as far as the floor line goes removing any of the modifiers would help--so sure.

Best,

Todd

Loretta, choice what you like. I find essence of his soul a bit overwrought but that may just be my personal bias.

Don't feel pushed to rush it let the edit form naturally.

Hi Todd: I found most of your suggestion right and made the changes; I can't help loving the irony, at that place, of "dressed to kill". The wolf, or whatever evil, waits for a place, to enter, is my spiritual perspective. In terms of the wolf sucks what, laughing, I do think that could be improved and am thinking about it; I would like to keep that line with a break to. Thanks much Todd, all input is sincerely appreciated, Loretta

---

(05-23-2014, 11:26 AM)Todd Wrote:  Loretta, choice what you like. I find essence of his soul a bit overwrought but that may just be my personal bias.

Don't feel pushed to rush it let the edit form naturally.

---

A man in black repenting of a Kindom lost; would not the soul repeat this theme?

Hi Loretta,

Minor call out:

of the wolf who awaits, for
a fearful weeping place,

The "for" is a weak break it may be better on the second line

of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,

Best,

Todd

Thanks Todd; did change it; two different sounds; awaits a fearful or awaits for a fearful;
Loretta

Hi, thanks Todd; your suggestions were good and i used them; still, going with dressed to kill, heck, I thought of it before I realized it was a cliche. Loretta

(05-25-2014, 04:59 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  Hi, thanks Todd; your suggestions were good and i used them; still, going with dressed to kill, heck, I thought of it before I realized it was a cliche. Loretta

It's less problematic for me because you mean it in a literal sense.

Thanks Todd: I couldn't part with it; do I now consider this a wrap; no more wolf in my head? Loretta

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair,
dressed to kill, in a suit of hair.
This wolf has supernatural flair,
to tear the baggage of despair,
now free, invades the musty air.

The man begins to pace,
and pace,
his heartbeat is a loosing race.i might would have used grace instead. I think the meanings are similar, and I like the alliteration with gall.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall, wall and gall don't work for me
his head spins and races another reason to get rid of "race"
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits, [a wolf keeps it flowing better. I assume this is something to do with werewolf lore, certainly there's more than one [/b]
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

ohhhh, part of the story is missing. The best part.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair:
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

(05-25-2014, 12:18 PM)Qdeathstar Wrote:  

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair,
dressed to kill, in a suit of hair.
This wolf has supernatural flair,
to tear the baggage of despair,
now free, invades the musty air.

The man begins to pace,
and pace,
his heartbeat is a losing race.i might would have used grace instead. I think the meanings are similar, and I like the alliteration with gall.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall, wall and gall don't work for me
his head spins and races another reason to get rid of "race"
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits, [a wolf keeps it flowing better. I assume this is something to do with werewolf lore, certainly there's more than one [/b]
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

ohhhh, part of the story is missing. The best part.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair:
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

---

Hi Q; Thanks for commenting and your help. Of course the hearts race refers to tachycardia which is common for despair; and you're right about using race too much; just am wondering if grace fits: "his heartbeat is a loosing grace": not sure if it's what I'm getting at in the physical manifestations of despair, but would like to hear other opinions.
Gall is one of the things the stomach produces in distress and is very volitile; can you tell me why wall and gall don't work; I do need to learn. Thanks for replying. Best. Loretta

"loosing race": I think you want losing.

As to race/grace, ask yourself why you chose race. Look up the many definitions for grace and see if they work better with your intent. If they do chose grace. If they don't stay with race.

Sometimes, a good suggestion will move you in a new direction you hadn't though of, but its important for that change to better express what you were getting at with the original.

Best,

Todd

(05-25-2014, 08:51 PM)Todd Wrote:  "loosing race": I think you want losing.

As to race/grace, ask yourself why you chose race. Look up the many definitions for grace and see if they work better with your intent. If they do chose grace. If they don't stay with race.

Sometimes, a good suggestion will move you in a new direction you hadn't though of, but its important for that change to better express what you were getting at with the original.

Best,

Todd

---

Hi Todd: I can't find one thing that would conform grace to a stressed heartbeat! However, I could eliminate the first two lines; I felt the stanza needed an introduction and not sure I like it anyway; then I could use, his heartbeat is a (running, losing) pace, or his heart beats at a record pace; I think I could lose the first line; there are too many pace and race I think. Thanks Todd, Best Loretta

---

(05-25-2014, 10:42 PM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  

(05-25-2014, 08:51 PM)Todd Wrote:  "loosing race": I think you want losing.

As to race/grace, ask yourself why you chose race. Look up the many definitions for grace and see if they work better with your intent. If they do chose grace. If they don't stay with race.

Sometimes, a good suggestion will move you in a new direction you hadn't though of, but its important for that change to better express what you were getting at with the original.

Best,

Todd

---

Hi Todd: I can't find one thing that would conform grace to a stressed heartbeat! However, I could eliminate the first two lines; I felt the stanza needed an introduction and not sure I like it anyway; then I could use, his heartbeat is a (running, losing) pace, or his heart beats at a record pace; I think I could lose the first line; there are too many pace and race I think. Thanks Todd, Best Loretta

---

Hi, not happy at all with the second verse; certainly grace does not fit. Thanks for the advice. Best, Loretta

I imagine a heart beat to be graceful when working properly. A beautiful graceful mechanism. And tachycardia as a miss fire of the mechanism.

---

*ah, a losing race.

His heartbeat is losing grace.

---

*shrugs*

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack, A lonely shack. "the" is too definitive, too soon. This is a sentence so end it with a period
inside, a trembling man in black Capital letter to start.
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross No comma but end with a semicolon
repenting, of a Kingdom lost. repenting FOR
He's brought his baggage of despair, I do not know what this means but if you do then tell me in the poem
dressed to kill, in a suit of hair. Though suit of hair makes you sound like a rhyme whore I myst say you have made your own bed with this rhyme scheme...or as we are talking wolf here, how DID you miss "lair"?
This wolf has supernatural flair,
to tear the baggage of despair,
now free, invades the musty air. You tenaciously pursue gobbledygook and I am not going to suggest any alternative here because a) It's not my job and b) I have no idea what you are trying to say

The man begins to pace, Sublimely ridiculous line break.Why do it? I can see, though, that we are in for a plethora of paces and that is more troublesome. The man through fear begins to pace. Your poem
and pace,
his heartbeat is a loosing race. His heartbeat CANNOT be a race! His heartbeat pounds in losing race....or something
His stomach bleeds acidic gall Absolutely not. Gall is an alkali...you are outside your comfort zone now
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces Just dreadful, loretta. You are much better than this. Races races faces paces paces race pace. Start again with this stanza or give yourself a fighting chance and drop this crippling rhyme scheme. You have almost given up anyway.
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will: Pure gobbledygook achieved. Grammar unremittingly dire, esoteric phrases (for a fearful weeping place? Huh?) Why the capital after the colon? Read this stanza out loud and if you think it makes easy reading can I recommend Professor Stanley Unwin to you.
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill. How can an hour kill? I am going to go away and take a five minute accident.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn. Though over-contrived I can read drama in to this on a good day. It is not new, it is not even uncommon, but I can join with your thinking here...except that clocks don't approach dawn unless travelling east. Again, not precise enough. Just calm down and think what you are writing...or tell me to piss 'orf pedantic pratt
Unknowing of the violent storm AAARRRGGGHHHH! COMMA!
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon, AAAARRRGGGHHHH! NO COMMA!
a battered shell of man Now you can be definitive....we KNOW it is THE man..not just ANY man. We have been introduced. The battered shell of the man.
sprawled across a chair: No.Period. I may have said this before but you do not put a capital letter after a colon, semicolon or comma.
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair. Triumphant end. In keeping. A sentence. Read it. The hour of the wolf the depth of living hell and our despair. Oh how true.[b]

[b]Harsh? Maybe....but I think you are worth it.
Best,
tectak


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

(05-26-2014, 06:02 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  

(05-26-2014, 12:50 AM)tectak Wrote:  

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack, A lonely shack. "the" is too definitive, too soon. This is a sentence so end it with a period
inside, a trembling man in black Capital letter to start.
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross No comma but end with a semicolon
repenting, of a Kingdom lost. repenting FOR
He's brought his baggage of despair, I do not know what this means but if you do then tell me in the poem
dressed to kill, in a suit of hair. Though suit of hair makes you sound like a rhyme whore I must say you have made your own bed with this rhyme scheme...or as we are talking wolf here, how DID you miss "lair"?
This wolf has supernatural flair,
to tear the baggage of despair,
now free, invades the musty air. You tenaciously pursue gobbledygook and I am not going to suggest any alternative here because a) It's not my job and b) I have no idea what you are trying to say

The man begins to pace, Sublimely ridiculous line break.Why do it? I can see, though, that we are in for a plethora of paces and that is more troublesome. The man through fear begins to pace. Your poem
and pace,
his heartbeat is a loosing race. His heartbeat CANNOT be a race! His heartbeat pounds in loosing race....or something
His stomach bleeds acidic gall Absolutely not. Gall is an alkali...you are outside your comfort zone now
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces Just dreadful, loretta. You are much better than this. Races races faces paces paces race pace. Start again with this stanza or give yourself a fighting chance and drop this crippling rhyme scheme. You have almost given up anyway.
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will: Pure gobbledygook achieved. Grammar unremittingly dire, esoteric phrases (for a fearful weeping place? Huh?) Why the capital after the colon? Read this stanza out loud and if you think it makes easy reading can I recommend Professor Stanley Unwin to you.
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill. How can an hour kill? I am going to go away and take a five minute accident.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn. Though over-contrived I can read drama in to this on a good day. It is not new, it is not even uncommon, but I can join with your thinking here...except that clocks don't approach dawn unless travelling east. Again, not precise enough. Just calm down and think what you are writing...or tell me to piss 'orf pedantic pratt
Unknowing of the violent storm AAARRRGGGHHHH! COMMA!
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon, AAAARRRGGGHHHH! NO COMMA!
a battered shell of man Now you can be definitive....we KNOW it is THE man..not just ANY man. We have been introduced. The battered shell of the man.
sprawled across a chair: No.Period. I may have said this before but you do not put a capital letter after a colon, semicolon or comma.
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair. Triumphant end. In keeping. A sentence. Read it. The hour of the wolf the depth of living hell and our despair. Oh how true.[b]

[b]Harsh? Maybe....but I think you are worth it.
Best,
tectak


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

---

Hi tectak: gall: something bitter or severe. Quite. NOT acidicThe man brings in his internal baggage of despair, which is the wolf within. Loretta Then say so in the poem by showing not telling

tectak: I thought I did show it but I will go back and do better. Thanks. Loretta

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 4)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a supernatural wolf rules there.
There is no exit from
himself, no place to run.
Is his repentance any hope,
his desperate prayer
for his despair, he thinks.

Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),
with tearing claws and gripping jaws;
rips apart the baggage of despair, which
mingles freely, with the musty air.
The man stomps
up and down
and round and round,
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears.
He throws his hands up to his Lord,
then vomits on the wall and floor.
His heartbeat pounds and roars.
His head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.
Wounds incurred
that steal his breath, his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon;
a battered shell of man, open eyed,
sprawled in disarray across a chair.

The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell,
and our despair.




The Hour of the Wolf (edit 3)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair.
He's torn by the tearing claws
tormented by the gripping jaws.




Surreal voices pierce his ears
that fuel the fires of his fears.

His heartbeat is a frantic pace.
His head begins to spin and race,
to memories and faces;
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows of
the vomit stained floor.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes,
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell
and our despair.





The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair,
dressed to kill in a suit of hair.
With tearing claws and
gripping unrelenting jaws,
the hour of the wolf is near
there is no exit from
no place to run from here
no angel's wings to bless
this man made loss
a kindom lost
The man begins to pace,
his heartbeat is a frantic race.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair:
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

It's betta, Loretta but it still ain't quite right It is troubling to me, that if I assume that you have read this piece slowly and out loud, you cannot see the places where the words become convoluted. Maybe it is how you speak but some parts are still very odd constructs of language. I will only tell you where if you cannot spot the knots...oh, you are obsessively using the "despair" word. It needs cutting back.
Best,
tectak

(05-28-2014, 02:55 PM)tectak Wrote:  

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 4)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost. No comma needed
He brings his baggage of duress;
a supernatural wolf rules there.within the wolf; his fear and stress.
There is no exit from There is no exit from himself,
he has no place to run
himself, no place to run.
Is his repentance any hope, He begs forgiveness in a prayer
in hope to mitigate despair.
his desperate prayer
for his despair, he thinks.

Despair dressed in a suit of hair, Now see how you feel about the chain of continuity with "despair" as the link word
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),We don't need brackets. We get the metaphor. SHOW without telling. "the constant presence, always there"
with tearing claws and gripping jaws; Period
rips apart the baggage of despair, whichthis is almost impossible to reconcile without a complete rethink as the "baggage of despair" , hair, there monotony is going to get to me. Get out of the ***air thing as fast as you can. Your turn, your poem
mingles freely, with the musty air.
The man stomps
up and down
and round and round, No. Just no. It is weak, repetitive for no good reason, cliche rich and comedic...up and down and round and round? No. Just not l'image juste.
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears. this is almost good but metaphorically a little mixed. Nonetheless, just a tweak..."Surreal voices pierce his ears, fueling the fires of his fears" gets rid of the "and"
He throws his hands up to his Lord,
then vomits on the wall and floor. Again, somehow accidentally comedic Almost "Dear lord in your infinite wisdom and magnanimity look kindly upon my unworthy soul and give me strength to diligently and without fear do thine works in thy name that I may....yeugggh...I just threw up." I would lose this whole episode.
His heartbeat pounds and roars.
His head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.Including the last six lines
Wounds incurred
that steal his breath, his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill....and work on this simple conclusive statement to bring the piece to a close. Let the reader run on your tracks...he can only go where you decide.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn. Some may like this but it is a contrivance and much used. Listen to Jaque Brel sometime. You are dramatising the little for the large.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon;
a battered shell of man, open eyed,
sprawled in disarray across a chair.

The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell,
and our despair.
Loretta,
I know what you are trying to do but so do you. The difference is you are over-killing the message with massage whereas I only need a little physio to be able to move freely through the piece.
This is an example of commitment verse where your conclusion is so foregone that it arrives as an anti-climax. Condense and distill so that the reader is still able to feel some surprise at the end....rather than relief.
Best,
I couldn't let it alone but all is opinion,
tectak



The Hour of the Wolf (edit 3)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair.
He's torn by the tearing claws
tormented by the gripping jaws.




Surreal voices pierce his ears
that fuel the fires of his fears.

His heartbeat is a frantic pace.
His head begins to spin and race,
to memories and faces;
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows of
the vomit stained floor.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes,
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell
and our despair.





The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair,
dressed to kill in a suit of hair.
With tearing claws and
gripping unrelenting jaws,
the hour of the wolf is near
there is no exit from
no place to run from here
no angel's wings to bless
this man made loss
a kindom lost
The man begins to pace,
his heartbeat is a frantic race.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair:
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

It's betta, Loretta but it still ain't quite right It is troubling to me, that if I assume that you have read this piece slowly and out loud, you cannot see the places where the words become convoluted. Maybe it is how you speak but some parts are still very odd constructs of language. I will only tell you where if you cannot spot the knots...oh, you are obsessively using the "despair" word. It needs cutting back.
Best,
tectak

Hi tectak: absolutely right, I saw just what you said; but it comes slowly, and learning while practicing. Thanks, Loretta

The Hour of The Wolf (edit 5)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of duress;
within the wolf; his fear and stress.
There is no exit from himself
no place to run.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair
the constant presence always there
with tearing claws and gripping jaws.
Surreal voices fill his ears
fueling the fires of his fears.
The wolf drools to tear apart his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill.

The clock up on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.

The Hour of the Wolf;
the depth of living hell
and our despair.

---

(05-29-2014, 02:25 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of The Wolf (edit 5)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of duress;
within the wolf; his fear and stress.
There is no exit from himself
no place to run.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair
the constant presence always there
with tearing claws and gripping jaws.
Surreal voices fill his ears
fueling the fires of his fears.
The wolf, who thinks, to tear apart his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill.

The clock up on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.

The Hour of the Wolf;
the depth of living hell
and our despair.

---

(05-28-2014, 10:43 PM)tectak Wrote:  

(05-28-2014, 02:55 PM)tectak Wrote:  

(05-19-2014, 01:13 AM)LorettaYoung Wrote:  The Hour of the Wolf (edit 4)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost. No comma needed
He brings his baggage of duress;
a supernatural wolf rules there.within the wolf; his fear and stress.
There is no exit from There is no exit from himself,
he has no place to run
himself, no place to run.
Is his repentance any hope, He begs forgiveness in a prayer
in hope to mitigate despair.
his desperate prayer
for his despair, he thinks.

Despair dressed in a suit of hair, Now see how you feel about the chain of continuity with "despair" as the link word
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),We don't need brackets. We get the metaphor. SHOW without telling. "the constant presence, always there"
with tearing claws and gripping jaws; Period
rips apart the baggage of despair, whichthis is almost impossible to reconcile without a complete rethink as the "baggage of despair" , hair, there monotony is going to get to me. Get out of the ***air thing as fast as you can. Your turn, your poem
mingles freely, with the musty air.
The man stomps
up and down
and round and round, No. Just no. It is weak, repetitive for no good reason, cliche rich and comedic...up and down and round and round? No. Just not l'image juste.
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears. this is almost good but metaphorically a little mixed. Nonetheless, just a tweak..."Surreal voices pierce his ears, fueling the fires of his fears" gets rid of the "and"
He throws his hands up to his Lord,
then vomits on the wall and floor. Again, somehow accidentally comedic Almost "Dear lord in your infinite wisdom and magnanimity look kindly upon my unworthy soul and give me strength to diligently and without fear do thine works in thy name that I may....yeugggh...I just threw up." I would lose this whole episode.
His heartbeat pounds and roars.
His head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.Including the last six lines
Wounds incurred
that steal his breath, his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill....and work on this simple conclusive statement to bring the piece to a close. Let the reader run on your tracks...he can only go where you decide.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn. Some may like this but it is a contrivance and much used. Listen to Jaque Brel sometime. You are dramatising the little for the large.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon;
a battered shell of man, open eyed,
sprawled in disarray across a chair.

The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell,
and our despair.
Loretta,
I know what you are trying to do but so do you. The difference is you are over-killing the message with massage whereas I only need a little physio to be able to move freely through the piece.
This is an example of commitment verse where your conclusion is so foregone that it arrives as an anti-climax. Condense and distill so that the reader is still able to feel some surprise at the end....rather than relief.
Best,
I couldn't let it alone but all is opinion,
tectak



The Hour of the Wolf (edit 3)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair.
He's torn by the tearing claws
tormented by the gripping jaws.




Surreal voices pierce his ears
that fuel the fires of his fears.

His heartbeat is a frantic pace.
His head begins to spin and race,
to memories and faces;
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows of
the vomit stained floor.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes,
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell
and our despair.





The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair,
dressed to kill in a suit of hair.
With tearing claws and
gripping unrelenting jaws,
the hour of the wolf is near
there is no exit from
no place to run from here
no angel's wings to bless
this man made loss
a kindom lost
The man begins to pace,
his heartbeat is a frantic race.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair:
The hour of the wolf
the depth of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
of the wolf who crouches,
in uninvited places;
to occupy once clean spaces
now sucks his living breath,
the life of him, his will:
This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
Unknowing of the violent storm,
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

Deadly quiet
at the lonesome shack.
The darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things;
no rest for him,
even in,
this quiet lonely place.
There is no exit from
no place to run,
despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on the blood red vomit stained floor
the hour of the wolf has come
again to him,
who in such lonely places
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws
the biting faces,
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces,
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will:
this hour of the wolf is meant to kill,
the clock up on the wall, it
ticks,
ticks,
ticks
approaching dawn
unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf,
the depth and living hell
of our despair.

It's betta, Loretta but it still ain't quite right It is troubling to me, that if I assume that you have read this piece slowly and out loud, you cannot see the places where the words become convoluted. Maybe it is how you speak but some parts are still very odd constructs of language. I will only tell you where if you cannot spot the knots...oh, you are obsessively using the "despair" word. It needs cutting back.
Best,
tectak

---

Hi Professor: again, you are right on, I chose to eliminate added prayers to S1. And to include the small as I had thought about it what way, and it is a surprise if he's dead or alive. I thought wolf crouching would show a picture; your wording was perfect but I thought it told? And thank you so much, your prayer is answered, and isn't the punctuation improving? Best, Loretta