|HubPages Device ID||This is used to identify particular browsers or devices when the access the service, and is used for security reasons.|
|Login||This is necessary to sign in to the HubPages Service.|
|HubPages Traffic Pixel||This is used to collect data on traffic to articles and other pages on our site. Unless you are signed in to a HubPages account, all personally identifiable information is anonymized.|
|Remarketing Pixels||We may use remarketing pixels from advertising networks such as Google AdWords, Bing Ads, and Facebook in order to advertise the HubPages Service to people that have visited our sites.|
|Conversion Tracking Pixels||We may use conversion tracking pixels from advertising networks such as Google AdWords, Bing Ads, and Facebook in order to identify when an advertisement has successfully resulted in the desired action, such as signing up for the HubPages Service or publishing an article on the HubPages Service.|
In such Pros as this, I am interested in receiving feed-back. The question is:
Is there to much description, or not enough?
Upon a glorious sunny brightened day, with light so fair as to touch the cheeks of summer ladies sweet.
Perched and sitting on a pedestal of view, I watched.
Every thing of beauty present, was all of fine design.
A bird in flight atop the lift of pillowed air, a finely strung, silken web, and pearls of dew, slipping down into a lush of green.
Everything in beauty's eyes was beautiful to see, and opened eyes were wisdom's eyes, if, one cared to see.
A blade of grass, a field of dreams, a kindly deed well done.
To watch a Boulevard of life explode into a pulse of life, and possibilities was good to watch that day.
One step a journey started with, I walked a golden road.
Each step was paused, and calculated well, and there upon each step I took, a cloud of dust so fine and pure did rise.
My journey had begun.
Down into a vaulted valley deep, I stepped, into a cloud of mystery, shrouded in a cloth of mist so fine a gossamer wing should fall in peril.
So softly, I stepped upon that land, in search of denizens within.
What creatures would stir imagination or peak and interest there?
What forces would play or magic summons, what tasty adventures did await?
Another step of golden dust upon that sweet virgin land, and all sounds, smells, and feelings too, came alive again.
And there, amidst the ruby forest shining like a gem, new life abundant, clean and crisp, just waiting to be born.
In one breath I took, the very first inhaling in that land, all ailments, abandoned me, I was left standing pure.
A bridge waited for me to cross, and beckoned me ever near.
With railings made of Cherry-wood, and footings made of Pine, all wrapped in gold leaf, and sterling silver twine.
I took a step first taken never before in time, and a footprint and a record of myself, was left there far behind.
Gold dust to Pine, I reached the other side.
And looking back at golden tracks put there for all time, I wondered if I would ever be back to view them once again?
Below the bridge a river flowed, of honeydew and time, running down as slow as treacle, winding far and wide.
A trail to follow and I did take, and walking slow and fine, I stepped into the heart of newness, for the very first time.
On that trail, I walked along, passed flower, tree, and bush.
An excitement in me ebbed and flowed with every bend, and twist.
A path unknown to me, I'd take, not knowing where the end would near, I'd rest from chance to chance.
Then, dash along the unknown trail to see what waited anew.
To take a chance, a quickened glance, of everything to view.
A park of lights, each a diamond, shone it's clear and crystal light, upon a field of clouded, pillowed golden wheat at night.
And feeding on the yellowed grass, were the unicorns of myth.
Each with a mane of white so pure, and clean, a soul would envy them, and spiral horns of many lengths, and colors rarely seen.
So on I walked a wonderland in a dream, and wondered if I'd ever wake, I did not hasten to?
Awaken me not, for I was in a place so profound forever was a day.
A lifetime lived where time was not, in comfort's warming place, I laid and walked and danced upon that land so vast, and worried not of thee.
For all its magic in its world, it's where I wanted to be.
Where food was tasted, heaven sent, and hunger never felt.
Where thirst was quenched by knowledge, and all the knowledge free.
Where no question ever asked, was answered in riddle rhyme.
And any answer you would get, would be of golden truth.
Unhappiness was an afterthought, of bad, forbidden fruit.
An aftertaste of human race, would leave your pallet bruised.
Where sounds were music, forever to my ears, and not a hurtful word was said.
Each voice an instrument, of angels lips, thick and soft as honeyed words, upon my fragile ears to hear.
Warm and pleasing, never harsh, in waves of ecstasy.
I never tired to listen.
Where sleep was not, and you never wearied of all its wonder glory.
Weak was not a word you heard, nor used in virile context.
And being tired was never gained, no matter how you tried.
Only health and strength did reign, with every hard task done.
And every time you wanted to work, the work was always done.
On I walked through portals, time, and worlds.
So different were they each, that I could not explain, nor wanted to keep a record kept, for anyone to find.
No bread crumbed trail to follow, after me, behind.
No footprints kept in velvet soil, or tracks on trails to see.
No roads nor maps to guide the lost, quite lost, was where I wanted to be.
I traveled far and wide that dream, and worlds I did see.
I touched the heart of newness, and sailed upon its seas.
I traveled all the trails to take, and climbed upon its trees.
I lived everything that was beautiful and new.
Only to find, and waken upon, a pedestal of view.
Hello, I hope you get comments and responses to this because it is beautiful and descriptive. I think only you can answer the questions you ask but others might be able to offer you 'insights' into how they read it.
I cannot help,I think you probably know a lot more about writing poetry than I do. I've just started to write again after a break. Sometimes it helps me to try to write the same piece in different 'formats'. I keep a copy of the original but try to put the writing I have doubts about 'onto paper' in various forms. Sometimes I have realised that what began as a poem was meant to be a short prose piece of writing; other times editing a longer piece of writing has produced a 'prose poem'. For me.. it is as difficult to offer advice on this as to pick up a brush and alter someone's painting.
Thank you for your incite, you are probably correct. The fact that someone has even bothered to read it, has given me renewed hope in the future of Poetry for the 21st Century.
hey, dis absolutely beautiful. the description is fantastic nd d innocence in d poem is worth being watched frm a pedestal of view:) thanx 4 sharing dis . hope 2 see more in near future frm u.
I must say I truly enjoyed this piece. It was a surprise. What I noticed right away was your ear for the natural cadence of speech. Reading this poem aloud allows for some very musical passages. As to your question you posed at the beginning, I feel if I had to lean one way, I would say there tends to be too much description...However this is not a bad thing, the natural rhythm of your writing kept me reading. Your images layer upon one another effortlessly, great writing. I would advise that you focus in on exactly what you want to communicate with this piece, and if the current version feels right, its right. Bottom line, I loved it and will definitely read your next piece.
First let me say that you have a beautiful piece shaping up here, with plenty of rich imagery. I would like to offer some advice however, if I may. I think you can trim this up a good deal for a tighter, more poetic product. Prose poetry is difficult to write because it tends towards wordiness. Remember, poetry is the art of creating the highest impact with the least amount of words.
Here are some tips: Use vivid verbs. Avoid redundancy. Cross out anything that compromises or dilutes your meaning. Edit yourself ruthlessly. You'll be left with strong images and hopefully a consistent theme or message that's not bogged down by excess verbiage. Poetry is not an easy thing to right, otherwise everyone would be doing it. But only a true poet cares enough to want to get better and asks for feedback, which you did. As artists, the moment we are satisfied with our work, we are no longer evolving, in my opinion. A poet should not be easily satisfied. So keep on keeping on. You have plenty of raw talent and good material. I wish you all the best,
Copyright © 2018 HubPages Inc. and respective owners.
Other product and company names shown may be trademarks of their respective owners.
HubPages® is a registered Service Mark of HubPages, Inc.
HubPages and Hubbers (authors) may earn revenue on this page based on affiliate relationships and advertisements with partners including Amazon, Google, and others.