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Double Blind Challenge

Red Roses

Roses mean
remember

Do you not remember Joyce?

We do

how she was peerless
deliriously precocious
possessing a penchant for playing house with human dolls

Obsessed stating it rather mildly

in making breakthroughs to the Other Side
cementing Parapsychology as a field concrete
no longer so easily dismissible as
"Pseudo Science!"
with an arrogant waving of those same tenured hands
responsible for bricking it up behind a Fifth Wall
using heaping trowels of their ignorance as mortar

Gone amok a more precise assessment

similar in manner to her fixation's focus
a certain toured Seattle manor rumored to have
more rooms now than ever before ...

... despite it being unoccupied for decades

Fearless
furiously ferocious
in tantrums tantamount to fanaticism devout

cowardly willing to sacrifice anyone
for irrefutable proof finally shutting up
the most deliberately obtuse skeptics
in what was to become to her misfortune
not too mention the others in our group
an ill conceived paranormal investigation
we were late to the party in figuring out

Structurally unsound
framed upon an insecure foundation
erected on cursed ground

even the most wrought iron clad logic
is subject to flaws

for beyond her smeared blood grasp
fingers curled tightly around knurled bars
fencing in her mentally gated community of one
all its vociferous residents bearing childhood scars
leveling Reardon's house of cards confidence building
on a daily basis with nightly wrecking balls of doubt

was the evidence already at hand!
compelling enough to champion her cause:

broken water pipes so cold
bursting with icicles in July

spinning wheels on parked bicycles

run of the mill stones granite
raining down from the sky
pulverizing a home across the street
from the Wheaton household
not just anywhere on the planet

words unspoken
thoughts told
left behind by you and I
psychically raptured from inanimate objects
trapped in doorknockers rapped
captured in cameras as if film exposed
unnaturally superimposed with special effects
spectral

manifestations
reflected in eyes of more open minded
children likewise occupying adult sized bodies
witnessing things that are there
but not there ...

... Not there!

Here?

In bad bad! houses
miniature or otherwise grand
haunted by their architects
gone insanely mad

only lies are to be had

and

the walls push back hard

If you really must insist upon
exploring these unsettled grounds
where the old Rimbauer mansion once stood
throwing our cautionary tale to the wind
then it is imperative to tread lightly
keeping this firmly in mind

remember
Rose is mean




======================




Thanks to GM for a spectacular challenge.

And to everyone who took the time out to read and comment on Red Roses.

Angeline and butters hit the nail on the head with the main assessment that my first attempt was not communicating. Here are the reasons why.

I was deliberately withholding information and simply left myself with little to play with. And instead of being direct, I tried steering readers in a roundabout fashion towards arriving to the conclusion that Joyce Reardon's paranormal investigation of the Rimbauer mansion AKA Rose Red was completely unnecessary. Hence, the circular effect that emerged in the presentation.

Then I resigned myself to believing that it was good enough and filed it in my finished pile, whereas I usually leave it in the unfinished pile to be revisited over and over again in a rotation. Essentially I gave up on it way too early.

When GM proposed the competition, it was the only thing of mine on hand that I had nagging doubts about. I'm usually ultra confident about everything I write. But as soon as I donned my critique goggles ( which are merely airplane goggles I wear while operating the Internet ), I myself immediately saw some improvements that could be made.

I shit you not when I say I spent at least 20 hours rewriting this. It is even longer now because more facts, rhymes and wordplay have been injected.

If you ever watch Rose Red, then you'll understand various references beyond the basics you could gather from Wikipedia. And you'll see that in the entire 4 1/2 hours, not one character questions Joyce's need to investigate a haunted house in order to document supernatural activity when she can just as easily test and study six characters with extraordinary paranormal abilities. Is it a glaring plot failure? Or is it something more, which is the impression I walk away with and chose as my subject.
 
Things are winding down. No problem if people want to out themselves as did Tod, GP, and Mags, but for those still wanting to play the guessing game, the remaing poets are Piscator, AH, Calli, Mer, and yours truly. The headcount is 8, but there are 9 poems, you say. So one of the Gang of Eight submitted a 2nd poem.

More guesses, anyone?
 
Revised guesses...........

GuiltyPleasure said:
Ahab – magnetron X- Mer?
Summer storm – todski
The curator – AH
Sonograms – no clue
Red roses – butters or trix X - magnetron
Life’s blood – legendemer - methinks thou dost protest too much. :) :cool:
Frayed reflections – lyrically - :cool: - inside joke.
Stories to tell – GP already outed as mine
Totemic – butters. X long shot GM???
Click to expand...
 
GuiltyPleasure said:
Ahab – magnetron
Summer storm – todski
The curator – AH
Sonograms – no clue
Red roses – butters or trix
Life’s blood – legendemer - methinks thou dost protest too much. :) :cool:
Frayed reflections – lyrically - :cool: - inside joke.
Stories to tell – already outed as mine
Totemic – butters.
Click to expand...

It actually is a bit of a joke, since I literally gave no thought to the possible connection between the pieces. Didn't even cross my mind until you mentioned it. I'm a little worried about myself, now. :D
 
Ahab Piscator

X Summer Storm Brodski

The Curator GM

Sonograms Legs

X Red Roses me

Life's Blood Legs

Frayed Reflection Lyricalli

X Stories To Tell GP

Totemic AH
 
Last edited:
greenmountaineer said:
Things are winding down. No problem if people want to out themselves as did Tod, GP, and Mags, but for those still wanting to play the guessing game, the remaing poets are Piscator, AH, Calli, Mer, and yours truly. The headcount is 8, but there are 9 poems, you say. So one of the Gang of Eight submitted a 2nd poem.

More guesses, anyone?
Click to expand...
Dang, that certainly narrows the field. Ummmm....

Sonograms -- Piscator? This could be the one that got away.
Frayed reflections -- Lyricalli?
Stories to tell -- GM?
Totemic -- Lyricalli?
 
Mags faked me out pretty good, with his taunting of Harry over the Red Roses poem which turned out to be Mags' own. And here I was suspecting poor innocent GP of false flag operations on Totemic. :rolleyes:
 
Ahab gm
Summer Storm tod
The Curator ishat
Sonograms Mer
Red Roses MagRon
Life's Blood Guilty Plasure
Frayed Reflection tod
Stories To Tell AH
Totemic gm
 
Last edited:
greenmountaineer said:
Stories to Tell

He’s familiar in our local coffee shop,
tolerated if not welcomed;
unshaven and scruffy,
pocketing discarded newspapers,
unused creamer pots
and sugar packets,
looking like he’s doing a favour.

We see him often, on the highway,
trudging along the shoulder
in all weathers. He must cover miles,
his backpack always looks heavy.
Stale news, with cream and sugar?

There he is now, in the distance,
turning when he hears a car.
It’s a chilly spring day
and his thumb is out.
Frost crusts the scrubby grass at his feet
but he is wearing sandals and shorts,
his usual summer attire.
He’s in a hurry for warm days
And his knobbly knees look blue.

I want to stop, I really do,
but the driver, owner of this new car
and, he thinks, of me worries
“he looks like he smells.”
So we sweep on by, I catch
his eye, he nods, smiling
as if in understanding.
Unexpected tears prick my eyes.

One day I’ll stop,
He has stories to tell,
I know.
Click to expand...

I hadn't offered any criticism of this poem earlier, so I will slip some under the gate just before it closes. Initially I thought that this poem was an experiment by someone who wanted to write in the style of GM, but by process of elimination, I think that it is probably GM himself (despite the British spelling of "favour" -- what's up with that? I don't think any of the contenders in this challenge are British. Maybe I'm mistaken.) This is the early draft version, and I look forward to seeing how it has been changed when it appears tomorrow. This draft version, IMO, is not one of GM's best.

I'll make an analogy that I hope GM will find complementary. I think poems of this sort are like Norman Rockwell paintings. They capture a moment in time, with a vivid character or two and a vivid setting. Rockwell did a lot of them, all sort of Americana-oriented. Some of them are rather ordinary -- oh, yeah, that guy looks like my uncle -- and some are deeply moving. The difference between the good ones and the so-so ones is the irony, the element of surprise.

The problem with "stories to tell" is that it is predictable from the outset. The subject is decrepit and stinky, but we suspect that he is still human, don't we? So does the narrator. I think that this poem needs a surprise ending to make it memorable.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
I hadn't offered any criticism of this poem earlier, so I will slip some under the gate just before it closes. Initially I thought that this poem was an experiment by someone who wanted to write in the style of GM, but by process of elimination, I think that it is probably GM himself (despite the British spelling of "favour" -- what's up with that? I don't think any of the contenders in this challenge are British. Maybe I'm mistaken.)
Click to expand...

Hmmm.. most of the Canadians and Australians I know spell favour that way, too. :)
 
New! improved!

The Curator

See how our combustion blooms!
A fragrant flame too hot to touch
For more than just these fleeting months
Of lush and fruitful spring.
The way it overawes my eyes
With scorching hues that soon must fade
As blossoms do --
O let me pluck it,
Singe my fingers,
Press it 'twixt the pages of a book,
Preserve it there, ethereal and faint.

I'll put those glowing petals thus to bed
Between the paper sheets,
Until a germinating spark
Suffuses them with brightness
And propagates the flame,
So anyone who reads
Will quicken with the sweet
Perennial candescence of our love.
 
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