Looking at the first. Not so much a poem, as a thought broke into lines. A flowery thought albeit. And as such, it holds some merit. But as a poem, not so much.
Dear Friend by Robert Funge
Lack of punctuation doesn’t mask the lack of anything out of the ordinary. Mailing in a metaphor doesn’t make a line like “no zip code to the grave” first-class. Age old grief doesn’t justify that ruinous and adolescent last line.
The Sunset by Mark Yakich
I’m excited by the honesty of a prose poem that wants to remain a prose poem and not magically grow lines and become something different. That said, I’m not too happy about the rest. Not that it doesn’t have possibility. I like the workaday tone. And its idle direction. But it doesn’t go anywhere I needed to go.
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