Thanks, but what I need..: Thanks, but what I need is a knick. What good is a knack without a knick? By the way, you knew I couldn't resist. I took your name and came up with the perfect occupation for you. You can do it on here. I can't discuss salary, sorry. This is the position, can you handle it?
REDBRICK KESHNER = HE S/B R NERD KICKER
This piece hits with a quiet: This piece hits with a quiet power. Taking a classic like Let It Be and reshaping it into a call for mercy, unity, and basic human dignity gives the poem a deep emotional weight. The repeated “Let ’em be” becomes more than a refrain—it feels like a prayer for families, for hope, for a country trying to find its heart again. I really felt the ache in those lines about broken-hearted people and the reminder that we’re all under the same God. Beautifully done, Ramona. You turned a familiar melody into a message the world still needs to hear.
A powerful piece,: A powerful piece, Ramona.
You’ve written this with a clear conviction, and that certainty gives the poem its edge. Even when the subject matter is controversial, your willingness to speak boldly in your own voice is unmistakable. I always respect when a poet leans fully into their perspective and lets the lines carry that fire.
Art like this reminds me how poetry becomes a mirror—sometimes reflecting unity, sometimes tension, but always revealing something about the moment we’re living in. Thank you for continuing to write with such unapologetic force.
There’s a quiet fire in this: There’s a quiet fire in this piece — that sense of two souls recognizing each other beyond the masks, beyond the noise.
You captured that moment when a person stops running from their own light and finally lets someone stand beside them. The “rebel soul” and “future paradise” imagery hits with a beautiful mix of grit and hope, like love that’s been earned through storms.
I really felt the tenderness in the line about misfits joining — it turns vulnerability into strength, and that’s the kind of truth people don’t write unless they’ve lived it.
A powerful, intimate piece. Keep shining that fearless honesty.
This one feels like a: This one feels like a full‑color celebration of destiny waking up inside somebody. The way you frame the moment—“a day you can say that for you it all began”—gives the whole piece that spark of transformation, like watching someone step into the life they were always meant to claim. I love how the poem blends Mardi Gras energy with a deeper calling, turning the party into a doorway for purpose, courage, and becoming.
Your lines move with confidence and invitation, reminding us that dreams don’t just happen—they’re answered. This was a fun, spirited read with a heartbeat of hope behind it. Nicely done.
As a veteran who’s lived with: As a veteran who’s lived with the echoes of what you’re writing about, this piece hits with a truth most people never have to face. War Is Truly Hell isn’t just a title—it’s a reality that follows you long after the battlefield goes quiet. The way you speak on the “soul‑searing living death” and the memories that don’t let go… that’s the part civilians rarely understand, but you captured it without flinching.
Your lines about men fighting for greed and power—while the innocent pay the price—ring painfully familiar. Those of us who served know how much of war is carried by people who never asked for it. And yes, the question of how anyone lives with what they’ve done or seen… that one stays with you.
Thank you for writing this with honesty instead of glorification. Poems like this remind people that behind every uniform is a human being trying to make sense of the things they survived. I pray for that lasting peace too—because no one who’s seen war up close ever wants to see it again.