We promised, while our throats were parched
and light was bent to seem
like it could quench thirst,
we'd meet here again.
I never learned how to draw a drink
from these ancient cobbled roads and
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid
from twenty years ago,
just pocket lint and longing
that guides this limestone
fountain water's ripples into
your new laughter lines.
II. For the Gallery
I wander in the unknown workers' stretching steepled
shadows of this town, where my parents honeymooned.
I'm older now than they were when their studio became
a storage for winter clothes, discarded toys, and forgotten
paintings. It's time that I learned practicality when there is
no grey of truth daubed on my palette.
Edit 6: To Display
We promised, while our tongues were scorched
and light was bent to seem
like it could quench my thirst,
we'd meet again. I never learned how to draw a drink
from parched earth crevices and
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid
from twenty years ago, just pocket lint and longing
that guides this limestone
fountain water's ripples into
your new laughter lines. I wander in the unknown
builders' stretching steepled shadows—
in St. Augustine, where my parents honeymooned;
now I'm older than they were then. Their painting studio
has become storage for
winter clothes, forgotten toys
and art. It's time I learned practicality when there is
no grey of truth daubed on my palette.
Edit 5: To Display
That date, pinky sworn on while our throats
were parched, was distant warping light that
I never learned how to drink from and
I am years in debt.
Reflections ripple as my face becomes
a stranger's, glowing next to yours. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, as a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
Edit 4: For Galleries
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple, altering this face into
a stranger's, glowing beside yours. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
Edit 3: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple; wishes conjure
your face, glowing by a stranger's, who
wears my bleach-stained sweater. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
Edit 2: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette.
Edit 1: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
I don't want to see this poem fall
to the bottom of the heap because
it has so much to offer. I just feel
like it's missing something... I know
this is mild critique, but I want to
comment more.
Romanticism, Abandoned I wonder if it was a painful era
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men. offers me personally a spark of judgement
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light? the mind's sponge will grasp at any angle to take in more
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure I hate conjure, but its use canceled out the above judgement I first felt.
your face, glowing alongside another's; why doesn't the apostrophe fit in anothers?
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast excellent metaphor here, deep, gothic, dusty, grey
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe blends nicely with the metaphor mentioned above
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in. this had me googling and wonderfully led me to a blessing today
something helpful
thank you kindly for this read
it offered a wonderful service
to me concerning painting
plus took my mind into a visual
of memories and...the feeling I got
as a child, I thought I'd forever
lost, clicking thru Viewmaster.
Time bends, deceiving promises strange use of deceiving. I read it as "time itself deceive promises", in which case it is an odd choice. Maybe you want to preserve the ambiguity. It works well.
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light? I really like this sentence.
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. Beautiful stanza. Very Neruda-esque, can't suggest any changes.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees. Nice imagery. I couldn't completely fit in the last part though. Suggested a foetal position, but why scraped knees?
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in. Nice ending, if a bit prosaic. Might try deleting some words that feel extra to you (if any)
Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
I apologize if there's any confusions in the name changes. I'm trying to find a fitting one.
Previous titles: Where to Meet, Rendezvous
Hi alex.
Not a great title (for me),
this may be a bit glib but how about
'The Old Romantics' ?
I agree with ritwiksadhu33 about the opening line.
Are you trying to say Time bends, promises made when we were headlong and young, deceive, as elusive light pools... ?
Do you need 'major' (the question
seems more plaintive without it).
Why 'within' rather than 'in'?
'timeless shadows' feels a bit over done,
(also, are the shadows Notre-Dame's or the
'nameless ghosts'?)
could you re-order as;
..................someone else. I wander
in Notre-Dame's shadow, among the nameless
ghosts, a wayfarer, far from home.
Do you need 'flings'? It rather diminishes
the line, I think (and it's a good line).
Also, shouldn't it be be either in or for 'the garret's..' ?
(As it stands it suggests they exchanged 'flings' for
the 'garret' - is this intended?)
'tears...scrapes' is better than earlier versions,
but I think you need something that contrasts
more directly with the carefree 'flings', you are
writing about the weight of responsibility, aren't you?
(and you could add an extra line to this verse).
I don't find the final verse convincing at all.
I'd suggest cutting it entirely.
To introduce a new character atthe end
undercuts all the good workyou've done
up this point.
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men. "as" should be "like", or else "pools" reads like a verb.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's; semicolon should be a colon, since the next phrase follows directly from the last.
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. might be a bit pedantic, but your speaker did just name that ghost.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe comma unneeded, although i can see its purpose. better to reword the entire thing, perhaps to something like
Now I am almost as old as when my parents surrendered their moonlit flings to the garret in order to wipe our tears, dress our scrapes.
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter has learned remove "has".
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette.
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young, "headlong" feels synonymous to "young" at this point, and thus redundant, especially since both words exist in the context of broken oaths.
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men. this line reads less like the interesting kind of heady, and more like the meaningless kind of heady.
What major will teach me how to siphon also, to question the pursuit of a major -- the only "major" that, for me, means something here is a college major -- right after railing about how the speaker was once young guts the poem of meaning for me. i am right now a college kid, and, like my vision of this piece's speaker, i do keep referring to the simpler joys of five years ago, i do keep trying to leave romanticism behind, i do keep reciting to myself Macbeth's "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech; but at the end of the day, especially when i'm trying to compose a poem bigger than myself, all of those struggles quickly fall apart: things might not be as simple as before, but ultimately i still jam with Khalid's "American Teen" or Lorde's "Melodrama" as a peer, not as an observer.
water from light? but to provide a simple, unpoetical answer to the question: no major will. i think even english or creative writing majors would tell you that: majors are meant to give you the tools you need to write for much quicker than for us internet-bred autodidacts (my major is far from anything creative), but the impetus for greatness still lies with the creator.
Within its rippling reflections, I recall concerning the metaphor that ties light and water together, as far as i can tell you use water very little all throughout. the reference to rivers is effectively dropped by the poem's conclusion, with the next stanza's "tears" having its connections to care, rather than its identity as a liquid, emphasized. the metaphor, overall, is a little weak, and even if the speaker meant to make it look like his or her old age was dry, since time is clearly what is referred to as water, and time can't help but be universal to both the romantic's and the realist's point of view, the subtlety fails.
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander and then the introduction of a "you", particularly a "you" lost to "someone else". possibly good as insight on the cause of the speaker's angst, but with the last stanza's question it reads more like you were trying to hit the high-school-poet's jackpot.
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. it is a little unfortunate that the very real image of the speaker walking around in the streets of Paris isn't further developed. i suppose it's kinda well-worn, but it's still a level higher than abstraction.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes. i was going to comment on how i should perhaps retool my readings around this, as this perhaps makes the speaker to be older than i first thought him or her to be, but then i realized two things: first, that by most accounts this should be at around the age of my sister, which by my reckoning is still too young (as far as i know, it's thirty years old and above when one really starts to age); and second, that at any rate "almost" is so nebulous a term that it could mean sixteen or seventeen, which could root this even further into the triteness i've talked about throughout. in short -- well, see below.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette. again, the angst here feels particularly cliche, especially when given a lot more thought. i'm not exactly in a good way right now, but even i can note that truth isn't all "grey" at all: modern or enlightened railings against romanticism not seeing the "truth" of things miss the point entirely -- or rather, truth is only "grey" when one is totally colorblind. i'm all for the painter learning practicality, sure, but romance is far from sustainability's antithesis, and the greats rarely had to sacrifice creativity for the sake of, say, raising kids. (time and health, perhaps, but they wouldn't have been great without "moonlit flings")
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young, "headlong" feels synonymous to "young" at this point, and thus redundant, especially since both words exist in the context of broken oaths. The oaths were broken as they entered adulthood, not as kids. Would it be redundant then to use "headlong"? Maybe I should rephrase the first line.
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men. this line reads less like the interesting kind of heady, and more like the meaningless kind of heady. I would like to fix this. Possibly by eliminating "elusive" since, upon rereading, seems sorta redundant? Or is the metaphor itself heady
What major will teach me how to siphon also, to question the pursuit of a major -- the only "major" that, for me, means something here is a college major -- right after railing about how the speaker was once young guts the poem of meaning for me. i am right now a college kid, and, like my vision of this piece's speaker, i do keep referring to the simpler joys of five years ago, i do keep trying to leave romanticism behind, i do keep reciting to myself Macbeth's "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech; but at the end of the day, especially when i'm trying to compose a poem bigger than myself, all of those struggles quickly fall apart: things might not be as simple as before, but ultimately i still jam with Khalid's "American Teen" or Lorde's "Melodrama" as a peer, not as an observer.
water from light? but to provide a simple, unpoetical answer to the question: no major will. i think even english or creative writing majors would tell you that: majors are meant to give you the tools you need to write for much quicker than for us internet-bred autodidacts (my major is far from anything creative), but the impetus for greatness still lies with the creator. This is true. "Major" in the previous line was wrongly used.
Within its rippling reflections, I recall concerning the metaphor that ties light and water together, as far as i can tell you use water very little all throughout. the reference to rivers is effectively dropped by the poem's conclusion, with the next stanza's "tears" having its connections to care, rather than its identity as a liquid, emphasized. the metaphor, overall, is a little weak, and even if the speaker meant to make it look like his or her old age was dry, since time is clearly what is referred to as water, and time can't help but be universal to both the romantic's and the realist's point of view, the subtlety fails.
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander and then the introduction of a "you", particularly a "you" lost to "someone else". possibly good as insight on the cause of the speaker's angst, but with the last stanza's question it reads more like you were trying to hit the high-school-poet's jackpot.
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home. it is a little unfortunate that the very real image of the speaker walking around in the streets of Paris isn't further developed. i suppose it's kinda well-worn, but it's still a level higher than abstraction. It is a bit well-worn, esp. in a poem about being lost in the world, which is why I decided to only dip my toes in such imagery.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes. i was going to comment on how i should perhaps retool my readings around this, as this perhaps makes the speaker to be older than i first thought him or her to be, but then i realized two things: first, that by most accounts this should be at around the age of my sister, which by my reckoning is still too young (as far as i know, it's thirty years old and above when one really starts to age); and second, that at any rate "almost" is so nebulous a term that it could mean sixteen or seventeen, which could root this even further into the triteness i've talked about throughout. in short -- well, see below.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette. again, the angst here feels particularly cliche, especially when given a lot more thought. i'm not exactly in a good way right now, but even i can note that truth isn't all "grey" at all: modern or enlightened railings against romanticism not seeing the "truth" of things miss the point entirely -- or rather, truth is only "grey" when one is totally colorblind. i'm all for the painter learning practicality, sure, but romance is far from sustainability's antithesis, and the greats rarely had to sacrifice creativity for the sake of, say, raising kids. (time and health, perhaps, but they wouldn't have been great without "moonlit flings") The N reflects on his parent's life choices more than the choices of the greats since his parents hold more influence over him. In result, he ironically sees things in black and white: either be practical and financially successful or follow dreams on minimum wage. He concludes on the first option because of things addressed in the first stanza.
I'll admit this is one of the tougher poems I've tasked myself with writing bc the subject matter is angsty, so I'm trying to tackle it with as much taste as I can. With that being said, I really enjoyed your critical notes River. Made some changes.
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple, altering this face into
a stranger's, glowing beside yours. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time I learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on my palette.
Edit 3: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple; wishes conjure
your face, glowing by a stranger's, who
wears my bleach-stained sweater. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
[pre verse]
Edit 2: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette.
Edit 1: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
I apologize if there's any confusions in the name changes. I'm trying to find a fitting one.
Previous titles: Where to Meet-- Rendezvous
I enjoyed the original version but found the first stanza a little too abstract for my taste.
hi rave, while one line feedback could [i say could] pass in the novice forum as reasonable feedback, they don't in mild to moderate, as of now i've not allowed 4 of your posts, this post only being allowed to give you a heads up/mod
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple, altering this face into
a stranger's, glowing beside yours. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time I learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on my palette.
Edit 3: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple; wishes conjure
your face, glowing by a stranger's, who
wears my bleach-stained sweater. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
[pre verse]
Edit 2: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette.
Edit 1: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
I apologize if there's any confusions in the name changes. I'm trying to find a fitting one.
Previous titles: Where to Meet-- Rendezvous
I enjoyed the original version but found the first stanza a little too abstract for my taste.
We promised, while our tongues were scorched and light was bent to seem like it could quench my thirst,
(do you need 'my'?) we'd meet again. I never learned how to draw a drink from parched earth crevices and
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid
'I am years in debt' - good stuff.
(I think 'child' for 'kid', better sonics) from twenty years ago, just pocket lint and longing
'pocket lint' is terribly clichéd, do you need it? (Perhaps 'empty pockets' ?) that guides this limestone
got a bit lost on 'guides' fountain water's ripples into your new laughter lines.
I don't think this flows naturally out of what comes before.
Frankly, these seem like two separate pieces stuck together.
Both work rather well separately - though the indented lines
don't make much sense in terms of layout - but not together. I wander in the unknown builders' stretching steepled shadows—
in St. Augustine, where my parents honeymooned;
(to 'ins' do you need the first?) now I'm older than they were then. Their painting studio has become storage for winter clothes, forgotten toys and art. It's time I learned practicality when there is
(perhaps 'discarded toys and 'forgotten art' - art really
needs a modifier) no grey of truth daubed on my palette.
(Do you 'daub' paint on a palette?)
(01-23-2018, 06:45 AM)alexorande Wrote: To Display
We promised, while our tongues were scorched and light was bent to seem like it could quench my thirst,I really like the melody of those two verses we'd meet again. I never learned how to draw a drink I had a feeling of reading different poem because the melodies don't match from parched earth crevices and
I am years in debt. I have no change to spare that kid
from twenty years ago, just pocket lint and longing Again, I love how those verses sound together that guides this limestone fountain water's ripples into your new laughter lines. I wander in the unknown builders' stretching steepled shadows—
in St. Augustine, where my parents honeymooned;
now I'm older than they were then. Their painting studio
has become storage for winter clothes, forgotten toys
and art. It's time I learned practicality when there is
no grey of truth daubed on my palette.
I apologize if there's any confusions in the name changes. I'm trying to find a fitting one.
Previous titles: Where to Meet-- Rendezvous-- Romanticism, Abandoned
Titles being considered: Audience-- For Galleries
Actually, I think it's a nice poem. I've seen here two young people getting together again after another hassle, but not living up to their promise despite great time they've had together. The woman is now mature and she is looking at their relationship in retrospect. She sees a young woman, who loves the man despite his cold behavior towards her. She wants to advice her, but they are too far away. The conclusion she draws, is that maturity much like her parent's painting studio leaves boldness of young heart's desires lying in one's memory just like forgotten toys and art in the room. She feels wiser now and likes to hold life's steering wheel firmly in her hands. I think overall structure is fine, but I've had trouble to understand the meaning without dictionary (I am not native English speaker) despite the fact, that I was fine reading Shakespeare or Poe.
Hope, that review helped
Thank you for your critique. Since there seemed to be a shift in flow after the second stanza I thought I'd just split the poem in two parts. Would like to hear your thoughts.
Also made a few tweaks to word choices and a title change.
