poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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Welcome to Poetry Critical, an online poetry workshop. To post your own poetry you'll need to create a user id by typing a name and password in the box above and hitting 'New User'. If you just want to critique or jump into the discussion, however, you can go ahead and get started!

Random Poem:

Painting canvas

I want to imitate those luminous sunsets,
unshaven of any blemishes
Amazingly colored with the distant reflection of
pinks, oranges, and plumb purples.
Esape into a blank canvas filled with those gorgeous colors.
The greens and ivy that show the tree blowing in the wind
swirled with colors
(that pocahantas in her cream glazed rags could revisit
and sing to us
in a beaming voice that called our name from the screen.)
Paint the flowers exactly as I see them
cascading across the soil
(infront of the house on the prarie)
screaming to be left alone
only to be picked and left to turn the brown of the bark encrusted tree.
Sketch the stout face with the pudgy nose
( bit of orange-red ketchup under the left corner of his thick crumb covered lips)
wrinkled from his years of children and grand children that played
(infront of his beige house )
and picked those screaming flowers leaving them to change.
I am only capable of writing the word sunset.
The only color it will receive is the black or blue ink of my pen
that will slide across a once blank and clean page and cover it with nicks and smudges
( I will wonder why my T is uncrossed and my S slides to the left)
Although I cant paint those blossoming flowers
(with their slits)
I can explain the caterpillar that met for lunch atop the petals.
Furily and slinkily left to curl up and return to our world as a dream.
The children will run and attempt to catch while
aweing at his amazing wings
covered in irridescent drops of rain.
(in years to come remmembering none of it.)
I may be without the artistry to sketch the thin  (young nor old ) coarse face
that holds more feeling than the little boy whom chased that butterfly.
(Never picking the flower up to his nose,)
which could have inspired his many dreams.
I am capable of explaining those beauty marks
(that can be seen but actually have to be looked at,)
on the man with the scar
who fought for our country but was never given appreciation from anyone.
(whom he held curiosity for)
Or his daughter who died days after his return from the war.
Her mourning makeup covering the patches of freckles.
(that laid across the brige of her nose.)
He saw them when he took her to the beach and the sun beat on her young face.
And those eyes
she held
(chocolate brown, golden mocha flecked )
that were deceived and hurt.
(from her dad leaving her to fight for us.)
I am without the ability to paint a showwork peice on a blankened canvas
(chalked up in you're back room)
but I was born with the technique to paint one in you're deluded mind.

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