There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear,
pecking at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.
The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel,
her darned stocking legs,protrude from the thread worn,
giant’s chair.
The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival
in pools of condensation on window sills that
miss the scrape of sandpaper and the gild of gloss.
Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed;
only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers.
In close proximity camphorated oil
warms to its nightly application.

The watcher loves the watched,
he understand that affection is currency,
spent on echoes of children gone before.
Regardless he squeezes hard against steel
and rests his head on a cardigan perch.



Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air,
one born of cigarette the other, solder.
The man peers over taped rimmed glasses,
through an eye piece,
into the circuit of an unwanted radio.
Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, both requiring gold leaf
and a steady hand.
Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions,
the lady sits in the adjoining room.
Reading light poised over the latest library card choice,
she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger
as the author’s words invoke raw emotion.

The watcher loves the watched;
he understands needing to be apart, together,
the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper.
Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.


Scribbled carbon lines,
crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks,
with a pencil behind his ear.
Separate by time and a devil driving delivery,
his wife traces lines for number games
and things tactile to touch.
The man’s youth is framed by the door;
he glances in rooms discussed before,
a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.

The watched loves the watcher;
he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed,
the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection.
Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted
with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.

i've been here a few times and was a little overpowered by it's size. it looks big. I'm not sure the line spaces are helping it.

(10-16-2012, 09:53 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  

There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear, pecking, at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.

Small ornaments resonate, shaking off dust in disgust at the volume caused by muffled hearing loss. i found this a bit confusing. (are hearing aids that powerful?)

The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel, her darned stocking legs, protrude from the thread worn, giant’s chair. this is a great line. some really good imagery., darned and thread work well together,

The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival in pools of condensation on window sills missing the scrape of sandpaper and seduction of gloss. a or the before seduction?

Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed; only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers. In close proximity camphorated oil sits warming to its nightly application. another solid, image. nicely done.

The watcher loves the watched, he understand that affection is currency, spent on echoes of children gone before. Regardless he squeezes hard against steel and rests his head on a cardigan perch.

***************

Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air, one born of cigarette the other, solder.

The man peers over taped rimmed glasses through an eye piece, into the circuit of an unwanted radio. Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, requiring, gold leaf and a steady hand.

Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions, the lady sits in the adjoining room.

Reading light poised over the latest library card choice, she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger as the author’s words invoke open emotion.

The watcher loves the watched; he understands needing to be apart, together, the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper. Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.

**************

Scribbled carbon lines, crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks, with a pencil behind his ear. so much to like about the image,

Separate by time and a devil driving delivery, his wife traces lines for number games and things tactile to touch.

The man’s youth is framed by the door; he glances in rooms discussed before, a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.

The watched loves the watcher; he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed, the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection. Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.

[/align]

i really really like this piece, i saw a couple of things which other's will hopefully mention but i've done my quota as far as the negative constructive feedback goes, but no probs, mostly it's just an odd nit. this is the best poem of yours i've read, so far, the images that are laced throughout it are excellent. i think it needs a really small edit but after that it'll be one of those keeper poems that people will come back to. the good things i marked up in the first part of the poem, are similar to to how i'd have marked up the rest of the poem. a very poignant piece

thanks for the read

(10-17-2012, 09:45 AM)billy Wrote:  i've been here a few times and was a little overpowered by it's size. it looks big. I'm not sure the line spaces are helping it.

(10-16-2012, 09:53 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  

There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear, pecking, at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.

Small ornaments resonate, shaking off dust in disgust at the volume caused by muffled hearing loss. i found this a bit confusing. (are hearing aids that powerful?)

The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel, her darned stocking legs, protrude from the thread worn, giant’s chair. this is a great line. some really good imagery., darned and thread work well together,

The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival in pools of condensation on window sills missing the scrape of sandpaper and seduction of gloss. a or the before seduction?

Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed; only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers. In close proximity camphorated oil sits warming to its nightly application. another solid, image. nicely done.

The watcher loves the watched, he understand that affection is currency, spent on echoes of children gone before. Regardless he squeezes hard against steel and rests his head on a cardigan perch.

***************

Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air, one born of cigarette the other, solder.

The man peers over taped rimmed glasses through an eye piece, into the circuit of an unwanted radio. Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, requiring, gold leaf and a steady hand.

Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions, the lady sits in the adjoining room.

Reading light poised over the latest library card choice, she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger as the author’s words invoke open emotion.

The watcher loves the watched; he understands needing to be apart, together, the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper. Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.

**************

Scribbled carbon lines, crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks, with a pencil behind his ear. so much to like about the image,

Separate by time and a devil driving delivery, his wife traces lines for number games and things tactile to touch.

The man’s youth is framed by the door; he glances in rooms discussed before, a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.

The watched loves the watcher; he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed, the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection. Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.

[/align]

i really really like this piece, i saw a couple of things which other's will hopefully mention but i've done my quota as far as the negative constructive feedback goes, but no probs, mostly it's just an odd nit. this is the best poem of yours i've read, so far, the images that are laced throughout it are excellent. i think it needs a really small edit but after that it'll be one of those keeper poems that people will come back to. the good things i marked up in the first part of the poem, are similar to to how i'd have marked up the rest of the poem. a very poignant piece

thanks for the read

Cheers Billy, I really enjoyed writing this one, funny how you have a nose for trouble (not a pig reference) the second line has changed three times and I still wasn't happy with it. I was trying to say the TV was that loud the budgie could have surfed the sonic thermals. I know its too big but wanted to cover three generations but I agree it would put me off. Line spacing is just wrong so will try and fix. Thanks for your comments.

a suggestion would be to say it how you wanted to say it