[Jayne Osborn]

Right, so now I know I need to leave a space after the italicised word. Doh!

[John Whitworth]

Jayne, my daughters are both blondes, at least from time to time. And the great Boris is one too. And Reese Witherspoon. Blondes rule.

[Spindleshanks]

Good, Jayne, glad to be of assistance.

Now, feedback:
It's mostly well-constructed, good use of the given rhymes that largely fall naturally and don't sound forced. However, I can't raise more than a weak chuckle because the subject is so well-worn. You have a tense conflict with the "blast" line in that L1 declares you have passed the test, while L9 has you still blasting your way through it.

Nonetheless a good effort, given the constraints of the given.

Best,
Peter

[Donna English]

Jayne, you're on to something. As I read I kept seeing ways to use the end rhymes in better context with the poem. Make it more in the now, and possibly make it funnier. For instance the first line begs to be an undepressed clutch pedal or parking brake.

Other things that spring to mind when considering a nervous and bad driver taking her upteenth time are:

a nest of papers around the instructor, a hornet's nest kind of situation.
It could be she's blest because she passed the written test or eye exam or parallel parking?
a blast of cold air from the A/C. A blast from the horn, a siren blast.
Maybe she's built up a lot of traffic violations, or built up her/his nerve. Or her sucess or failure is built/based on something she does or doesn't do.
A chain collision, a chain of red lights, a chain of school kids crossing the road.?
Offering a lay to the instructor in exchange for a passing grade.

Hope this is of some use.

Just freewheeling
Donna

[Jayne Osborn]

Thanks for the feedback, Peter and Donna; I'll rethink and revise.

(Have you looked back to my last comments on yours, Donna?).

[Max Goodman]

inspired by one of Martin's first lines:


The Bloody Red Wheelbarrow

So much depends on being undepressed
by modern masterpieces about rain
on garden apparatus! It's a strain.
Those damned white chickens: why don't they go nest
somewhere? If subtle critics had been blest
with any kind of sense, they wouldn't chain
us to this nonsense. If they shared the brain
a soggy chicken's got, they'd let it rest.

But clear, important, vivid: damn and blast!
How can responsive readers help but wilt
to realize we're living in a day
on which no Rome could possibly be built?
Our muse, no sleek seductress of the past,
is lovely, maybe--but a lousy lay.

[Martin Elster]

Peter

Thanks for letting me know you like my latest try. I'll think about that phrase you mentioned (the murkiness and shadow as a chain).

Regarding the given rhymes, were I judging a bouts-rime contest, I'd go by the sound of the words rather than the way they are spelled. But we'll see what they go by.

[Martin Elster]

Max,

That's a very clever development of my first line. It expands the phrase in a way that actually has some philosophy in it. And it's humorous. Good job.

Martin

[Martin Elster]

Peter,

Is this any better:

there is a chain
of lowering thunderclouds around my brain ... (?)

[Martin Elster]

I Sit Here Brooding

I sit here brooding, but am undepressed
watching a brood of robins in the rain.
Five youngsters wanting earthworms put a strain
upon their parents. Chirrups from the nest
sound shrill and urgent. But these chicks are blest
to get enough to fledge. The awesome chain
of powers in the egg has caused the brain
of passerines to take an interest
in building nests and traveling. Each blast
of wind that makes the autumn blossoms wilt
urges them onwards. With the fading day
they read the stars. If I knew how Nature built
its patterns in the egg of the dark past
I, too, would sing the world’s most cheerful lay.