The Tangled Branch Discussion Forums

I love
winter's
melon suns,
the way they
drip their
sweet perfumes
onto creme fraiche clouds,
soaking in the
ivory sponge
of winter.
just
the edges
of creme remain.
now a solid exterior for
persimmon
light
to glow
and
meander.

LOL.   :lol: :lol: I agree with what you are saying.  Somehow my mind likes to create these sorts of analogies that feel really resonant until they start to feel muddled.  I mean:  are we talking about poetry here, or trees?  I know how the two are inextricably linked, by way of the final stanza, bu...

What if all the poems of the world were trees, chopped down for kindling one by one until there were no poems left, entire ecosystems of free thought destroyed in a matter of moments; would you suck in the smoke and get high on poetic metaphor, one last time--to feel it stretch your imagination beyo...

This new feedback really clarifies the issue at hand.  I want to emphasize the light in the leaves, now i see why the luminescent butterflies don't work.  Thank-you! When feedback is specific to a particular poem, or a few poems, I'm able to learn and grow.  I call it the Martin Seligman effect.  Ho...

Hmmmm.   I could go with a different metaphor to go with lighted leaves that sticks closer to the leafiness, but I definitely cannot leave the poem high and dry.  It needs a transformative image of lighted leaves to close it off. I love your feedback and learn a lot from it.  I'll play with another ...

If you whistle 
to the autumn leaves
then watch their shadows
fly away,
just their tint and shine
will remain:
a sunlit symphony of
needled shape
and
color.

I do like stretching poems in many directions.  This one definitely spins through the subconscious in interesting ways.   I kind of like it.  But I can definitely see why others would not.  I think that's why I posted it here, to invite criticism.  lol. I have learned from the feedback on this site....

One of my favorite writes from you.  Clearly the subject matter is deeply personal, which is why this poem flows with a drumbeat.

Earth worms know soft threads of sunrise through heat of swelling soil while their tunnels tell the tale of home-spun darkness. When sun gives way to purpled clouds, each spilling rain in bundles, worms drill their way to the surface, to breathe in open air. Their pink robes dance and glisten in the...

This is a cool piece!