Colin F. Jones

CRITICISM

I went to pick a daffodil,
But alas it was a rose,
I wish it had been a daffodil,
Because I like its yellow clothes.
Roses are just crimson red,
Though sometimes they are white,
But nearly always interbred,
Which doesn’t seem quite right.
No one crosses daffodils
Because daffodils can’t fight;
For all of them are yellow see,
Not red and bloody white.
Yes I know they’re yellow too,
but what a disgusting sight!

©Copyright June 4, 2007 by Colin F. Jones

THE CRITICS

They will look on what occurs, those men,
Who do not the decisions make,
Pointing out to almost everyone,
Each dastardly mistake.
They will be disturbed by their emotions
That will mist their thinking eye,
Or by political devotions,
Or by biases they deny.
For the Devil is the tempter,
Who seeks to lead the truth away,
In the books they write for money,
Poaching from people’s sad dismay.
Then they slink back to the shadows,
Where they don’t have much to say.

©Copyright June 5, 2007 by Colin F. Jones

CRITICISM

I am sensitive to criticism,
That my work does not approve,
But I suffer it in silence,
Lest I be by anger moved.

Though it took so much to write it,
That in one statement it is denied,
I remember I was twenty,
Before I knew that critics lied.

Though some prefer the critic,
To those who write the verse,
I feel so sorry for the critic,
Because what he writes is worse.

Because nothing is creative,
Not one word is his own,
It is another’s thoughts he uses,
To degrade or condone.

He borrows from your story,
All the elements of his claim,
And from your finest efforts,
forges his counterfeit name.