The best...and worst of EvilToasterElf

EvilToasterElf

twin2 wrote:

I love reading all of yours. Your descriptions are amazing, but the one below, without a doubt, is breathtaking in my opinion. Just beautifully written.

This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.

twin2

EvilToasterElf wrote:

This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.

You are welcome. Good choice for first.

EvilToasterElf

The rain in Binghamton

scours the leaves from frosted branches.
The wrinkled fingers of oaks and spruce
cling a month too long to Autumn
like aging grandmothers
and remain outside until the sky
is bleached winter gray.

The rain in Binghamton
scatters the clusters of stray cats
and the faded fur mixes with dirt
almost black and almost orange.

The rain in Binghamton
breaks through the spotted holes of rooftops
and fills the dents in curling linoleum
like an army encampment
fills slim valleys before battle.

Being Enlightened

BTW, your thread is delightful! I haven't commented in it because, as you know, I'm not much of a critic but I do love your poems and think it's awesome that you're going to publish!!! Please let us know when and where we can get a copy once you've been printed.

Ms. Haiku

The Drive

Stale pictures fill are these the best words?
the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant

I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action
through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived.

a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
,

grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?


And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?

booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
straight from childhood wonder good

through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite?
of fatherhood.

She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
,
a cobblestone path to my our?
little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and do you need this word?
I follow her.

I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good

footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum, need the comma?
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as and?
she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.

EvilToasterElf

Bibliobella wrote:

The Drive

Stale pictures fill are these the best words?

You're right, this line could be a lot stronger.

the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant

Is this redundant? What if I was sitting in my driveway, or on the side of the highway, the only movement mentioned previous is the wipers

I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action

I'm not sure what this means

through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived. That's a good point, but I think the rest of the poem reinforces her importance

a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
I think it's better than the other way around. A silent movie is more like a memory.
,

grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?


And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?

Well what we have so far is a father driving in the middle of a storm, seeing pictures from his past in the windshield, listening to the radio shifting between all these different kinds of sounds, and then fixating, with all of his power on this one thought, his daughter. So she doesn't have to be mentioned in that fighting for clarity line, because she wins clarity. In the static, and the rain, and the darkness, it's just her.

booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
straight from childhood wonder good

through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite? I'm not quite sure opposites are needed, opposites are predictable.
of fatherhood.

She sits with our child wrapped
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
,
a cobblestone path to my our? Well, the poem is about him, he's inside his own head, I think it's ok to be a little selfish.
little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
and do you need this word?
I follow her.

This is an element I wanted to repeat from the part you didn't like in the first stanza. "and I drive through it. I drive. / and I follow her. I follow"

I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good

footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum, need the comma? that comma could move down to dawn probably
against the blonde strands of dawn
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as and?
she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.

It's the first time in the poem it's been light enough to see them. but yeah, they're just kind of mega-happy ending (a la Wayne's World) thrown in there

Once again thankyou so much for digesting this. I'm probably coming off hyper defensive but you've definately brought up things I have to look at, specifically the opening line. Have a pleasant weekend.

ETE

EvilToasterElf

Bleach

I live in a dirty town,
gray as the ethereal hair
of the widows who live in
the burned out peaks of Johnson City.
I wipe grime from a thin window,
which clouds like a snow globe,
left to dust and mothballs in a shoe box
filled with pictures of old vacations, sun burned
and smiling in the Keys.

I live in a town
where far more water bursts from pipes
than inspiration from empty factories,
and baby boomers cause more
fender benders than teenagers.
Blenders and microwaves rattle
the jaundice yellow of peeling paint,
not replaced since the sun set on JFK,
that top down day in Texas.

I live in a town
where ambitious work begins at midnight,
prying through garbage for beer bottles,
seeking redemption one nickel at a time.
Where shoulders brush overweight whores,
who prowl bare assed down Mather Street,
looking for a trick with a light.

I live in a town,
that is lifetime holder of the title,
“Carousel Capital of the USA,”
because even going in circles is movement.
Parents and siblings spin between three jobs,
to cling to the milky meniscus of the poverty line.
They pour into the cracks of state budgets
and a Welfare to Work program,
under the quiet snow.

stuckinline

when are you going to get published?

EvilToasterElf

gluten919 wrote:

when are you going to get published?

You guys will know as soon as I do.

stuckinline

EvilToasterElf wrote:

You guys will know as soon as I do.

ok, thanks!

EvilToasterElf

What God left in the Rough

The fifth shot
on a par five,
follows the last three
into the trees.
I find the first ball,
and I notice a small building
tucked between saplings.
Two stone pillars hold
the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks.
They guard
a rusted candelabra;
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles.
I stumble through forgotten shrines
bypassed arteries
to the heart beat of suburbia.

These religious relics
fade in the woods,
with waterlogged
Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers
for birdies and a good lie
were never answered.
The processions of nuns
from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers
and weeds pressed flat
by the grass
of the seventh fairway.
The crunch of footsteps
become the hum
of passing golf carts.
Though the hail Mary’s remain,
uttered silently on the back swing.


If I had hit my drive
fifty yards farther
my search would take me
to a clearing,
filled with moss and tall grass.
In that overgrowth stands
a rotting podium,
two feet above the plants,
where the litany's
and incantations of mass,
were conducted to those
who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds,
remembering that religion
consisted of more than words
in books and ceremony.

I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
many for every dimple of the shot
that I had found,
and I offer up my own,
in the hope
that stoking the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.

twin1

EvilToasterElf wrote:

What God left in the Rough

The fifth shot
on a par five,
follows the last three
into the trees.
I find the first ball,
and I notice a small building
tucked between saplings.
Two stone pillars hold
the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks.
They guard
a rusted candelabra;
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles.
I stumble through forgotten shrines
bypassed arteries
to the heart beat of suburbia.

These religious relics
fade in the woods,
with waterlogged
Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers
for birdies and a good lie
were never answered.
The processions of nuns
from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers
and weeds pressed flat
by the grass
of the seventh fairway.
The crunch of footsteps
become the hum
of passing golf carts.
Though the hail Mary’s remain,
uttered silently on the back swing.


If I had hit my drive
fifty yards farther
my search would take me
to a clearing,
filled with moss and tall grass.
In that overgrowth stands
a rotting podium,
two feet above the plants,
where the litany's
and incantations of mass,
were conducted to those
who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds,
remembering that religion
consisted of more than words
in books and ceremony.

I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
many for every dimple of the shot
that I had found,
and I offer up my own,
in the hope
that stoking the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.

Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.

EvilToasterElf

tchaliz wrote:

i definitly like what you do, each one is a picture of a moment in life, thanks for sharing,
T

Thanks for reading, this little threat is actually beginning to show me some patterns I haven't fully realized yet. I seem to fixate on two things, people and places. Although that may seem like a pretty broad generalizations, this isn't what's really in vogue right now. Most poets even authors are writing memoir and introspection.

EvilToasterElf

twin1 wrote:

Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.

Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments

twin1

EvilToasterElf wrote:

Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments

See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!

EvilToasterElf

twin1 wrote:

See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!

Well it's like those children's sport's coaches say, it's not practice that makes perfect, it's perfect practice. The best way to learn and evolve as a writer is to keep reading poetry - since it's pretty expensive if you're taking a shot in the dark - hit up the library

EvilToasterElf

She’s come undone

as dusk enfolds the trail.
She climbs until starlight melds
with the canopy, and severs
flashlight spectrums into silver coils
that bathe bare oak limbs.
Her foggy breath became memories
of skinny suburban kids
camping in backyard sing a’ longs
chanting guns and roses to an audience
behind sliding glass doors,
where smiling parents swell with lemonade
waiting for children’s dreams to reach murky fruition
in college dorm rooms, energized with hormones,
slaves to unknown thoughts that cling
like beer stains to white shirts.
Before professional entropy grips
that cubicle of the mind,
she sings in the shower to sold out crowds.
Imagined audiences scream her name
in voices that rise and fall to the stage,
rolling like quiet waves at a vacation getaway,
dancing in the air, like
the five pointed oak leaves that glide,
playfully to the grass,
outside her window.

twin2

EvilToasterElf wrote:

She’s come undone

"she sings in the shower to sold out crowds."

I liked the whole poem, but the line above made me smile.

EvilToasterElf

The way they ride their bikes

they stand on their pedals
hovering above the seat
the seat they never sit on
it does no good to get comfortable

they ride a few feet ahead
and turn

they measure themselves by hours per mile
and dollars per hour
by customers per night

the rusty fords stop
on the one corner without a street light
the window rises as fast as it falls
and as cars speed away the bikes
continue to wade circles into the sidewalk

they ride their bikes in the same patterns
as smoke rising from a joint
dissipating in the wind of police sirens

they ride like a bike was never built
that could outpace a lumbering junkie
never built to fly down a hill
with painless water in your eyes

they ride their bikes with unlaced boots
and wear undershirts
from the big and tall
with weapons smoldering in their eyes
potentially lethal
like blank checks and empty pages

they ride their bikes like urban hawks
driving over fields of drifting addicts
.
real estate on the wrong side of main street
can be gauged in the aluminum spokes
that slowly cleave the moonlight
in a place where the prestige of selling
sex and dope is survival

I know that Binghamton, the drug nexus
of the southern tier will always be measured
by the way they ride their bikes

EvilToasterElf

The part that leads and follows

A man walks along a pier
following his own shadow,
considering the state of his marriage
he does not notice when his shadow
swallows a dog, or a squirrel.
or two old ladies eating lunch on a bench.

He walks with the sun on his neck
and the world on his mind,
led by a human cloud,
which tilts its head
lets its arms absently fall to the side
and crushes a half dozen pigeons.

A shadow plays in the waves
while he looks out over the water.
He stares farther and farther away
as if he could only peer into himself
by following his gaze along the
curve of the Earth’s circumference.

He turns to go back to his office
and his shadow follows him like
a cape, an echo that keeps pace
with its source.

When he arrives at his building
the shadow of that tower consumes his own.
He is left a man in the dark.

When he reaches the window
of his corner office, his shadow
returns silently to his desk and
across the carpet.

The shadow of his left hand
cast darkness over his signatures,
and the surrounding legal texts.

When he folds the documents back together
and leans back in his chair,
the curve of his head is cast
onto the entirety of his divorce.

His wife arrives under the streetlights,
her shadow is bloated with an unborn
child.
The pregnant darkness sheds no water
from its two dimensions.
Soon that shadow will split in two
and will live under the black
worrying veil of its father.