Archival Review

[Maria2394]

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A certain macabre humor in this one that makes sense if you grew up with rabbit ears atop the TV. Even in the South that's what they were called, though you'd sooner see a possum smeared alongside the road.


clear as a bell
by normal jean©


Roadside grassy, damp with dew
bunny laid flat, pointing northward
seems to beg the question,

M. Bunny,

How is your reception?

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hello Leon

You told me this one would make it here. Thank you for "liking" it well enough to include it.

....Though I will say, where we live, rabbits are run down about as often as possums... just thought I would let ya know, lol




julie

 

[WickedEve]

hello Leon

You told me this one would make it here. Thank you for "liking" it well enough to include it.

....Though I will say, where we live, rabbits are run down about as often as possums... just thought I would let ya know, lol




julie

I remember your bunny poem. Always liked it.
I ran over a possum, yesterday. Well, it was dead before my car passed over it. Of course I made sure the wheels didn't touch it. ick The roads are littered with possums.

 

[LeBroz]

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Well now, that was one hell of a long day. Best get my butt in gear on the new poems. But first, after a bit of an absence, this poet has a new poem posted. Just to compare, here's a genuine oldie of hers from way, way back in Lit's archives.


Closet Romantic
by RisiaSkye©


Behind closed doors
I may burn candles and incense
and draw pictures of flowers.

When convinced that I am alone
I have been known to daydream
of springtime and firesides.

In the company of strangers
I will argue the value of love songs
and flirt shamelessly with a shy guest.

Sitting by myself in the sun
I will get up to play with children
I have never seen before.

Sometiems at night
I secretly wish upon the early star
and send the sky my dreams.

And even though I won't admit it
I sometimes write poetry for you
and quietly kiss you goodnight.

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[Du Lac]

Leon
Thankyou for including my Brigid's Bed in your archive! You did such a wonderful job pulling together the history so others can understand (maybe lol) my poem. This is a great thread and thank you dear for posting on it.
blessings
du lac

 

[WickedEve]

Leon, around 2001 and 2002, we had a wonderful poet here. A few of you will remember Daughter. She was a good friend to me and a good poet. Her submissions have been removed, but a few poems survive on some old threads.

Here are some links that you might want to check out and see if you want to include any of her work on this thread.

Beans and Rice
Holy War: America Trains Her Soldiers On Sunday
No Time for Breakfast
Tuck Me In
no vacancies
all things anal

 

[champagne1982]

Leon, around 2001 and 2002, we had a wonderful poet here. A few of you will remember Daughter. She was a good friend to me and a good poet. Her submissions have been removed, but a few poems survive on some old threads.

Here are some links that you might want to check out and see if you want to include any of her work on this thread.

Beans and Rice
Holy War: America Trains Her Soldiers On Sunday
No Time for Breakfast
Tuck Me In
no vacancies
all things anal

You've done a great job of including Daughter's work on this thread. Here's to you Eve

 

[LeBroz]

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Most men, being visually stimulated, can appreciate the imagery offered here; it's the way men's brains are hard-wired.


Climbing
by JCSTREET©


CLIMBING

By JCSTREET © 2004 020602


Aran sweater, jeans ... she’s
climbing ahead of me
making the pace, inclined
into the soft womb of the rise, I
feel my age as I heavy-breathe
upward in her train, she is
new-love-minted
in the tapestry of my eye
new pulsing
in my dreamscape…….. new
snuffle-kissy in bed

-30- Kingston, Ontario – June 2, 2002

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[LeBroz]

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Eve did us a tremendous service in placing links to poems on a number of threads by Daughter. However, if you're like me, links are almost an equivalent to a footnote. Something interesting that barely enters conscious awareness but are rarely pursued further. Taking Eve's hard work a step further, here's the first of those links I've added to my growing list, fully reprinted for your pleasure. It's a very visual poem with a powerful erotic undertow.


Beans and Rice
by daughter ©

Rolena rinsed the smooth, red-clay beads,
like Elnino, they felt good between her brown fingers.
She was making him beans and rice, fresh salsa
and her tortillas he enjoyed so much.

The beans simmered, Rolena did, too.
Elnino was warm and red like her terra cotta pots,
She grew her own Cilantro in them.
She’d pinch a few leaves and sprinkled
them in her salsa.

Sometimes, he would sit silently,
watching her prepare his meal.
She’d chop red and yellow peppers quietly,
use green Chilis, roast them first,
liked how their aroma stung her nostrils.
She enjoyed Elnino’s scent even more,
pungent especially after making love.
The Chilis were plump; Nino said they were
like Rolena, full. He liked how they burned.
She filled his insides.

But Nino wasn’t with her now, he was in the city,
sweating in the factory. He’d come home late.
He’d want to wash and eat and laugh with her.

She watched the steam rise off the pot of beans,
Absently, she thought of stringing the red-clay beads
and wrapping them about his waist.
She’d feed him warm tortillas and sangria,
nibble leisurely at the soft flesh about his belly.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a thoughtful poem to contemplate; where are you on life's {hopefully} long journey?


Clocks and Compasses
by Toward A Word©


where are you now
fair haired young fellow
toy planes and comics
up with the dawn
I rode away dreaming
across hills and fields
my childhood is gone
but my youth lingers on

where are you now
confident new graduate
the world lay await
you're out on your own
I chased after my dreams
but too quickly I caught them
my apprenticeship done
my footsteps led on

where are you now
young lovers of summer
you held hands and whispered
and made love until dawn
the weight of the world
came to rest on our shoulders
our love came undone
but our life carries on

where are you now
there from the beginning
you showed me the stars
hid my eyes from the sun
I learned the world from you
before your journey ended
my father you've gone
but your light still shines on

how shall I travel
the pathway before me
will I find peace
and fulfillment beyond
give me strength for my body
and hope for my spirit
the past's never gone
tomorrow always leads on

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[LeBroz]

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It's more than phone sex; it's part of who he is, getting a jump start from this woman. See him define himself in his identity of his relationship to her; he is defined through her.


Clinging to Curves
by Eumenides©


She sits in black yoga pants,
A white knit shirt, and
A smile, rising behind the puff of smoke
From her cigarette,
As she trips the phone line fantastic
As she daringly discusses
Everything from phone sex to philosophy
With me
I hear her inhale smoke and the scent of me
From a thousand miles away from my misery

She makes me free
She,
Who loves me in a washable way
Rinsing out my self doubt with
The slap of her wisest words
Across my flawed, battle scarred self
Like a favorite frayed shirt
She can’t throw away
Loving its holes as much as its weave
Loving its wholeness
Even when it isn’t whole

So, I cling to her curves
Not because I need her
To dip my quill in ink
For me
But because she makes me want
To write myself
Into my very own story
Where the ring of a phone
Is start of day.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a little something from way back in March '02, with a metaphor of the mind as a clock. How's your clock doing today?


Clockwork
by Debbie©


My mind is like a clock
Sometimes if overwound
With springs stretched
A screeching "cuckoo"
As the hour is reached

Racing hands on the dial
Tick tock tick tock tick tock
Pounding loud as I think
Occasionally I lose time
If I forget to wind again

Taking the key, turning it
Hear the little cogs whirring
The gears starting to move
Creaking a lot,so oil a little
Needs more frequent cleaning

Excuse the many cobwebs
The housemaid is on strike
When thinking doesn't time fly
My mind clock chimes away
Keeping good time for now

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[LeBroz]

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Now here you are, presented with new insight into writer's block as a poem performs a sit-down strike. It's a humorous little piece with that poem rushing out as soon as the promise of $$$ appear.


Clod
by ishtat©


To be declaimed with faintly tremulous pomposity
in the tradition of Henry Irving

I protest.
I am a poem that needs to be written,
demands it.
But where am I ?
Stuck in the mind of a Clod.
This is no place for a masterpiece,
a definitive statement, subtle, layers of meaning,
nuanced to achieve a quintessentially apposite image.

He’ll rhyme, I don’t like him, and still less his muse,
I suspect he could be rather rude.
And idle and trite and even quite crude.
I’ll lose all my timbre and infinite grace,
while his miniscule fame he puffs up apace.
Put me back Clod,
where you found me ,
in a place by myself
where, A POET can find and propound me

What’s that did you say ?
Are you sure, is it true ?
W e l l - .
Sweet clod, my dear poet, write me, please do,.
you must after all for my public and you.
And Daddy too,
the publisher.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a good one for you — a poem about two people unknowingly inspiring each other to write a poem about the other while enjoying the music they like. With that reference to the Wicked you've got to wonder, is there a basis in fact in this little tale? A nice little tease of an ending.


Close Call In A Blues Bar
by sandspike©


uptown New York girl
stoic exterior
over velvet emotions,
education and wisdom
rare combination

old southern salt
weathered tan
pickled interior,
rough on the edges
sand spur demeanor

here for the music
each puzzled by the other,
ease dropping and editing
over micro brews and zinfandels

she writes all forms
her poetry on pages,
he is beach ditties
rhymed to remember

next week they'll write
about one another,
views so different
they won't have a clue

but the Wicked will see
and never reveal,
for velvet and sand spurs
aren't really velcro,
their constant irritation
is best left apart

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[LeBroz]

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Let's start off with something easy — all you need do is let your mind fill in the details while you float with the poet's ideas.


close your eyes...
by Senna Jawa©


[close your eyes...]





.............close your eyes listen
..........the whole san jose downtown
................in my small bedroom




wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1995-08-27/28

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[Du Lac]

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Let's start off with something easy — all you need do is let your mind fill in the details while you float with the poet's ideas.


close your eyes...
by Senna Jawa©


[close your eyes...]





.............close your eyes listen
..........the whole san jose downtown
................in my small bedroom




wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1995-08-27/28

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Loved this! I live only 20 minutes now from San Jose and I actually felt the streets and the life surround me as I chanted this over and over. Very nice SJ and thank you Leon for bringing it forth.
blessings
du lac

 

[LeBroz]

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Here's something to read tonight after you get home from a night out, unless you stay in and wash down that pizza with a six-pack of beer. Say it out loud and have some fun and see how far you get before tripping over your tongue.


Close-Hauled At Night
by JCSTREET©


CLOSE-HAULED AT NIGHT A800409

By JCSTREET © 2004


See soar, soar one
over sere, sea-salt
sour-shrive me wing'd

tipsy in a plummet

soar-fall all
that fumble-falter tumble
to air, rise morning wind-wet
wend of it

Up, up up see nevermore
sea so sheer, wimple-winged down
now down, down dead-
drowned down dizzy

shear-fall but soar
up over't

sear-spray, feather-burned but
fall-free, faltering
flight
tumblng in air
glisten-struck rock
free
heart

-30- April 9, 1980 (is re. heavy weather sailing)


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[LeBroz]

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Here's a holiday read out of season. Doesn't just talk about minimalist but is minimalist; just enough is said to describe the tree and all its accoutrements. The rest is left to the reader's imagination — as well as the relationship that vibrates throughout.


Closet Tannenbaum
by Angeline©


Six wire hangers,
lots of twist-ties.
Lots. Don't forget
the masking tape.

Everything binds
together. When
I spread the hangers
into a tree, he says

Industrial! Minimalist!

Our eyes smile

at my amateur marvel.
Tiny lights. Little jewels
twined in gold garland.
It's a feathery necklace,
conical, too big to ship,
so it shines from a berth
on the speaker, and we
watch it shine.

He bends over me. Red, blue,
green, purple sparkle.

He says
You smell so good.

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[LeBroz]

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Look at all that's written of here in this piece of attic discovery. A world of naturalism and discovery of hidden pieces of family treasure buried up in a dusty attic. Read it a few times and see all the elements buried within.


cobwebs on sandspikes
by sandspike©


the darkest corner of a forgotten attic
a glance at the Gramps I never knew
one canvas bag, Lands End brand
stuck between sandspikes and fishing gear
resting on a Pacifico sign
waiting out time for my arrival

holding page after page
handwritten poetry
tales of bars, beaches, and love
products of a shallow mind
which flowed constantly
fading reality into cool pastels
to be dried upon the summer sand

I now know why....
..................he smiles in every picture

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a little poem about those of you who are housekeeping challenged; I'll pass on a visit and enjoy my modestly maintained batchelor abode.


Clutter
by recklesschild©


You hoarders amuse me beyond measure.
Your collections of lint and dust bunnies
sometimes tagged, often not. Does this pleasure
you to keep trash and heirlooms, news, funnies,

old lightbulbs, animals alive or stuffed,
plethora of toilet paper for bath-
rooms not able to enter? Do genes cuff
you to this fate of undone, buried tasks?

I want to know how you define yourself.
Is this your external face or a true
dark secret? Holding tight to all these shelves
of things, only things. They are not you.

Please don’t change the look of your “House Messy”.
My own home looks neat comparatively.

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[Remec]

The last 4 lines got me- was it the kids dog, Remec? Oh jesus, how bittersweet!

*nod*
Stepkids' dog, actually. He'd been with the family longer than I had.

 

[LeBroz]

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Now this is a simple and fun little piece; I like that prairie dog metaphor.


codified
by 2rivers©


codified

both our heads poke up as one
like the cutest prairie dogs
we keep saying the same things
at once in line and vapor
as our eyebrows shift
flags of curiosity
we agree without speech
”oh shut up”
”ok”
arms and legs are ribbon

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[LeBroz]

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Coffee poems today and tomorrow. Ought to give neo quite a buzz. Hope no one suffers from caffeine jitters.


coffee 'ku
by Senna Jawa©









poems on napkins' snow
not yet affected by caffeine

small earthquake?
california caffeine poems
dance on napkins​

Wlodzimierz Holsztynski ©
1996-12-27




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: the author has borrowed the
above title

coffe 'ku​

from Kim S. Hodges.
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[LeBroz]

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There's lots more than just a morning cup of coffee going on here; have a sip.


Coffee Clouds at Dawn
by Angeline©


At the end of the conversation
words have only letters,
morphemes measure bites of breath,
chewing air like storm.

Sounds erode space, form glyphs
from nonsense dripped from lips,
washing markers of time in dead language
I can’t read. The derivation is mysterious
as Sanskrit. There must be bits of truth
caught between these teeth of obscurity.

At the end of the conversation
sleep drops its veil in marginal night,
dreaming yields small comfort.
What is touch when it has no depth,
no texture, the absence of reason closing
its eyes against an ignorant clash of questions,
succumbing to time in fading minutes.

We blanket detachment with hours
till dawn shades consciousness doubt gray,
dread stirring its cups, steaming coffee
deep with impenetrable sustenance.

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[LeBroz]

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Wonderful imagery that overcomes the reality of this never-ending Winter.


Coffee in New York
by Belegon©


Baileys, heavy cream and froth sprinkled with cinnamon,
rejuvenating,
intoxicating cup
on a windswept August afternoon
tendril’d heat
rising steamily
over the tan and green
of the vine’d tablecloth
a summer’s feast
tripping across tongues
laughter echoing against the windows
shared memories
imposing upon the silence
time to feel
the meaning of our friendship
time to make moments
that light candles and stars.

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[LeBroz]

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Here you go — a little something with which to start your morning from Lit's very own coffee aficionado.


Coffee is different
by neonurotic©



Home brewed, french-pressed is best.
It's cheating to pour from the pot
before the coffee is done.

Nothing is worse than a first cup
that is too strong with a second
a little weaker, until you are sipping
just colored water.

So wait.

It's worth every drop.

With that said, a cup joe is better
if it's shared with company.
The right people to have coffee with
is subjective, usually, but never relative.

I'd buy beers for the boys,
have a few with a rival, I'd even
buy a round for the house.

But beer aside, coffee is different.
You look eye to eye,
talk serious, bullshit and be real.

Don't ever serve instant,
your friend will likely pass along
that you're a lazy bastard
or worse; you make shitty coffee.

So wait.

It's worth every drop.

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