PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When love turns to PTSD. I: When love turns to PTSD. I get it.   Your running metaphor was a grenade to the heart and it exploded into devastatingly brilliant lines. At the end, there was a hush, an eloquent silence, that hovered as I took in the impact of that last word "alone". A stoke of genius to isolate that last line and imbue it with so much weariness, finality and significance.    Amazing image work. Remarkable. 

That last quatrain describes: That last quatrain describes a large part of my earlier years.

Thanks Starward! Coming from: Thanks Starward! Coming from you this is very high praise and I do not think my huffing and puffing could ever match your keen intellectual and your incredible analysis of any and all things 

This is another excellent: This is another excellent testimony yo the Faith; and I applaud your work in this series.  Admittedly, I found the seventh line to be difficult; using the contraction "You'd" in order to achieve a rhyme compliance with the sixth line seems like a stumbling block.  Other than that, this is a very excellent poem.

Another excellent testimony: Another excellent testimony to the Faith . . . . the emphasis on Grace is tremendously important.

Thank you very much for: Thank you very much for understanding and empathizing, and not treating it as just some old man's ranting.  This year, for some reason, I am starting to see patterns in my life as far back as kindergarten, patterns that were always there but I was not mature enough to notice.  I remember a September afternoon during kindergarten (we only attended four hours in the morning and were home by about noon).  I was sitting on my swingset, and the thought suddenly occured to me---and it was almost palpable---that the same sunlight that was shining on me in my parents' backyard was also shining on the chirch building (where our kindergarten met in the basement; the school district rented severa; basements from chuirches for the kindergarten classes, which were still a new development in our area).  Then---and this thought almost overwhelmed me---I realized that if the sunlight could be in two places at once, it must always be shining on my grandparents' residences; and I begin imagining all the various "landmarks" that I loved there:  the plank bridge over the creek's branchlet; the robin's egg blue corner of their cottages foundation slab that the grass never managed to cover; the pump box that delivered water; the lilac bush; and the rusted iron trellis that the spring vines loved to climb.  On that September day, at the very beginning of my thirteen years of compulsory schooling, I was able to imagine---without being there---the sunlight glowing over my grandparents' residence.  I should like to think this moment was another of the beginnings of my journey toward Poetry. Please forgive me if this reply seems verbose.