plot of an unwritten masterpiece
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plot of an unwritten masterpiece
the universal language of children is ice cream two scoops, a bowl a box of toys a layer of green lawn sprinkled dreams the pedals turn and turn and turn the sun drips the yellows of a hundred years... |
Submitted on 2013-04-19 15:26:47 Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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If God wrote poetry, he would have penned this in exactly these words.| | Posted on 2017-03-18 00:00:00 | by WriteSomething | [ Reply to This ] | at a time, when a blink was a rhyme, | never needed words to fill my mind, and never can look back for that me died nothing but an edit for the retrospective lie sea saw was a salt for a playground wound and the backyard swing was a trip to the moon back then i didn't even know the word assume back then the son was the sun I was both of them too fragments collect and i'm parched again, the untainted memory of nickelodeon and the falsified memory of children laughing and it didn't bother that was the source of what i was hearing an island isn't an island when you think we all live on it just like the earth doesn't shake if the plate doesn't shift but oh through all of this sorrow from the joy i still scream for ice cream like any lost boy. | Posted on 2015-09-15 00:00:00 | by ShyOne | [ Reply to This ] | what i like here is the title and how it applies (for me at least) to the thoughts of youth. it's all a masterpiece when your 5 or 6 or at least under 10 before living life jades your view. | tomes could be written about mint chocolate chip ice cream, how grass feels on the feet, how you could pedal for days (and oh boy i did. banana seats were the bomb!!!). or how the sun can drip one hundred year yellows for eons..... it will keep recurring.... just for different kids on different days for the remainder of my life at least. that's just my take. but i am a weirdo. | Posted on 2014-06-03 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ] | I really loved the timelessness of the simple remembrances , --ones everyone can relate to,--strung together like pearls to form a poignant whole. I felt a tug at the old heartstrings, as i related to the poem, similar to the feelings when looking back through a high school year book,--or stumbling upon some abandoned pioneer homestead built decades before my birth. At one such site I once saw suspended about 8 feet above my head the remnants of an old wooden swing dangling from a weathered section of heavy coarse rope. Suddenly I could hear a child laughing, and felt the love of the father who had built it for his child---and i swear I caught the aroma of freshly baked bread emanating form the primitive wood-stove that lay under the collapsed roof, rusted and sprinkled with sunbeams and vegetation. Not much of a critique--just my thought. | "Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these." Susan B. Anthony Thanks, Silver | Posted on 2014-02-02 00:00:00 | by Silverdog | [ Reply to This ] | I don't think I can say anything different than what any of these other commenters have said, I loved this piece a lot. Timeless indeed. | | Posted on 2013-07-13 00:00:00 | by MyPeriodical | [ Reply to This ] | Hello! :) | I read this a couple of times, trying to relate the title and the poem together - not like I was trying to force any connection, but something hit me. Childhood is kinda like this massive masterpiece, isn't it? I still consider myself a child (regardless of the responsibilities I choose to ignore, haha), to be honest. It's the sort of blissful and ignorant happiness that is associated the children that create a masterpiece. You write it out in ice cream painted across oblivious and cheeky faces... Although... I'm starting to see how it's "unwritten". In my mind, all I can see are these objects. A bowl of ice cream, left unattended. A box of toys, except all the toys are IN the box. None are strewn out across the floor. The green lawn, pristine from the lack of footprints and adventures. A lone bike, the pedals turning slowly in the wind... the dripping sun, a slow process, highlighting how slow the day goes by. It's as if all the tools are there, and what's missing is the kids. Oh man, that last line with the yellow... what a bright colour. It's the very colour that I'm pretty sure all kindergartens and daycare centres use simply for its bright and blatantly happy connotations. It's a strong way to finish the poem too beacuse, well, for me, it makes me want to go back to the sunny days of lying in the grass and staring back at the pale blue New Zealand sky. Gee whiz. I'm rambling, haha, sorry. I love that this doesn't go into any specific details about any of the present elements and lets the reader weave their own memories with the words (as is evident from this whole comment). If only they could now bring back those trampolines without those cagey safety nets. You lured me in with the sweet ice cream and left me in a state of longing with the dripping yellow sun. It takes me back. Thank you for sharing c: -Esha. | Posted on 2013-06-19 00:00:00 | by EshyFishy | [ Reply to This ] | This was not what the title led me to expect, but I loved every second of reverting back to age six. This was like watching a home movie perhaps with the sound turned off so the focus is not the words but the images. You created them very well with a minimalistic style that is part of the craft, not just the spewing of thoughts. | Now just to be clear, I never mastered riding my bike in the grass while eating icecream so these were separate events in my head as I read  .~jan | Posted on 2013-05-10 00:00:00 | by jaycee | [ Reply to This ] | This piece has something of a timeless feel, as though these things all mentioned have always been and will always be. And perhaps this is true, in some ways. But at the same time, change is the only real constant; the turning pedals are the change, bringing in new children and new toys and new lawns, while the sun, on a much slower cycle, turns and waits for it's own pedal. | | Posted on 2013-04-29 00:00:00 | by TheSnoitart | [ Reply to This ] | I'm on my ipad so I can't write too much, but I sense that this piece is a journey through ones unfulfilled life. It begins with a child and ice cream and ends with the dripping of a hundred years...perhaps unfulfilled years. It would seem that work has been done-ie "the pedals turn and turn" but it's circular and never moves ahead. Much like a stationary bike. On outs a lot of work into it but never moves. | I find this piece sad. Perhaps it is just where I am at th moment...unrequited dreams are hard to live with. Back to the grind | Posted on 2013-04-21 00:00:00 | by rev.jpfadeproof | [ Reply to This ] | |
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