Content: death

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This is an alternative POV to Chapter 7 in the novel Broken. If you have read Broken (Chapter 7) or want to read both and comment on which works better - Finn Koski's back story and his POV as to why he is incarcerated for the death of his wife OR Grace's POV as his therapist, hearing the story in dialogue from Finn, I would really appreciate the feedback. Also, is it too much to have doctor and patient both have gone through the cancer and death of their spouses or does it make Grace believably empathetic toward her patient? The rest will be covered in Chapter 8 in Broken.

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A short history of promising quarterback Joe Roth, his early death, and a final victory. Any feedback OK.

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I want to know about knitting, rips and tears. I'd also like to know if this is a unique plot idea. Have you ever seen this plot twist in fiction before. If so, where?

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A woman walks into a bar....I wrote this for the Kenyon Review Fiction Contest, maximum length 1200 words and I'm right up against the limit. Reactions, please. Also, note that the deadline for the contest is Feb.28. Good opportunity for flash fiction writers.

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Well... Here's the long awaited (hah) second half of my post apocalyptic story Ashen. The main character sets out on his journey across the desolate planet as an immortal. Let me know what you think of his thoughts on being immortal and his choices. I wrote this half and the first half quite some time apart so I'm not sure how well they'll fit. Have fun :)

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Violetta Maresca, a widow with five children whose husband dies suddenly and unexpectedly finds a new life with the adoring Alfred. his is a short piece (less than 1200 words) I would like to submit to the Kenyon Review contest. Any and all feedback is appreciated.

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Another poem from an old notebook that I re-thought and re-worked. Comments welcome, as always.

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This was written some time ago and recent events prompted me to re-work it and make a few changes. Comments welcome.

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The plight of an addict. All comments welcome.

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This is my entry for the sports story contest. I can remember this day like it was yesterday!

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Here is a story about some really happy people. Enjoy!

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I volunteer at a VA hospital. I also interview vets for the Veterans History Project at the Library of Congress. This is a brief meditation on the horrors of war.

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lit-fiction about neighbors ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

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I have absolutely no experience in writing, but a lot of my friends say I have some talent. I am aiming to get this book published and perhaps make some money for Law school. Please send me your constructive comments. Thanks. PS. If you think of a better name for this story, let me know!

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A child is discarded, left to die in a dumpster.

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A warrior humorist. Does this work for you as a short story? Any comments welcomed.

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open verse remembering Viet Nam any feedback welcome

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Siobhan Doyle struggles to reconcile her faith and sexuality following the death of her tyrannical father. New readers: It's great to have you on board. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, start with chapter one. You will just be confused if you jump into the story midstream. The opening chapters are the ones that need the most work, anyway. :) Thank you everyone for your support.

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Deathwalker is a supernatural tale of the assistants of Death who try and help user the souls of the deceased to the River of Life. This is not as always as easy as it sounds. Especially as the war of Heavens rolls on around them. First off I can always use a second set of eye for any grammatical errors. But I would also like honest review and thoughts on the subject matter.

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Some days you have only yesterdays

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This is a poem I wrote as a tribute to my mother and father whom are now both deceased, And with the help from a very kind and understanding member of this site who encouraged me to dig down deep and help guide me to write in a less hall markish manor ty very much JBourey, and ty to all the rest who have also had faith in me hope you like this one I dug way down deep..

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This is a (short) short story I've been working on for a writing class I'm taking this semester. Any comments welcome.

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Notes sometimes carry long messages.

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This is dedicated to my father who recently passed away. rest in peace daddy

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The year is 2110. His name is Neffs, Bowen G.: he is an American Soldier in the US Army's 75th Ranger Regiment. The world around him and his new wife, Claire has exploded in what amounts to a global scale civil war. Provoked by violence increasing over the years between ordinarily bred human beings and augmented GenIV genosculpts, the demand of the UN Security Council that the US Congress mandate loyalty tests for all genetically augmented service members prompts the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to publicly refuse this directive and calls globally for a forcible ouster of all complicit governments bent on this newly instituted form of slavery. Around the world, in a series of highly coordinated night attacks at various military and governmental facilities surprise and overwhelm incumbent forces and the violence spreads. Suprisingly, they are mostly bloodless, with the numbers of killed and wounded collectively under one hundred. The enemy proves to be surprisingly well organized and supplied, their careful and painstaking preparations having gone unnoticed over the years, supported by an unexpectedly large segment of the world’s civilian population. Serious delays occur while the President, House and Senate argue the suspension of the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878. By then, lines have been drawn and the declaration of hostilities formalized. A new husband, a new Ranger, and a new platoon leader, Bowen and the Third Rangers must fight men and women who share the same language, culture, history, and wore the same uniform at one point. The year is 2110 . . . and the world is at war. It is Gabriel’s War . . .

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This is a poem I wrote back in '07 which was later turned into a song...

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A short dark poem I wrote a while ago...

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I worked on the rhythm of this piece for some time. It's one of my faves, but I want the reader to tell me if I've hit the right note.

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a painfully short love story...

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An erotic love poem about loving someone even past death. Detailed criticism encouraged

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A supernatural tree in a secluded valley is discovered by the Tierra Tribe. The tree produces a healing fruit, but only after joining with the Tree Woman. The tribe is split and goes to war over whether the Tree Woman should be venerated or vilified.

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Cosmetic alterations of seemingly all body parts, including the most private of privates, suggests the proverbial Fountain of Youth is becoming more than just a global obsession. It’s apt to become an unforgiving phenomena of delusion.

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Looking around, it seems so easy for some to perpetuate the past. For some of us, repeating what once was holds little impetus for future discoveries.

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This poem could be about a number of stars (of whom I was a fan,) but was inspired by Amy Winehouse's recent death. Though she wasn't a favorite of mine, I'll dedicate this to her. All comments appreciated.

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This is obviously a poem. I would appreciate feedback about whether it works for you and if so, why or why not. Does it create feeling, a mood, a picture, what. Thanks.

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Stella is a fourteen year old girl who is at loose ends after her parents are killed in a bizarre killing in Washington D.C. The court has been instructed to have her live with her Aunt Roz in a tiny beach town just south of the city. However, Stella is resistant to change and wants to live with her errant uncle Finney and his home-bound wife, Debbie. Roz embarks on a campaign to sway the girl to her way of thinking and move to Wilke's Beach until she is at least 18. I am looking for input as to the story line, the characterizations and general mass appeal. Thanks!!

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I have made some changes due to some excellent contributions from filliam, tina_dc_hayes and deb... Any and all further feedback very welcome...

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A simple theme.

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Deception and corruption shadow April Chastain as she returns to her hometown, Magnolia Blossom, Mississippi, as a starry-eyed young reporter to work for Russell Dalton, a man she idolizes. Having survived being shot when she was six when both her parents were murdered April comes home, and clues regarding her parents’ murder and murderers who have never been apprehend trickle to light. April finds herself caught up in a web of romance, mystery, and danger. Both she and Russell realize quickly that if they can survive the truth, a lifetime together stares them in the face. Any and all feedback welcome: characterization, plotting, pace, dialogue, readability.

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I do not want this to be corny so be very hard on me. This is a theme I tend to write a lot on and I truly don't know why. I am haunted by the pain our vets have suffered down through all the wars. I have witnessed the destruction of families and friends trying to understand what they cannot nor will they ever be able to.

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No literary feedback as this is more of a statement. I can't get flowery or try and rhyme etc etc ... This is about a young man ... my son-in-law cousin who was like his brother died in his sleep two nights ago. He leaves a wife and two young children. My sister also died in her sleep a couple of years ago. This piece is for Jonas. It raises a question I have always had! Do they know they are dead? If one is dying and knows it they go through a process of dying. They know the end is nearing. A simple but complex question

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This is the beginning of a modern love story, set in Qatar, a small country in the Middle East and the male protagonist is trying to escape the family pressure to get married. I'd like to know if the story is engaging and if the characters are interesting.

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Well, it's as good a night as any for stirring up a hornet's nest... This subject is extremely complex and, in my opinion, has no "right" answers. Perhaps the most valid ones are deeply personal. I tried to envision and describe what it would feel like to receive news of my own impending death, especially the aftermath of helplessness brought on by fear of pain, suffering, and loss of control and dignity. For me, the central issue is one of empowerment and choice. Comments about the poem or its subject matter are welcomed. **And, by the way: this poem really WAS circular. The format here warped it into an oval ** So sorry.

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My new husband and I love totally different music. He is a bass player of Jazz.. while I can enjoy it... he doesn't really embrace my simple need for 'gut reaction to music.' Music has been my escape through abuse and sorrow. I live within music. He lives within correctness of music I think. These are simply raw emotions I expressed after we both listened to some music. He wasn't stirred by mine and I was left wanting by his.

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This is what I call a "seed" piece. It gives an overview, and I am wondering where to take it. All ideas welcome.

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For ten years I've watched the PBS News Hour name off the war dead at the end of the show. Just kids, some of them die dreaming of a future that never comes. To grow a beard is a manly thing that lets you feel your oats and it gives one a new perspective of self... but some will never know this simple thing that is part of a man's life.

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This is a tribute to my mother - a lovely woman possessed of a beautiful soul.

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Can stubbornness be taken beyond the grave?

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To quote Edgar Allan Poe - Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? I don't fully understand why I am so fascinated by the concept of multiple realities, but find myself returning again to the subject. Since its first posting, this story has been dismantled and and reconstructed. Hopefully its flow and comprehension has improved. Your comments are invited and appreciated.

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Thanks to everyone for the Very Constructive critiques of the original Daniel. You may see your suggestions incorporated into this re-post. My sincerest thanks go to each of you. Of course, once again I turn to the multi-talented people on this site asking for a review of this version.

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I'm not sure how to condense it into a summary so just read the poem.

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A story about love, loss, death and damnation. I have revised this entirely with many of the altercations recommended by those who have already reviewed it. I would very much like some fresh feedback.

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I can’t help but wonder, is the coming and going of the tide a parallel. The cradle to the grave.

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A wealthy doctor who travels the world finds contentment when he returns to his home, and a lot more.

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This is a subject that has haunted me since I was a small girl with two uncles in the Korean War. One who slept with a gun under his pillow so we had to be careful waking him. He would break out in a sweat and moan. Most likely reliving. Which is worse? Dying on a battlefield or the walking dying who live each day on the battlefield they left so long ago. What are the 'trues reasons man goes off to battle?' I would thing they are varied but I would venture they had no clue what they were getting into. Nor did they truly understand who and why they were killing. To question your government was simply not done. Those who did lived in fear and isolation. I have seen the walking dead. On street corners, silent in wheel chairs unable to meat the eyes of the onlookers. For what will he or she see? Disgust? Pity? Any true understanding how devastated these souls are and how for some, death would have been kinder. There is no way I can understand nor fully see into the heart and life of one at war. I can't. But I do recognize the horror when I see it reflected and the total lack of life in blank staring eyes who long ago gave up the will to get anyone to understand.

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"The tests reveal you have a tumor in your pancreas..." These are the words we hope and pray we never hear, yet these were the very words the Gastroenterologist spoke as Max and I waited for the "but" followed by the miraculous news that made him the exception. This was not to be, however, and so we were referred to an Oncologist, and we went home knowing Max was dying... On the way home silence filled the car. Suddenly, Max shouted, "Pancakes. Pancakes and bacon." I just looked at him not knowing what he was talking about. "I don't think I need to worry about my cholesterol any longer." Max said with his boyish grin. "So I want pancakes and bacon for breakfast every morning." "That is exactly what we will have!" I replied struggling to hold back my tears. Max was not one who was fond of being coddled. "Give it to me straight, no sugar coating." the once Marine aviator told the doctors. At home, after the first several weeks of tiptoeing around the reality of his impending death, I was gently reminded, "No sugar coating." This was my first attempt to accept the reality of my beloved's fate...

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"I read the news today, oh boy" Lennon & McCartney

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I'm pissed off. It's always the gun. Gun manufactures the world over make a dangerous product with no other purpose but to inflict damage on human beings, and for profit... this is insane! And we sit and watch like Gooney Birds the carnage and destruction throughout our country and history...

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This work is an attempt to explore the emotions and questions that arise from human tragedy. It raises the questions, but not the answers. While the questions raised are specific to a situation, similar questions are eventually asked by all. //God is defined in the broadest sense--and I hope it causes thoughtful introspection only. There is also a bit of "Eastern Philosophy" in this, as we are all affected by our experiences--and I spent 19 years in Japan and four of my seven children were born there.// A thought to consider; mustn't God loves us all?(regardless of our specific religion, or lack thereof). This is the first in a the first in a series of poems designed to provoke thought.

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This suicide poem of a Samurai is an attempt to underscore the cultural differences between western culture and eastern culture. The west is largely Christian. In Japan Christians amount to less than 3%. The culture is largely agnostic--Buddhism and Shintoism are the primary 'religions' although they are more philosophies than religions.//Imagine not believing in a supreme being and contemplating the end of your life as an absolute ending, by your own hand?//This poem is the creation of the author's imagination and is not at all authentic. I'm not Japanese but I've lived in Japan for nineteen years over a thirty five year period from the mid fifties to the late eighties. I graduated from a Japanese grade school in 1964.//The Japanese have a deep sense of honor. They are particularly sensitive to anything that reflects negatively on themselves, their family or their company. Most suicides in Japan are over issues of honor.//Personally, I'll never forget receiving a hand delivered wedding invitation on Monday, only to have it have it retrieved the following Monday, because the father of the bride opposed the marriage, and executed his wife, son and daughter with a Samurai sword, and then took his own life. The groom was the President of a large Japanese distribution company.//This poem, and many other cultural differences and nuances, are what inspired me to write the novel Executive Samurai.

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This piece is a homework assignment for a writing class I'm taking. I'd like your response to the piece and anything you want to say about it. What can I do to make the writing better? I welcome all feedback - style, word choice, nits, etc. Thanks.

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Watching the Armistice Day Remembrance Service on the television, I thought of my wife's grandfather who died, aged thirty-three, at The Battle of the Somme in the First World War.

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■“What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly.” ~ Lao-tzu

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I don’t know if there's an afterlife, but it would be nice to fly away.

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"""

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"A Matter of Life and Death" is a tale of a tiny Midwestern town harboring a dastardly secret, festering to an ultimate showdown a quarter of a century after the story begins. Friendships are questioned, lifes are ruined, some lost, all with an isolated farmhouse in Fosterburg, Ill., as the muse for the saga.

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Like most writers, my writing is a necessary means of therapy. There's no need to review this, it's just something I had to write. http://www.grimesfuneralchapels.com/obits/2009/nibblett.htm

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This poem was inspired by a recent tragedy that happened to a friend of my daughter's. She and her son were on their way to the hospital to find out the sex of her unborn child when they were involved in a terrible car accident. She and her son lived, but she lost the baby, a little girl she had prayed for. Little Nadia Claire died in utero from the impact of the air bag.

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This is my memory of my father's passing back in December of 2004. I was with him that day, and it was an experience I am glad to have had. As heart wrenching as it was to watch him die, I know that it was meant to be for me to be there with him.

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Those of you who saw the first version may barely recognize this one. I made it more true to who I am, a non-believer. And I think I added the rawness that everyone said was missing. This is something I hope to publish, so go ahead and rip it to shreds.

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A woman I respect a lot said that I should write a story about my elders. So I have written this piece about my father, just to share. I have no idea if I'll clean it up and try to publish it or not. While I'd love to hear how people react to it, you don't need to tear it up. Be gentle please.

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Ivan's first night out as a new cabbie takes an unexpected detour

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i wrote this when thinking about a friend who's just found out her brother only has a few weeks to live...he's only 53

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Those who have watched the category change a few times, my apologies - I'm not sure where this fits in because it is *not* my story. I have not yet editted this so that it is an African-American piece. But it came to me this afternoon, and I wanted to put it down before I lost it. Fact is, there are a lot of things technically wrong with this piece. The Quartmaster Corps are actually morticians! Also, it is short. I will be expanding on it eventually. For now, just rip it apart. And whatever you tell me, I will fix.

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A little witch girl is caught in a maelstrom of magic and menace.

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Thanks to Mr. Harold Bloom poetry critic and author for this idea. He quite likely wouldn't like this little poem but that's okay. I sometimes disagree with him as well.

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Comments always welcome. This is how we feel when we lose someone close.

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Who are you? Really?

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My writing penchant is humour, so this one is unusual for me, but had to be written. Whether I should have posted it on tNBW is another matter. I find the saturation promotional advertising of up-coming tv programs to be extremely irritating. One in particular that was doing the rounds really p'd me off. As I lay in bed one night trying to sleep I got quite incensed. I could not sleep until I had grabbed my laptop computer and wrote down what was bounding around inside my skull. This is the result.

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Just days ago, Madelyn Jacobs thought not getting into any of her top three colleges or snagging the guy who serenaded the summer stars were the biggest nightmares in her life. That was before being raped by her best friend’s boyfriend. That was before being put in a coma by the jealous bitch when she misinterpreted the scene. That was before trying to function after waking up all broken and torn, only to have a demon or something bust into her bedroom and tag her as The Keeper of some freakin’ list.



When the first person of ten dies in her presence, that’s way weird. The second time, it’s bloodcurdling. She can't avoid people, she tries. She can't run, she tries. An unseen hand always ushers her to the next demise, randomly shows her the list, in windows, in mirrors, on scraps of paper, even behind closed lids, and makes her feel more powerless than ever. And the sweet singer she loves now stands at number seven. As tattered as she is, can she find a way to break the curse before others die and the lover of her heart is gone forever?



*Strong language

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This little poem has been percolating in one form or another for a couple of years. Easter seemed like an appropriate day for it to appear. Comments welcome.

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This work is from the novel, Corporate Samurai "love begets hate, trust begets betrayal, lust leads to death". It attempts to convey the emotions and thoughts, in song form, of a woman Samurai to the one true love of her life--who is also a Samurai. This song is written at a time when she suspects their relationship will not be sustainable, as her lover comes from a much inferior heritage than her own--something her family will not accept.

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This is an old poem circa 1987 that my wife recently unearthed from an old, forgotten diary. This is somewhere in between a poem and a short story. I plan to include this, along with "Bane" in a gothic werewolf novel I am currently working. I am seeking any and all feedback. Thanks for taking the time to read, and hopefully, review as well.

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Short poem written at the death of a comrade, later read at Uncle's funeral, a WWII veteran.

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Feedback welcomed

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I just did some tweakin' and would love any feedback or suggestions on this poem. I had the most trouble with the second stanza, but kinda think I like it now, maybe; I'm going for a staccato, choppy sound with 'are plucked or hewn', so I'm wondering if that works or not. Your help is always appreciated. :)

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Since you've hung in this far, any comments on the second part of the story are welcome.

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A poem in the form of a song for Haiti... No reviews are needed as only my own way of handling sadness I feel watching the horror... Not a critical piece of writing. Just heartfelt feelings that keep racing through my head. So little distance between Haiti and our own shores. How in God's name was this allowed to happen. Not the earthquake but the very conditions that led to so many deaths.

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Sort of a "stream of consiousness" thing.

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I try to encourage any and all feedback. I realize this poem is cryptic, so here is the meaning of this poem for those who are interested: My mother died last year, so I was the one grieving in this poem. My wife and I decided to have a third child after my Mom's death. I didn't actually want the third child until I lost my mother, which changed my mind. It seems that I have been to several funerals of relatives and friends lately and it forced me to think of my own mortality and how short life is. My decision to have another child was born out of my grief for my mother and my realization that children are the only way to extend oneself into the future. My wife and baby boy are both fine. Little Noah Elisha was one day old when I wrote this poem. Tanka is defined as follows: "Haiku is always written in 3 lines. Tanka has an additional 2 lines of 7 syllables each with a line space after the Haiku section." Also, I am following the Japanese traditional rule that long vowells count as two syllables, or onji.

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A Compulsion Obeyed.

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When Maggie Bernett returns to Bonaventure Cemetery to visit her dead husband Clem, she has an experience of a lifetime.

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No feedback neccessary, I just felt like writing this after recently losing our dear black Lab, Jet. I miss him.

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I wanted to draw a comparision. The short life of a butterfly and the life span of a child. A child born in the desert of a third world country.

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A story about loss and gain.

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***Updated on 4-22-2009 with edits. Thanks for all the feedback so far!** 19-year-old Diane Macauliffe's dreams are haunted by a walking, talking skeleton--and that's the least of her worries! First, she must survive basic training at Fort Devon's Army Base. With an inspection looming, she and fellow med-tech trainees Jack and Susie have been assigned clean-up duty in Devon's hospital morgue, which is rumored to be haunted. Jack comes up with a plan to smuggle in beer so that they can drink while they work, risking expulsion from the Army if they are caught. The three friends meet Edgar, a creepy janitor with a dark past who often lurks nearby. Edgar becomes trouble when he discovers what the young trainees--who have dubbed themselves "the morgue drinking club"--are up to. Is the morgue really haunted by ghosts, or merely by someone of flesh and blood who wants to keep them away? Diane must also face the thing she is most afraid of--the repressed memory of the way her father died. Along the way, she learns that she is not alone. After all, everyone's afraid of something; some of us are just better at hiding it than others. This is a young adult novel for readers ages 14 and up. I would like feedback on what works in this story and what doesn't, and how it could be made better. I think the characters are solid and I'm happy with the dialogue (however, please feel free to disagree--one agent commented that he thought the female characters sounded too old for 19, but I think their dialogue rings true. I'd be interested to learn what other writers think). I think the plot needs tightening, and I'm concerned that there may be too many times in the book where the characters are just talking--are these scenes boring? Also, I suspect that the plot may need more tension to drive it forward--maybe more creepy scenes with Edgar and Diane? Finally, does the plot go off on too many tangents? Any suggestions and feedback on these and other aspects of the book would be welcome.

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Revised / appended: This story was inspired by a poem posted by Brosna11. It is the tale based upon a true account of a 9-year-old boy returning home from school one day to find his family's barn on fire and his father dead from a gunshot wound to the head. Any and all reviews welcome.

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My father suffers from Lewy Body Disease. Most people have never heard of it but it is similar to Alzheimers. Up until recently it had affected him physically rather than mentally. He decided about a month ago that he wants to die. He has gone downhill quickly since then. I went in to see him before going to Europe. He refuses food a lot of days but that day he asked me to feed him lunch. It was sweet and painful at the same time. I changed a couple more things. Just small ones. I had to put this away for a while and then come back to it.

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The grottos of New York City can be a terrifying place for any twenty-five year old, especially for a recent Ivy League drop-out, especially when you’ve been spoon-fed caviar since the cradle. In his final year at Amherst, Ethan Elliot—privileged heir to the QuikClean dynasty—flees New England, abandons a promising future at a top financial firm and moves into a loft on the outskirts of Williamsburg, Brooklyn in hopes of finding something “greener.�? What he finds is anything but. Instead, he’s hurtled far from the boroughs of New York on a life-altering, cross-country, roller-coaster ride into the bowels of Middle America with Jules and Wolfgang, his just-as-lost tour guides, each of them towing their own trunk-full of emotional “drag-age.�? They take off in a derelict Chevy Chevelle expecting to find Jules’ deceased biological mother, Lisa; themselves, and the world they once knew. What they don’t expect is to be taken hostage by a schizophrenic family member that none of they have ever met. However, it’s not until they come upon Lisa’s Law: an edict of good will penned by the namesake to “make a long-lasting impression on at least one other life, for the better�? that the central theme begins to surface. The Law of Lilies is a character driven, coming of age story about forgiveness, survival, and our redemption as a human race. It takes the reader through Ethan’s slapdash, and often times frightening view of today’s America. But more than simply a story about a character’s fruition; at approximately 60,000 words, it’s a challenge to the reader to make the world a more beautiful place, regardless of the ugliness of one’s past. Thrid round draft. Looking for any advice: creative, technical, what have you.

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"I Know You By Heart" takes an extended family through the death of its matriarch and then through the formalities of the mourning period. This premise seems very mundane I suspect, but no doubt you know from experience, that no mourning period for anyone, or any family is like any other. All members of all families have unfinished business, hidden scandals, fearful secrets that create unwitting behavior. Each character provides harsh but horribly true information revealed for the first time. In “I Know You by Heart,�? all of these elements float about uncontrolled and the family appears to run amok. As adults, we have learned that reasonably responsible people often respond to crisis in irrational ways. This particular family grieves, begrudges, punishes and begins to love again over time.

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This story for teenagers deals with grief and finding closure after the death of someone close. I wrote it not long after my mother died and I think, to some degree, I probably wrote it to try and gain a different perspective. I would value any feedback, thank you.

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Any and all feedback welcome!

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I wrote this thirteen years ago, the day my mother died. I think of poetry the way I think of art, it doesn't matter if you love or hate the work, but it's WHY you love or hate it. The artist is looking to stir an emotion, and that's all I ask.

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Being only able to imagine the loss sustained by Mishmont (Michelle)recently, I found myself deftly reminded of Dali's imaging of the eternal. Trying to ground my imaginings with words--that hopefully convey the condolences felt--I was next compelled to re-read a few chapters of Michelle's heartfelt dedication to her life partner. The lyricism of her writing drew me into my musical instrument of choice, a grand piano lost in a fire, and in its rather inordinate representation as one of my greatest losses (following that of my parents a few years ago). I was finally struck by the memories of the piano's ability to lift my spirits, and because the painting of Dali's hung behind it, the two impressions came forth as one. Knowing your love of music, hopefully my piano memories as metaphor will prove to offer a bit of solace in you time of grief. Wishing you peace. Odin

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This song is dedicated to my recently deceased mother. I wrote it as a testament of my grief and despair. I plan to rewrite this as a traditionally metered ballad some day. As usual, ANY and ALL feedback is appreciated and desired, so please take a bit more time and review while you view.

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Facing the end, forgotten moments surface. (Revised 4/10/09)

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Children... Innocence.....Questions..... Promises.. Mockery Answers? Why?... Man's Need to block realities with beliefs?

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This a true story from 1985. everything is factual. Nothing is made up or exaggerated. Any comments you care to make are welcomed.

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The death of a church pianist and music teacher doesn't mean her music will die.

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Warning: this is a little on the messed up side. This is another poem that one of my "characters" wrote. He is deeply traumatized, 22 years old and has pychotic breaks/flashbacks. I don't want to give too much away because this is from book 3. The character has constant suicidal thoughts, but is unable to act on them. I'm really trying to work on refining the poetry style, becasue I've never written poems before.

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What are we to make of life when it takes so many forms?

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My Goddaughters grandfather passed away two hours ago. He leaves a huge hole in their hearts.

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A Message From Those Who Died In One War To Those Who Are Dying Today. The futility of war and power of greed.

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The contortion and control of what we the public see and here by the right winged controlled media. Murdock and his control. Lack of news thats affects us as a nation.

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I'm trying to capture a memory, a feeling. What needs smoothing?

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An open letter to my brotha is a response to looking around my community and seeing too many young men dying from violence.

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What do you get for a Mother who has everything?

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What legacy will you leave behind?

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Once again i am not sure where to put this. it is a love story..it is the truth A true love story that we all would hope to experience. I knew both parties and dearly loved them both. They taught me what love should be and I have never experienced. We lost one of my heroes to ALS not so long ago. I wrote this as a tribute to this beautiful man. I tried to climb into his soul and tell him what he wanted to say to those he left behind. especially his partner. I only pray I did him juctice.

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Life in the South circles and swarms me.

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This piece is presented solely to encourage thought. The questions asked-I suspect, have been asked since the emergence of conscience, thinking mankind. Obviously there are no definitive answers to these questions. However, as death is truly the only inevitable, universal experience that all creation experiences, perhaps it's worth asking these and many other questions. If nothing else realizing that your questions are shared is of value, isn't it? At least that is the motivation that prompted this poem. It is the last in a series of five poems that started with 'Why God?'

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Sonny always comes up with the fun ideas. Here's my chaiku vs. haiku. Both forms feature my murderous cats.

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This piece is only an attempt to explore some of the continuing, unanswerable questions that face mankind. The stated answers are only intended to cause the reader to think. Obviously these questions have faced mankind since conscience thought became possible.

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THIS IS A DEDICATION TO THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO MAKE THE FINAL SACRAFICE TO PROTECT US ALL and especially to one man who inspired me to write this poem, you will never be forgotten, Wayne.

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Xuxiki you have inspired me again with your piece "together forever."

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This is a story about my mother who died two years ago. I had a difficult time writing this and Whatta spent a great deal of time helping me improve it. Thank you, Mitch.

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This is the first draft of The Erstwhile Hearts Guild Chapter 3. This story is coming to me sort of haphazardly,(hence no Chapter 2 yet) but I take it with me everywhere. Any feedback is helpful. Thank you in advance

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Taking a page from Poe...shades of The Tell-Tale Heart and The Black Cat.

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There's a tree outside my bedroom window. Betwixt Fall and Winter, when it has lost all its leaves, it projects quite the horrific image...this is my attempt to capture what I imagine.

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Reflections on death...What will your legacy be?

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The free world they came to find turns out to be something else.

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It is shaped like Mediterranean island, but may also be seen as a flight...or zigzag fall...my myth laced story of being human.

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I normally don't approve of qualifying a poem, but because this was a rather large departure from my normal approach, I thought I'd say a few words about its genesis. This poem chose to write itself (my pen tends to have a mind of its own sometimes). It veered away from the very personal to explore what major elements make up life's experience; the impact birth, dreams, and dawns can have on one's anticipation of death one day; and the way endings beget beginnings in the ever repeating cycle of life.

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This really came out of nowhere. I was just letting my mind wander, and thoughts of my past floated through my head, along with thoughts of a situation that has been my companion for the last 17 months. I had to reach out to my family, from whom I have been estranged for the last few years, for some possible assistance. I guess this sort of echoes my life with my sisters.

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If that wasn't bad enough, he'd headed back home, only to find his best friend Walter, that no good son of a bitch, running around the living room playing a game of naked pin the tail on the donkey with his wife, Sissy.

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