Synthesis

[71degrees]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

[Eluoh]

No one sleeps (Missing punctuation.  It doesn't make sense to have it lead into the next line.)
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed, (By saying they're "at least, restless" after saying that "no one sleeps" is redundant.  We can already deduct from no one sleeping that they are also restless.)
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls (Nice imagery.  Needs a period at the end of this.)

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering, (There are a couple of options here that would improve the reading of this sentence.  Perhaps put "and" between "sputtering," and "a new year", OR you can put in a semicolon after "sputtering," which allows you to carry on into the next line without it being an awkward run-on sentence.)
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet: (Why cedar closet?)
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; (Are these previous lines an example of what's in the mentioned "cedar closet"?  The next lines after this seem irrelevant to that if so, and you can go ahead and end this sentence with a period in order to start your new ideas.)
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard (Needs a comma.)
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood, (What brings us to a father suddenly dying?  This came out of no where with no relation to all of the previous ideas and confused me quite a bit.)
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep (The imagery and emotion in this is phenomenal to me.)

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk; ("this man" as in the previously mentioned dying father?)
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year (Needs period.)

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked. (What a haunting closer!  Bravo.)

The imagery throughout this is nice but too various that I couldn't figure out what you were ultimately trying to convey.  It became moving and haunting near the end, but the relevance between the first half and the last wasn't quite there.  I was confused as to how suddenly death became involved.  There wasn't anything that lead up to that well enough for me.  The punctuation and capitalization was all over the place.  Cleaning it up a bit and adding more clarity would make this poem outstanding.  Nice work.

[ellajam]

Hi, 71, a few thoughts:

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
I so like from "eyes closed" on down, I enjoyed picturing the non-sleeper as a tree and watching the show flicker.  I wonder if you could cut the confusion of the opening and maybe start Sleepless: eyes closed.

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet: Big fan of the cedar closet. Have you thought through any vs each vs every?
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs I think you could cut this line with a comma after yard or a change on the next line to "and" instead of "of".
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep
I love the whimsy of unwritten poems and baked icebox cookies. You may want to consider adding a bit of that to the birch, leaving dad the dark blow.

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying, He lies dying above, this line doesn't seem to suit this poem here, I think you could lose it.
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

I hope a bit of this makes sense to you. I remember the birch in the side yard and the end lines. The pieces aren't quite fitting together here for me, although there's so much I like.
For me the short lines didn't help, I could see other stronger breaks and I wished you had made those decisions for me. I think a gentle edit could make a big difference. Good luck with it.

[71degrees]

Hi, 71, a few thoughts:

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
I so like from "eyes closed" on down, I enjoyed picturing the non-sleeper as a tree and watching the show flicker.  I wonder if you could cut the confusion of the opening and maybe start Sleepless: eyes closed.

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet: Big fan of the cedar closet. Have you thought through any vs each vs every?
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs I think you could cut this line with a comma after yard or a change on the next line to "and" instead of "of".
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep
I love the whimsy of unwritten poems and baked icebox cookies. You may want to consider adding a bit of that to the birch, leaving dad the dark blow.

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying, He lies dying above, this line doesn't seem to suit this poem here, I think you could lose it.
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

I hope a bit of this makes sense to you. I remember the birch in the side yard and the end lines. The pieces aren't quite fitting together here for me, although there's so much I like.
For me the short lines didn't help, I could see other stronger breaks and I wished you had made those decisions for me. I think a gentle edit could make a big difference. Good luck with it.

Yes, it does. All of it. And I agree w/all of it (well, MOST of it…you know me My original intention was a tribute to Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying" (the line is used twice in the poem). The book is written from different points-of-view, and I tried to experiment w/different tree POV's in relation to my father. Tree themes have played a big part of my life (weird, I know). Long story short: I have a really good friend and we have a running joke (If you were a tree, what tree would you be?) and I keep thinking about this and the elm in my yard as a young child and the birch trees my mother loved and the cedar that smells so good and where keepsakes are "kept" and memories are stored and maples w/their colors and the raking and burning of leaves and the smoke and the multiple meanings of all these things and I write and I write and combine this with the seasons changing and folks who don't experience this are so deprived of another true poetical experience that I feel almost privileged and I'm talking too much now but, no, I don't mind your critiques b/c you understand…you get it and you're not all hung up on where periods go and what images should mean and poetry is not an art that delivers things on a pedestal with every answer with answers hanging from every image like directions to a child's game.

I'm done now. Sorry. Will come return w/an edit worthy of your time and your comments.

---

No one sleeps (Missing punctuation.  It doesn't make sense to have it lead into the next line.)
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed, (By saying they're "at least, restless" after saying that "no one sleeps" is redundant.  We can already deduct from no one sleeping that they are also restless.)
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls (Nice imagery.  Needs a period at the end of this.)

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering, (There are a couple of options here that would improve the reading of this sentence.  Perhaps put "and" between "sputtering," and "a new year", OR you can put in a semicolon after "sputtering," which allows you to carry on into the next line without it being an awkward run-on sentence.)
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet: (Why cedar closet?)
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; (Are these previous lines an example of what's in the mentioned "cedar closet"?  The next lines after this seem irrelevant to that if so, and you can go ahead and end this sentence with a period in order to start your new ideas.)
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard (Needs a comma.)
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood, (What brings us to a father suddenly dying?  This came out of no where with no relation to all of the previous ideas and confused me quite a bit.)
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep (The imagery and emotion in this is phenomenal to me.)

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk; ("this man" as in the previously mentioned dying father?)
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year (Needs period.)

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked. (What a haunting closer!  Bravo.)

The imagery throughout this is nice but too various that I couldn't figure out what you were ultimately trying to convey.  It became moving and haunting near the end, but the relevance between the first half and the last wasn't quite there.  I was confused as to how suddenly death became involved.  There wasn't anything that lead up to that well enough for me.  The punctuation and capitalization was all over the place.  Cleaning it up a bit and adding more clarity would make this poem outstanding.  Nice work.

It will take a Herculean effort for me to put periods into this piece. But I shall bite the bullet b/c I think (and it kills me to say this…) you may be correct. Thank you for the time and effort to point this out to me. My head is often VERY hard…

[tectak]

No one sleepsThere is bad punctuation, deliberately missing punctuation, over-punctuation and lazy punctuation ( That is, from those who can but cannot be bothered). Which is this? Hmmm. I vote lazy
they are, at least, This is a very weak line. I am not sure what it imparts in terms image clarity. Is it:
"No one sleeps. They lie restless, eyes closed, not seeing the open arms of an elm tree, a mime show of shadows, spreading across rose coloured (tinted would, of course, be a cliche ) kitchen walls"
I am trying to make a point. If you write prose (nothing wrong with that) and then attempt to poetify (and if that ain't a word, it should be) it by short line-outs you risk believing that line breaks ARE punctution. They are not. Apart from this nit, I like the concept and I will admit to liking it more as I have read this through a dozed times.  
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
Who dreamsWell, quite. Who dreams about love? As you have omitted the period at the end of the last stanza and broken into this one, one could easily assume it is the dreaming kitchen walls. Look, of course, I know it isn't (it isn't, is it?) but this is the kind of sloppiness that will wear down any serious attempt to get the best out of your thinking. More and more I read stuff that is more angled towards tinkering with "form" and "style" out of all proportion to what is quintessentially the poetic moment...make me think YOUR thoughts.
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?The line breaks are just too much. Are you writing this on a strip of linguine?
Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleepWhat a tragedy of catastrophic form and punctuation over wonderful conceptual imagery. It is almost criminal.
I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-yearAlmost perfect punctuation. Just the missing period. Accordingly, we have:
" ...the way his colour changed year to (on?) year as he lay dying, I wonder if he ever dreamed at all. Can you see the deliberate mistake? Oh. No. Of course you can't...or you would have corrected it  
As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.

Hi 71,
This is me liking it. Though there are piquant points within the words, overall it conveys a wistful sadness that carries the reader along without complaint. I cannot say that staccato line breaks do anything to help this slow-march. I felt that I was walking over a resonating suspension bridge and had to keep breaking step. That cannot be good.
All is opinion.
Envy.
Best,
tectak

[71degrees]

No one sleepsThere is bad punctuation, deliberately missing punctuation, over-punctuation and lazy punctuation ( That is, from those who can but cannot be bothered). Which is this? Hmmm. I vote lazy
they are, at least, This is a very weak line. I am not sure what it imparts in terms image clarity. Is it:
"No one sleeps. They lie restless, eyes closed, not seeing the open arms of an elm tree, a mime show of shadows, spreading across rose coloured (tinted would, of course, be a cliche ) kitchen walls"
I am trying to make a point. If you write prose (nothing wrong with that) and then attempt to poetify (and if that ain't a word, it should be) it by short line-outs you risk believing that line breaks ARE punctution. They are not. Apart from this nit, I like the concept and I will admit to liking it more as I have read this through a dozed times.  
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
Who dreamsWell, quite. Who dreams about love? As you have omitted the period at the end of the last stanza and broken into this one, one could easily assume it is the dreaming kitchen walls. Look, of course, I know it isn't (it isn't, is it?) but this is the kind of sloppiness that will wear down any serious attempt to get the best out of your thinking. More and more I read stuff that is more angled towards tinkering with "form" and "style" out of all proportion to what is quintessentially the poetic moment...make me think YOUR thoughts.
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?The line breaks are just too much. Are you writing this on a strip of linguine?
Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleepWhat a tragedy of catastrophic form and punctuation over wonderful conceptual imagery. It is almost criminal.
I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-yearAlmost perfect punctuation. Just the missing period. Accordingly, we have:
" ...the way his colour changed year to (on?) year as he lay dying, I wonder if he ever dreamed at all. Can you see the deliberate mistake? Oh. No. Of course you can't...or you would have corrected it  
As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.

Hi 71,
This is me liking it. Though there are piquant points within the words, overall it conveys a wistful sadness that carries the reader along without complaint. I cannot say that staccato line breaks do anything to help this slow-march. I felt that I was walking over a resonating suspension bridge and had to keep breaking step. That cannot be good.
All is opinion.
Envy.
Best,
tectak

My rewrite is without your comments. Will take another look if you will.  Glad you "liked" it...

[tectak]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

It really is quite beautiful. Poignant yet pragmatically purposeful. This edit is worthy. I still believe you over semi/colon the piece BUT now it matters less because you have made the piece shareable to the point where I find myself on the cusps of your pauses...in all the right places.  That is not to say that there is only one way...but I know you would agree with me on that!
For an exercise in this investigation into alternatives I may well write it out again with longer lines and  read it again in camera. You may never know how good it could be...unless you try it, too. Don't tell me if you do. This is  by far the best I have seen from you.
Best,
tectak

[ellajam]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

Ah, thank you, it is now a poem to sink into. I'm enjoying the changes, great work moving the "who dreams" lines down, they have real purpose now. Effective choice of breaks, there is a solidity now without a loss of dreaminess. I enjoyed the surprise of "mother's rose". If you're of a mind to it might be interesting to attempt Tom's suggestion of longer lines to see if you can distill it even further. But lovely as is.

In response to your reply to my crit: Yes, living in the changing seasons is a gift unwrapped each day, well worth the snow-shoveling and log-splitting. And I am hung up on where my own periods sit, it's just yours I don't run after.

Well done, thanks for the read.

[tectak]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all? teeny nit. Not a question. Statement. That is all.

I never asked. Quite



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

[71degrees]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all? teeny nit. Not a question. Statement. That is all.

I never asked. Quite



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

Well, the question was always there…I just never asked it aloud because the man didn't have a brain left and I doubt even he knew if he dreamed. I understand your "nit" but such is the tragedy of Alzheimer's. It has no logic. Printed? maybe change. Read aloud? Not sure I could read this aloud without the inflection in my voice.

[tectak]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all? teeny nit. Not a question. Statement. That is all.

I never asked. Quite



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.

Well, the question was always there…I just never asked it aloud because the man didn't have a brain left and I doubt even he knew if he dreamed. I understand your "nit" but such is the tragedy of Alzheimer's. It has no logic.  Printed? maybe change.  Read aloud? Not sure I could read this aloud without the inflection in my voice.

Hi 71
though I have copied this into the spotlighting forum, it does not mean it is over I read it out loud and cannot get the relevancy of "femur" to fit in. By the way, the writer does not have to suffer from the subject matter. It was you who put a question mark after a statement.
Best,
tectak

[QDeathstar]

Edit #1
Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.
I found this stanza particularly effective at creating emotion. After each line I found my heart getting a little heavier.
Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep. the only comment I have is that femur, blood, urine; nothing reads like a list to me, kind of feels off compared to the rest of the weighty poem
I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.
Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in? Ive read this poem several times, and I've enjoyed it each time because of the emotion it forces out, but this stanza is, in my opinion, not worthy of the rest of the poem. I hate that sputtering part.. all of the t sounds stand out and it takes me out of the poem. This stanza is the reason I decided comment on the poem.
I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.
and of course the ending is just. right.




Original
No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?
Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep
I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year
As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.

[71degrees]

Edit #1
Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.
I found this stanza particularly effective at creating emotion. After each line I found my heart getting a little heavier.
Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep. the only comment I have is that femur, blood, urine; nothing reads like a list to me, kind of feels off compared to the rest of the weighty poem
I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.
Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in? Ive read this poem several times, and I've enjoyed it each time because of the emotion it forces out, but this stanza is, in my opinion, not worthy of the rest of the poem. I hate that sputtering part.. all of the t sounds stand out and it takes me out of the poem. This stanza is the reason I decided comment on the poem.
I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.
and of course the ending is just. right.




Original
No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls
Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?
Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep
I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year
As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?
I never asked.

And more to think about. It was mentioned earlier that this poem doesn't have to be finished. Enough has been said about "femur" to warrant further discussion between my split personality. Also, the stanza you mention has already been moved once. It is supposed to represent the whimsy that all dreams consist of…what every person with a clear mind looks forward to…what an Alzheimer's patient is robbed of (terrible grammar here, I know). I think it needs to remain in some form. But I'm willing to look again. Thanks for your look and comments. Appreciate them all.