Update : Here is the poem:
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my six

Update 2: ty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek.
Still burning

Hello!i need to create an Acrostic Poem using the word "Literacy. L - I - T- E R - A - C- Y - PLS I NEED HELP ON THIS thx?

any ways to make this poem better?

Should i improve organization, are some parts wordy? Please no hate comments. If you hate me for this just leave me alone.

Can someone please give suggestions for improvement on these two poems I had to write for my English class?

This first poem is modeled after "How to Write the Great American Indian Novel" by Sherman Alexie.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hATSXkkxDd2N4zHv0Q8UO4wD_ss1Pse37Yylvnl3XNk/edit#

This second poem is modeled after "Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SIQSKUvjDgJTr1taU14ZNmRlZpssbTHK9LgFlKcpGas/edit#

This is actually a short poem by comparison

The Ghost of Heaven
By Carolyn Forché

Sleep to sleep through thirty years of night,
a child herself with child,
for whom we searched

through here, or there, amidst
bones still sleeved and trousered,
a spine picked clean, a paint can,
a skull with hair

Sewn into the hem of memory:
Fire.
God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob,
God not
of philosophers or scholars. God not of poets.

Night to night:
child walking toward me through burning maize
over the clean bones of those whose flesh
was lifted by zopilotes into heaven.

So that is how we ascend!
In the clawed feet of fallen angels.
To be assembled again
in the work rooms of clouds.

She rose from where they found her lying
not far from a water urn, leaving
herself behind on the ground
where they found her, holding her arms
before her as if she were asleep.

That is how she appears to me: a ghost in heaven.
Carrying her arms in her arms.

Blue smoke from corn cribs, flap of wings.
On the walls of the city streets a plague of initials.

Walking through a fire-lit river
to a burning house: dead Singer
sewing machine and piece of dress.

Outside a cashew tree wept
blackened cashews over lamina.

Outside paper fireflies rose to the stars.

Bring penicillin if you can, surgical tape, a whetstone,
mosquito repellent but not the aerosol kind.
Especially bring a syringe for sucking phlegm,
a knife, wooden sticks, a surgical clamp, and plastic bags.

You will need a bottle of cloud
for anesthesia.

Like the flight of a crane
through colorless dreams.

When a leech opens your flesh it leaves a small volcano.
Always pour turpentine over your hair before going to sleep.

Such experiences as these are forgotten
before memory intrudes.

The girl was found (don't say this)
with a man's severed head stuffed
into her where a child would have been.
No one knew who the man was.
Another of the dead.
So they had not, after all,
killed a pregnant girl.
This was a relief to them.

That sound in the brush?
A settling of wind in sorghum.

If they capture you, talk.
Talk. Please yes. You heard me
right the first time.

You will be asked who you are.
Eventually, we are all asked who we are.

All who come
All who come into the world
All who come into the world are sent.
Open your curtain of spirit.

In my opinion, you are using Prose to describe Poetry, and what you have here is not a Poem. Take what you have writen down and write down 5 examples of what you are talking about, becasue you are on the right track, but have not found the way to get there yet. Think of Images Rachel, in Nature, in Animals, in people; Images that spring off the pages and jump out at you, like a clown jumping in your face, and waving his hand at you, then weave those images into something called a Poem. Do or Create a Poem,...... but one should never have to "explain" a poem. I wish you well Rachel!