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Jan 21, 2016
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Sounds That Creak in the Night
As Autumn draws its windows closed to change
I find myself reflecting on my blight
and wishing days will never bring the light
as hopes and dreams flee farther out of range
When feelings are nothing short of deranged
as gods and demons stage a war of fright
to clench my heart before they take my sight
and leave me with a body gone estranged
While Winter's gales no longer fill the sails
and random rains assail the purest snow
the sun shall rise on things you shall not know
and hold you from the calm of midnight's rails
As the moon no longer hoists its shadow hails
and suns have put away their angel's glow
there are visions these eyes will never show
for they are buried deep in memoirs jails
About This Poem
Style/Type: Structured: Western
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?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft
Comments
Eduardo Cruz
9 years 5 months ago
Death is a beautiful thing,
Death is a beautiful thing, looked at in these terms.
this is illustrated so perfectly, I could see every image you created here.
Bravo!!
The pace is in such a melancholy tone. I hear sadness, regret, and see joy in the sun"s foregone light.
I was captured in the plight of the protagonist.
WOW!!
Thank you for sharing this wonderful work!
Eddie C.
eightmenout
9 years 5 months ago
Eddie
Thank you for stopping by and giving it a read. I am glad that you enjoyed it.
Esker
9 years 5 months ago
passionate intense..
I was reworking lines....
but I do that and realize that
everyones tapesty is theirs
like knitting of all things
mostly because my mother knit
a lot..we wore her sweaters
warm
my ex's liked them
and today at the catholic charities
for food for my partner and I
they had the childrens mittens
still woven in the fifties pastels
such is our little town..or city!
the last line caught me and I read
your line but saw
"Memory Jails"
and I realize what happened to me
a lot
the only way to get me to toe the line
was to cast parts of my happiness
or joy or anger in these
It relates well to BF Skinners experiments
with isolation
like centrifuges of exertion
removing
the basic elements of emotional
matter
about what happened to me
and the containment was the
"jails"
sounds heavy and it was
centrifuges are an instrument
that exist
but I never thought of it this way
until your poem
very interesting and informative
there is water......back to our origins
before our emergence as man and beast
to this day the singing of the creek
near and far in our fair city I admire
and love....day time...night time
Her voice...for me the water is
feminine..is always there..
sweet soft the murmur complex
an original compassion
not the stressed taut singing wires
of wind that bore down upon
me like a detonation
lessons learned
for poor behaviour
I survived the blast
the burn of its radation
sinking deep
I studied poetry
to understand
its leap
"my ghost
is my foe"
Esker~2016
thank U
eightmenout
9 years 5 months ago
Thank you, Sir
For stopping by and taking the time to comment. As always, your words are appreciated and ring true in darkness and light.