12-21-2022, 05:45 AM
Hi Tim-
This one is so dense with images that I have I very hard time latching onto it. That said, I plucked a few of my favorite lines:
night plays catch
with the laughing dead
a life without parole
gathering its final flowers. For me, this is a strong ending
Some editing suggestions below. I rearranged a bit, and other than omitting words, I only changed one, and added a few others. (I changed 'night' to 'dusk' because otherwise how would I see the clouds? That may mess up your 'living... dead' idea, if that's what you were going for.
All that said, prepare for this one to be stolen, in part, or in whole, as evidenced by the number of 'guests' visiting. Must be time for final submissions in some poetry workshops, I guess.
Midnight at Radio Ranch
Where’s the signal?
It’s interrupted; not simple.
A broken cascade of syllables
down the sacred mountains.
Ashes and dust, a dead oak,
an abandoned fire pit.
Dusk plays catch
with the laughing dead.
Trout-skinned clouds
strung out, burning pink,
a rainbow serpent
encircling the visible west.
These are my fellows,
in a life without parole,
gathering its final flowers.
This one is so dense with images that I have I very hard time latching onto it. That said, I plucked a few of my favorite lines:
night plays catch
with the laughing dead
a life without parole
gathering its final flowers. For me, this is a strong ending
Some editing suggestions below. I rearranged a bit, and other than omitting words, I only changed one, and added a few others. (I changed 'night' to 'dusk' because otherwise how would I see the clouds? That may mess up your 'living... dead' idea, if that's what you were going for.
All that said, prepare for this one to be stolen, in part, or in whole, as evidenced by the number of 'guests' visiting. Must be time for final submissions in some poetry workshops, I guess.
Midnight at Radio Ranch
Where’s the signal?
It’s interrupted; not simple.
A broken cascade of syllables
down the sacred mountains.
Ashes and dust, a dead oak,
an abandoned fire pit.
Dusk plays catch
with the laughing dead.
Trout-skinned clouds
strung out, burning pink,
a rainbow serpent
encircling the visible west.
These are my fellows,
in a life without parole,
gathering its final flowers.