My First Literary Review

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I’d like to try my first review,
A little novel full of passion,
The novel little work’s not new,
I think it has some real traction,

The author’s Earnest Hemingway,
Although perhaps it really isn’t,
Although, it’s got a lot to say,
Not all of it is very pleasant,

The first part seems a quite benign,
Homage to that ol’ Willy Loman,
Suggests we everyday resign,
To silly crass commercialism,

The second part shoots from the hip,
And shows the characters’ relations,
Although we only get a glimpse,
Not knowing of the books intentions,

The last part struck me to the core,
I could not ever see it coming!
It sent me sprawling to the floor,
My soul was rent, my heart sent running,

The author’s careful with his prose,
With no intent to waste description,
And seems to think the reader knows,
The truth of plot and folk sans mention,

Not like some books which spines we bend,
I note the theme is not apparent,
Until we reach the very end,
I guess that’s like a painful present,

I cannot help but recommend,
This little tome for you, the reader,
An easy read from start to end,
A patient read, that’s not too eager.

The Work In Question

Alone Time

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The toilet is a quiet place to be,
Potential’s always there to be exposed,
And that is why we quickly get displeased,
When someone interrupts us out of clothes,

It seems so silly when you think of it,
Why should it matter since we all are there,
But down deep down you want to take a sit,
In simple silence no-one needs to share,

Today I sat and heard a rhythmic sound,
The stall beside me was now occupied,
The rhythm failed followed by the sound,
A male voice that grunted; he then sighed,

I truly wish that he had got a room,
I wish him well, but that’s my quiet doomed.

An Other Poetic Form

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I read up on the sonnet yesterday,
Because, I wanted something new to write,
Because, I wanted something new to say,
Because, I didn’t want to be so trite,

I thought it was too difficult to write,
A poem shaped to make it too obscure,
And, then I got too tempted not to bite,
So, writing this began to feel unsure,

At last, the form begins to feel more pure,
The keyboard clacks with regulated feel,
I’m pounding out the stanzas quick and sure,
Impending words are ever ever real,

Oh my, I think that its conclusion’s starting,
The thing is done; my brain’s not worth a farthing.