As far as I can tell, the American condition is hurrying from cocktail party to cocktail party, desperately waiting for someone to turn to us and say, "No, really, who ARE you - REALLY?" and being far too self-obsessed to ever ask anyone that ourselves. If we're ever lucky enough to be asked, we'll immediately lie or run away.

This is a comical turn on what we all do as writers. I laughed at myself, and that makes it a therapeutic read.

I like this, except for "joking oak". How many jokes could a joking oak joke if a joking oak could joke oak jokes?

For a second I thought you said "For [our sinful] worldly strife and troubles, don't treat us kindly [Lord]." Like you were asking him to treat us unkindly. I'm glad you weren't. Happy New Year.

Put a colon after "nose" to make it a sentence. You're cute when you're smitten. Shallow, yes, but love is shallow.

their. Good one.

"the whole effect was a draining of color from the landscape" You've already shown us this, why tell? And then "safe and vulnerable" is all you need there as well.

Watch out for changing from past-tense to present without reason (ie, your first sentence is "flew", but in the next line the streetlamps "stand".) On a similar note, I think you could improve this poem by giving it more, um, movement. More structure and progression. Your images are good, your ideas are good, the sense of place is good. We just want to see more how you move from one image to the next or one idea to the next. You can do this with a kinda progression of time (ie, you and the dog walk, the sun rises, the fog burns off, the pigeons come out, the pigeons fly away). Or by really thinking of yourself as a person there and looking (or moving) and thinking from one thing to the next in some order. Think like Hemmingway walking through Paris in The Sun Also Rises. Or think like you're turning your head or walking through a square; you see things a natural order, right? Things on your right, then things in the middle, then things on the left. I know that's a harder task than what you've been doing. But I know you don't want to sell yourself short when by just a little extra work you can make something really great. Anyway, this poem is pretty good as it stands. You can try working on it more, but a better idea is just keep structure and order in mind when you're writing the next one, maybe. Good work. Bravo. Cheers. Etc.

This is good except for Line 2, which can go, I think.

Better. Listening, Whitman => 'Whitman, listening,' stone to grass => stone for grass Oak => oak, suns => sun's This IS really nice. You're my vote for next poemranker richa, minus the temperment. I mean, you write great poems about small things.

Too many options to list. See dealer for details.

Who is he, Mr. Potatohead?

Not sure apex is what you mean, try spiral. And maybe curves should be curve. Otherwise good.

I wanted to post this poem on the 2nd Jan, unfortunately my comp crashed and afterthat I was out station. Nevertheless, it is a new year prayer for all the nations... Happy sharing!

I liked it, I don't know why. As far as critisizing it, I wouldn't do you enough justice, though I think you could change a couple of words here there.

Beautiful! I am a nature lover, and am almost always impressed with themes dealing with nature. I do not stress much on punctuation, but on the idea conveyed by the poet. Imagination is one of the most effective tools in poetry coupled with what you are within, and your expression in this poem is very impressive. Full marks to you, and I'm still waiting for the Oh merry Fay - part II.

when will you obey?

YOUR GIFT: Indwelling By Teresa Cader (republished without permission, natch.) In the crazy guest who saws off the chair legs, In the wind hissing beneath the door sweep, A tribe of mice squeezing through pocket doors, In the pants pockets where the evidence remains, Those filaments of wool in the moth-eaten rug, In the masquerade of motion that sets off the alarm, The alarm that arrives via airwaves at dinnertime, In the worm that opens e-mail, eats the address book, The virus propagating on the unsuspecting screen, In the cell that missed a loop of timing and purpose, The unpaid tax surfacing like a submarine, In the bloody stool and saliva, the mucus and membrane, Slits of sunlight discoloring blue curtains, In the broken gutter where ice dams pry up the roof, A crack in the skylight where mold sifts down, In the contractor hammering windmills on shingles, The carpenter bees burrowing barracks into the attic, In the funneling, the grating, the sagging, the gravitating— O icon of muck and filch; there is nothing you won't Divide, opening trap doors we forget to close.

Oddly, this is the 5th poem about flossing on poemranker. You'd think that's because we're so clever and 'wacky'.

Nice flow. Too many caps though.