Revision 1:

As a tumbleweed soft on the road
I travel down paths no one goes.
Behind the enormous old pines:
a shack where the old river winds.

It's moss laden roof showing first,
I really expected the worst.
Alone, he looked smaller than I,
but he was a fairly big guy.

A shotgun was close by his hand
when he saw me set foot on his land.
He thought that I meant him no harm,
invited me inside to warm.

"So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?”
"No reason to get so damn loud!
Don't get many visitors now."

He stood up and belched out guffaws,
said he had once run with outlaws.
The bandit, ole Arny O'Keefe . . .
I knew that he lied through his teeth.

His face hinted that he must know
(and no one could knowingly know.)
He wanted my trust far too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor
when I first walked through his front door.
I raked every string with my nails
and soaked up the wondrous details.

He guarded the beans as I sat.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

The dusk settled outside of him
while thickening silences within
aroused all my doubts in a rage.
As calm from the outside as sage.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

Alone and forsaken by all,
I live for the taste of the fall.
As a tumbleweed soft on the road
I travel down paths no one goes.

Quote:Original:

A tumbleweed soft on the road
I was, when that shack of his showed
behind those enormous old pines
it sat where the old river winds.

A shotgun was close by his hand
when I stepped one foot on his land,
he thought that I meant him no harm,
invited me inside to warm

So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?”
He stood up and belched out guffaws,
said he had once run with outlaws.

His face hinted that he must know
and no one could knowingly know.
He wanted my trust way too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor,
When I first walked through his front door.
I felt of it's strings with my nails
and soaked up the wondrous details.

He guarded the beans as I sat.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

Well aren't you a cheerful sod?

I will come back to this after I've had some breakfast, the first read-through for some reason left my stomach a little unsettled...

Mark,

This isn't bad. There are a couple of line burps here and there, but with the TV singing at me it makes it difficult to concentrate enough to list them and offer suggestions.


"His face hinted that he must know
and no one could knowingly know."

"know" and "know" is not a rhyme.

Dale

(02-12-2012, 03:17 PM)Erthona Wrote:  "His face hinted that he must know
and no one could knowingly know."

"know" and "know" is not a rhyme.

I 'know'

For anyone interested:
I was wondering why "know" didn't rhyme with "know" so I started a discussion thread.

You don't need a whole thread. Rhyme means they sound similar. A word cannot rhyme with itself. That would not be similar, it would be the same.

Hey, here's an idea: why not tell me whether my poem sucks or not on a break from discussing not discussing stuff in the critique forums

hello mark! it's been awhile since I've made it to a piece of yours, and that makes me sad. in an attempt to make things right

(02-12-2012, 07:21 AM)Mark Wrote:  A tumbleweed soft on the road
I was, when that shack of his showed
behind those enormous old pines
it sat where the old river winds...if this line could be a little more connected to the previous (enjambment could be a friend), it could be a little less forced. As is, this line smells like filler- the idea only stands in this line, and not the ones before or after, as the next stanza jumps to a "shotgun"

A shotgun was close by his hand
when I stepped one foot on his land,
he thought that I meant him no harm,
invited me inside to warm...always like a nice off-rhyme

So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?” ...maybe just me, but I stumbled on the meter for these two lines
He stood up and belched out guffaws,
said he had once run with outlaws.

His face hinted that he must know
and no one could knowingly know....I'm fine with the repetition. I think you could even use this line as an aside and put it in parentheses if you desired
He wanted my trust way too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor,
When I first walked through his front door.
I felt of it's strings with my nails ..."felt of"? not a fan of the wording here
and soaked up the wondrous details.

He guarded the beans as I sat.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

what a story. could be an interesting bit of prose as well. at times, I think you were more worried about the rhymes than the story (to the point where it almost seemed to direct some of the action for me). also, I had a few nits with the meter. but I was entertained; definitely like what you did with some of your rhymes. hope this is helpful

(02-12-2012, 07:21 AM)Mark Wrote:  A tumbleweed soft on the roadsoft doesn't seem to have any contextual meaning that I can find.Loose?free?blown? Help or change?
I was, when that old shack of his showedIs the appearence of the shack conditional on anything? It seems as though the shack moved into view unaided and independently. As "showed" is not part of the rhyme scheme perhaps "....when his old shack came into my view."
behind those enormous old pines those pines? As distinct from the other pines? I can tell you can "see" your picture but we as yet, cannot. Try "some"
it sat where the old river winds.unrelated "it" makes this line disconnect very abruptly. I cannot readily suggest a construct to get you re-attached unless "on the banks where the old river winds" would suffice. Comma after "pines," to link the descriptive continuation.

A shotgun was close by his hand
when I stepped one foot on his land,maybe "set one foot" to make the action consequentially dangerous. "Stepped one foot" is gramatically ungainly to a degree, anyway.
he thought that I meant him no harm,A capital letter here would help to demark the characters. After all, he had the gun. so maybe "He thought I could do him no harm"
invited me inside to warm. "So he asked me inside, to warm"

So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?”unnatural narrative but enough from me
He stood up and belched out guffaws,this man is obviously a psycopathic maniac with autism who dies not relate to his environment. I mean what is so funny? Needs more thought.
said he had once run with outlaws.One has to ask, why mention it?[b]

His face hinted that he must knowI just know I amgoing to get lost so see end[b]
and no one could knowingly know.
He wanted my trust way too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor,
When I first walked through his front door.
I felt of it's strings with my nails
and soaked up the wondrous details.

He guarded the beans as I sat.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

Telling a story is not easy at the best of times. First you must know where you are going. This sounds as if the story ran away and you couldn't keep up. I admire you for your efforts but believe me, you bit off a whole lot more than was chewable. I will only add to this IF you believe it would help.
Best,
Tectak

Geoff,

Thanks for your input. I think you are right about the rhymes running the show. I may have to just completely start over here. Thanks for your time (I just saw this )


Tectak,

Everything you said is fair. Thanks for your time, I will just scrap it and try the idea again without rhyme at all. I hope it's better than this one.

I hope you guys don't feel like I'm wasting your time with my rubbish, but I don't post all of my stuff, just those that I think have promise. It's hard to see the promise of this one probably, but I think I do. It's a really sick story.

I like the senseless violence of this. I like that it has no meaning, but yet doesn't come across as the work of an immature artist seeking only to shock. This is a stark and hopeless poem, but one the mind returns to with dark eagerness. Thanks for the read.

Thanks Jack

And thanks to everyone who offered advice!

I did a revision I hope it is clearer:

Revision 1

As a tumbleweed soft on the road
I travel down paths no one goes.
Behind the enormous old pines:
a shack where the old river winds.

It's moss laden roof showing first,
I really expected the worst.
Alone, he looked smaller than I,
but he was a fairly big guy.

A shotgun was close by his hand
when I he saw me set foot on his land.
He thought that I meant him no harm
invited me inside to warm.

"So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?”
"No reason to get so damn loud!
Don't get many visitors now."

He stood up and belched out guffaws,
said he had once run with outlaws.
The bandit, ole Arny O'Keefe . . .
I knew that he lied through his teeth.

His face hinted that he must know
(and no one could knowingly know.)
He wanted my trust far too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor
when I first walked through his front door.
I raked every string with my nails
and soaked up the wondrous details.

He guarded the beans as I sat.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

The dusk settled outside of him
while thickening silences within
aroused all my doubts in a rage.
As calm from the outside as sage.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

Alone and forsaken by all,
I live for the taste of the fall.
As a tumbleweed soft on the road
I travel down paths no one goes.

(03-10-2012, 02:28 AM)Mark Wrote:  Thanks Jack

And thanks to everyone who offered advice!

I did a revision I hope it is clearer:

Revision 1

As a tumbleweed soft on the roadAs tumbleweed blows down the road
I travel down paths no one goes.I travel on pathways unknown. Or,and happily,if you are a wild west cowboy. "On pathways unknowed"
Behind the enormous old pines: Behind some gigantic old pines,there's a shack where the ol' river winds
a shack where the old river winds.

It's moss laden roof showing first,this whole stanza is a mess of mixed up specifics. Last mentioned is the river. Then an unrelated "it" which gives us a river with a roof. What's wrong with a mossy roof that leads you to anguished speculation. You do not say and I do not know. Yikes,who is this small big guy? Where did he pop up from?
I really expected the worst.
Alone, he looked smaller than I,
but he was a fairly big guy.

A shotgun was close by his hand
when I he saw me set foot on his land.
He thought that I meant him no harm
invited me inside to warm.so he asked me inside to warm

"So where are you coming from, Son?”
“Just passin' through. Are you done?”not convincing narrative. Forget it.
"No reason to get so damn loud!not convincing narrative. Forget it
Don't get many visitors now."not convincing narrative. Not connected. Forget it

He stood up and belched out guffaws,
said he had once run with outlaws.
The bandit, ole Arny O'Keefe . . .
I knew that he lied through his teeth.Mark,these are song lyrics and they are just not poetic. The narrative is cringingly unreadable....but pehaps singable
His face hinted that he must know
(and no one could knowingly know.)there is no sense in this that I can see. But nor is the brokeback mountain scenario coming up.
He wanted my trust far too much
so my hand shied away from his touch.

I spied his guitar on the floor
when I first walked through his front door.
I raked every string with my nails
and soaked up the wondrous details.some merit in this as a scene setting stanza
and you should work on it.All is not lost......yet
He guarded the beans as I sat.is there some implicit threat to beans from.a sitting man? Again, ill-advisedly you are searching for something to pad this out. Just let it come by itself. The next lines are so far out of character that my worst fears are realised. You have lost control of this piece and it genuinely pains me to say so.....but not as much as continuing to criticise your work. From now to the end it is ferociously forced and needs to be gently simmered and left overnight.
The chat rather quickly fell flat.
As quick, I was out of my chair,
he tended the food with a stare.

The dusk settled outside of him
while thickening silences within
aroused all my doubts in a rage.
As calm from the outside as sage.

I aimed it away from the stove
so blood went away when I drove
the old box guitar through his face-
don't want all the food here to waste.

As soon as I'd eaten, I ran
as fast as a guilty man can.
The taste of his skin on my lips
and the flesh of his bone in my ribs.

Alone and forsaken by all,
I live for the taste of the fall.
As a tumbleweed soft on the road
I travel down paths no one goes.

I am really sorry ,Mark, but I just cannot say that I find this a successful write. I believe in your concept but not your execution.....I will leave the guillotine to others! As I mentioned somewhere, you are essentially a song writer who leans to poetry........perhaps you should become a poet who leans to song-writing. I am at a loss with this one so listen to others.
Best,
Tectak

I find it is too long, I tended to skim half way through.
Too much information included which drags it out.
Suggest skipping description of the dude and go with meeting the barrel of the gun.
Could use some humour to brighten it up.

Thanks for the input guys. I'll keep working on it.