A Wander

[ThePen]

This poem speaks of a promenade.

A disc of fire beaming down rays of light,
Face is illumined, embellished before sight.
Feet lightly strolling, skin caressed by a wind, Posture held together, hands are twinned.
Small white, red, black wings flying in the air,
In various configurations, set so debonnaire.
The mind coming and going, together flying,  
A natural world around, sensations edifying. Imposing rectangular monuments of concrete, Creations of a civilization at times derelict.
Vistas of green, lush verdure turned into grey,
The clear, blue firmament, a weather of May. Bodies sitting, standing, flowing in the meadows,
Voices dancing around, murmurs with echoes.
Life parked on the wood come to a standstill, Perception rests on meditation beyond the hill.

[billy]

hi wander

just some pointers in general. don't force the poem or the rhymes. try not to be to poetically energetic. it's a bit like putting too much butter on the toast. beware cliche, on odd occasions they can be a poets friend but in general they're the devil's own works.  meter and end rhyme mostly go hand in hand have a look at the links in my sig and check out our meter page that's about the site. forced rhyme is where the reader can guess what the rhymes going to be by the way a phrases structure reads if you twist the words to suit then it's forced before it. finally [sometimes] less is more, while meter has a set type of line length, beware of words that are mere fillers

the above sounds pretty bad but we've all been there,

This poem speaks of a promenade.

A disc of fire beaming down rays of light,
Face is illumined, embellished before sight.
Feet lightly strolling, skin caressed by a wind, Posture held together, hands are twinned.
Small white, red, black wings flying in the air,
In various configurations, set so debonnaire.
The mind coming and going, together flying,  
A natural world around, sensations edifying. Imposing rectangular monuments of concrete, Creations of a civilization at times derelict.
Vistas of green, lush verdure turned into grey,
The clear, blue firmament, a weather of May. Bodies sitting, standing, flowing in the meadows,
Voices dancing around, murmurs with echoes.
Life parked on the wood come to a standstill, Perception rests on meditation beyond the hill.