to sway
The fields of loneliness stay astray
Trying to mend the broken seams
The strings of life hang by a thread
Your silent words cannot be heard
So beg for mercy it’s on your hands
Please don’t show me signs of forgiveness
I’ll be just fine without it (I’ll be just fine)
I’d rather have thoughtless indulgence
So I hope you change your mind (Change your mind)
I can see the horizon breaking in the distance
The storms in the distance become vibrant (So vibrant)
I can’t believe what you’ve done
So I hope you change your direction (Your direction)
There seems to always be a fork in the road
Lets hope the decision you made was right
Don’t choke on your own guilt
Your lies are filled with filth
Gravity is the only thing holding you down
The violent winds can sense your fear
Your silent words cannot be heard
So beg for mercy it’s on your hands
Please don’t show me signs of forgiveness
I’ll be just fine without it (I’ll be just fine)
I’d rather have thoughtless indulgence
So I hope you change your mind (Change your mind)
I can see the horizon breaking in the distance
The storms in the distance become vibrant (So vibrant)
I can’t believe what you’ve done
So I hope you change your direction (Your direction)
I can’t believe what you’ve done
So I hope you change your direction (Hope you change your direction)
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
People rarely
ever see anything
Unless it JUMPS at them.
They have to be shocked and
Notified to what’s in front
Of their own faces
“Oh excuse me, sir or ma’am
But you’re looking at something good
Something worth reading.”
A poem is never really appreciated as much
As when it is printed and bound
And stamped with the publisher’s seal of approval
All the papers need to be water marked
And bound in red tape
Closed with red wax
Locked in an envelope
That reads
“Confidential, this is too great
To let others see for free.”
And even then, it’s not official
Until it is signed on the x,
And made on legal sized paper;
Sent to the Vatican, the governor, the reviewers,
And everyone important gets their say,
Or until it’s bound in leather
And locked away for the rest of eternity.
Filed along the other masters
Like Longfellow and Poe.
Locked in a poem’s heaven
Where “Jabberwocky” greets each one
To nirvana
Nothing is taken for granted
When it’s set in stone and
Is the final draft
Never to change again.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 12:19 PM UTC
while it is understood...
and probably
goes without saying
that everyone
as the saying goes
is a critic
most self appointed reviewers
fail to realize that
Poetry exists in the mind
belonging to the thinking subject... rather than
to the object of thought
Poetry is personal... placing emphasis on one's own moods
and attitudes... funky or otherwise...
you love it...
or you hate it...
you read it...
or you do not read it...
it does nothing to you.. or
hits a sweet spot
ignites or dampens a fire
permeates the soul
takes root... and
stays with you
for such a time as it is needed
to brighten your day...
luxuriate in solitude...
commemorate a love... or
accentuate a hate
Poetry
is abstract... illusory... instinctive... relative
to where one is at the time...
and therefore
not open to
editorial examination...
or critique
...I'm just sayin
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Book Reviewers: Stop Unpacking!
You unpack the words, you unpack the lines
You unpack the themes, you unpack the scenes
You unpack the hints, you unpack the signs
You unpack the beats, you unpack the means
You unpack the forms, you unpack the rhymes
You unpack the plot, you unpack the verse
You unpack the memes, you unpack the times
You unpack everything and make it worse!
With some exasperation I ask of you -
Just what does all this unpacking DO?
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 10:19 PM UTC