Broke-Heart Biograph

[TranquillityBase]

Johnny met his mark on a disordered bed 
celebrating he texted and then he was dead.
Fentanyl paid a visit the coroner said.

Johnny was born in bright sterility
answer to his parents’ touch and go fertility,
a rebellious babe who strutted in the high chair,
a midget Mussolini with downy blonde hair.

Listened to Hendrix and Nirvana at nine, 
and was never without a peace sign
hanging around his neck along with a guitar,
sailing away from us to find his own star.

Cancer at sixteen and love without tears
for the mystery of the veiled female,
to Oregon for college, wrote stories and verse,
OCD at twenty and the world turned perverse.

To Spain for three years, in Prado del Rey to teach,
tangled with young thieves, who could not believe
an American boy was not a suitable toy,
collected colored glass off Mediterranean beaches.

Came back because he missed his amigos,
did legal aid for imprisoned migrantes,
welded art out of iron, created stop motion films
built gardens, raised butterflies and bees.

Our days pass on, harsh and serene,
in a predicament in practice obscene,
somewhere Johnny wanders on a cosmic shore
but our memories keep banging at his door.

All we ask of whoever’s in charge of time and space
is a moment’s hesitation in which we can break
through the illusion of death for one final take.

[Semicircle]

Johnny met his mark on a disordered bed 
celebrating he texted and then he was dead. that
Fentanyl paid a visit the coroner said.

Some dramatic spacing between the prologue and story.


Johnny was born in bright sterility
answer to his parents’ touch and go fertility,
a rebellious babe who strutted in the high chair,
and midget Mussolini with downy blonde hair.          

Listened to Hendrix and Nirvana at nine, 
and was never without a peace sign  statement continues after rhyme, which doesn't flow well. I tried to fix it.
along with a guitar, 
sailing away to his own star.        

Cancer at sixteen, love without tears
for the mystery of the veiled female--
to Oregon for college, wrote stories and verse,
OCD at twenty, and the world turned perverse.

To Spain for three years, in Prado del Rey to teach,
tangled with young thieves, who could not believe
an American boy was not a suitable toy,
collected colored glass off a Mediterranean beach.

Came back because he missed his amigos,
did legal aid for imprisoned migrantes,
welded art out of iron, created stop motion films   The rhyme scheme is dropped in this stanza
built gardens, raised butterflies and bees.

Our days pass on, harsh and serene,
in a predicament in practice obscene,
somewhere Johnny wanders on a cosmic shore       Memories and cosmic are vague words, and cliched in practice. Though, they are still touching, I feel like this could be described for better impact, since the build up to it was pretty good.
but our memories keep banging at his door.

All we ask of whoever’s in charge of time and space     
is a moment’s hesitation in which we can break
through the illusion of death for one final take.

The AABB rhyme scheme is not maintained in S4, S5, and S6. Also, I don't like to screw with line spacing in poems, but sometimes gook is used to fill in the cracks, and I furrow my brow.


Missile

A moments hesitation is sleep, but time won't stop. 
No, no, because when you depart, time speeds up.

Bat your eyes -- water catches fire,
time jumps rope up here in space.

Here and gone the next, there is no time to rest. 
No, no-- no time spared for the human race.

[brynmawr1]

Johnny met his mark on a disordered bed 
celebrating he texted and then he was dead.                he texted, celebrating?
Fentanyl paid a visit the coroner said.

Johnny was born in bright sterility
answer to his parents’ touch and go fertility,            solving?  I like the pairing of sterility and fertility.
a rebellious babe who strutted in the high chair,
a midget Mussolini with downy blonde hair.

Listened to Hendrix and Nirvana at nine, 
and was never without a peace sign
hanging around his neck along with a guitar,           might be interesting to let the two images of things hanging to run into each other.
sailing away from us to find his own star.   sailed?

Cancer at sixteen and love without tears
for the mystery of the veiled female,                 lost me on this line with "veiled"
to Oregon for college, wrote stories and verse,
OCD at twenty and the world turned perverse.

To Spain for three years, in Prado del Rey to teach,
tangled with young thieves, who could not believe
an American boy was not a suitable toy,
collected colored glass off a Mediterranean beaches.

Came back because he missed his amigos,
did legal aid for imprisoned migrantes,
welded art out of iron, created stop motion films
built gardens, raised butterflies and bees.

Our days pass on, harsh and serene,
in a predicament in practice obscene,                  this line is also awkward for me though I think I get it.
somewhere Johnny wanders on a cosmic shore
but our memories keep banging at his door.    little bit of mixed metaphor here between waking shore then a door

All we ask of whoever’s in charge of time and space  the keeper?
is a moment’s hesitation in which we can break         pause?
through the illusion of death for one final take.    I like "illusion" but it caused me pause because I think it is the opposite of what you are trying to undo, break through that unyielding opaque wall.

Hey,
Nicely done poem. Good enjambment.  I thought you did well with your rhymes throughout. The break from it didn't bother me much although if you could find a way to get L1 and L2 to rhyme in S6 it would help the flow a bit.  I also liked the progression through the poem to the end with a good finish.  I have made some small inline suggestions as best I could with my limited knowledge of deeper poetry analysis.  Thank you for sharing.
Take care,
steve

[TranquillityBase]

Semi and Bryn,

Thanks for the reads and the suggestions.  I'm not sure why I persisted in building rhyme into this one, except it started out with a rhyme and I decided to persist.  I actually don't care that much for rhyme, except in nursery rhymes and nonsense poems.  I tinkered with this one for weeks and most of that time was spent trying to come up with the rhymes and I found that a real distraction.  I'm just not a rhyming poet, I think.

But you both made valuable observations about the content.  I'm thinking, if it has a second life, I'll just strip out most of the rhyme and write in my more native voice.

Thanks again for taking the time to comment.

TqB

[busker]

The rhymes in this poem are forced, without artistic beauty of any kind.
And that’s why they work.
There is no poetry after Auschwitz.
There is no elegance in death, especially an untimely one.
The staccato nature of the lines mirrored the absurdity of the subject at hand.
At least, for me.

The only exception I’d make to this is the verse/perverse line, which was just plain confusing

This poem has all the beauty of authenticity and controlled passion