Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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Here's one to wrap your mind around; read these words and feel the breathless structure of the poem. It just kept pulling me in and it seemed it wouldn't let me go.


Coraline Sings
by Linbido©


Coraline carves music out of granite
by blowing kisses with tectonic patience
onto every succumbing shoreline
that have felt the soles of lovers
standing pillar posted faithful
staring blindness into submission
at horizons hiding history and others
long since gone

Hear Coraline sing the ballad of waves
crashing her kisses on bare rock and
sloping sand so seemingly eternal
wearing them down to erase
the memory of sorrowed soles
patiently waiting on shores decreasing
for a pocketful of folly dreams
long since gone

Coraline whispers her soothing song
into hearts of her children waiting
for a tomorrow that will never come
Be still my hearts, be dry my tears
yesterday took, the next dawn will give
and breathe a new haven to contain
all your jubilance and love regarded
long since gone
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[LeBroz]

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Here's a bit of jazz history ~ a tour through its Hall of Fame as it were ~ courtesy of, who else?


Copacetic Ghosts
by Angeline©


Arvil Shaw is gone.
Walked him some bass
right off the planet,
joined the rhythm section
in the soul-on-soul choir
with Mingus, Walter Page,
and the Judge, Mr. Milt Hinton.

Time rolled on by, picked
those jazzers right up with it,
sucked up the 1900s,
a century gone, Gate,
like a bop beat, snapped off,
and the wars, industry, death, birth
pound still in me, but it's ready
for twilight, but time is ready
to take it on that slow fade
to oblivion. Arvil who?

See, I can't forget their faces.
They haunt me, speak to me.
What those old jazz ghosts
want with me I don't know.
White chick, can't play a lick
of no nothin but stride, swing,
let Bechet ring his clarinet
around a southern sunset,
and those old ghosts start in
to whispering.

We're lonely baby.
Ain't hardly nobody left
to tell it. Tell it baby.

When Basie swayed
into the keys, Lord he grinned
like he just beat the Devil at a sock hop,
weaving notes and space into jump beats
that bammed his blues straight, no chaser.
He'd lean back, have himself
a satisfied little taste, the music
somehow still swinging.

And when Duke, at once
so light and earthy, an Ariel
with the barest touch of Caliban,
spread the wings of his tux
over the piano bench and threw
back his sculpted head, brought
that first big chord home,
Oh sophisticated ladies stepped
with such symphonic grace,
like Fifth Avenue fashion queens,
emerging in band box sunshine
from wide plate glass windows.

I love my ghosts.
They ride around my imagination
in their old tour busses, jumbling
over the ruts of rural America and me,
gig to gig, poem to poem,
talking low, nodding. They drink
from flasks and laugh, throw craps,
wait for me to slow down
and listen.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a little oddity with a twist ~ poets seem to have a fascination with this unusual day.


Corner of the Circle
by Bill Dada©


In a cabin,
in the woods.
No others around.

Listening to Halloween
movies on the radio
by candlelight.

Tense knots bind
everyone together.

At midnight
candles blow out.
Knots tighten.

Everybody hears rain,
follows smoke outside
to a starry sky.

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[LeBroz]

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The May moon is also known as the Milk Moon, however, the title here is far more fitting for the ideas expressed. Plus, it is a better lure. Quick association ~ Milk Moon has me thinking of being a kid and going to school with milk money. Okay, so Milk Moon has some fertility connotations but no where near as many as Corn Planting Moon.


Corn Planting Moon
by Angeline©


Spring Moon is pale,
pastel painted,
holding night upright,
backdrop to birthing fields
while stars hold themselves apart,
brilliantly distant.

Spring Earth is woman,
capturing seeds.
In soil's grip damp hips
suck, push sustanance forward.

Moon knows Earth
harbors secrets,
leafy and soft,
wrapped in silk like aged pearls,
but sweet, bitten,
sugared with pungent green,
and the rut of musky dirt.

Moon becomes father,
darkens with knowing
bows with a textured burden,
like Atlas holds wisdom,
but Moon is large and orange,
full as a pumpkin
whose seeds have fallen,
awaiting harvest.

Stars don't change,
watching, holding
themselves apart,
brilliantly distant.

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[RhymeFairy]

Just wanted to give you a shout out Leo ~~

Thank you again for sharing and reminding us of some great writing ~

 

[LeBroz]

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Lacking a suitable trophy wife, a professional can always fill in nicely. Their superficial nature is explored so sweetly here.


Corsage Girls
by Angeline©


A bandboxful of corsage girls
primp and polish their sparkle
before long stagelit mirrors.

They sweep jade shadow,
outline lids in Nile lines,
and purse their lips for gold
swivel tubes of shiny red wax.

Their bare shoulders gleam,
and they dip bejeweled necks
graceful as stems, pat scent
on the petals of their skin.

Their long red nails tip tap
on the vanity counter and they
carry glittery bags small enough
to hold a teacup chihuahua.

When they glide into night
each becomes a luminous flower
that attaches itself to a man's lapel.

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[eagleyez]

This is most definitely my favourite thread when Im just lurkin about.

Great work Mr. Lebroz.

 

[LeBroz]

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Not being a morning person, I can relate to the morning reluctance written of here; only after dinner can I get into multi-tasking overdrive.


Counterday Morning
by Icingsugar©


With a Tuesday rolling in
minutes bright and counting
A powerless countersong
for a counterday

Fingers numb, head is sore
but yesterday is hours old
And I hear somebody say

"It's gonna be a new day"

And I'm still around
unwritten pale
and new
Tell me your name
and I will follow you

Sunny day is rolling in
still my courage lingers
a thousand mornings down to one
if you'd care to stay

A thousand reasons to get up
A thousand seconds later
I see you stir awake and say

"Hey look, a new day"

And I'm still the same
in morning rolling
gray to blue
Let in the sun
and I will follow you

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[LeBroz]

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Here's an uncomplicated light fun piece that seems too short.


Cowboy
by LadyShianne©


He's one of a kind
He's gentle, yet tough
Going with the flow
Will never be enough

He's smart as can be
And always keeps his cool
Two-steppin' ahead
Forever thoughtful, too

His strength is his gentleness
Friendship his only game
Always there when needed
And Cowboy is his name

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[LeBroz]

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This gal plays by her own rules — or perhaps she has none at all.


cowgirl in chaps
by oxalis©


hip to ankle denim
with rivets
rustling the air
with her progress

heads turn cracking necks
there is something delightful
under those folds of noise
faded to soft pale blue

entering my tent
she pinches hard
her own cheek
I reply with play smack

her hand is strong
leading my wrist
back to reality and palm
reddening slap

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[LeBroz]

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Okay folks, today's Western motif ends on a down note.


Cowpoke's Lament
by drksideofthemoon©


Cowpoke's Lament

I sat across from an old cowpoke,
He looked at me, and I at he,
And then I said, old son, where have you been,
And what did you see.

His old grey eyes looked me over, and came his reply
Down from the Brazos, the Pecos, and the Red,
Up to the Snake and down the Rio Grande,
With my pards, most now long dead.

From the mountains and deserts,
All across Texas, and all the flat land,
I jingled horses, an’ punched cattle,
For most near every brand.

I’ve only got one more wish says he,
With a voice most steady and strong,
Make me a promise, and swear it so,
The last roundup is nigh and I ain’t got long.

Take from me my saddle and spurs,
Sing a song of joy, I need no dirge,
Scatter my ashes to the four winds,
Bury my bones not in the cold earth.

And I’ll be riding once again,
With my chums that I knew afore,
We’ll ride the last roundup up in the sky,
And he closed his eyes and spoke no more.

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[LeBroz]

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A most interesting read. If you're not careful, you'll think this is about the animal. It's not. It's about smugglers of human cargo. Read this carefully and see a new picture emerge.


Coyotes
by jthserra©


Coyotes

Misty apparitions wait in shadows of stars,
water from water on a moonless night,
the formless, shapeless human tide
listens-- listens for a signal, a sound:
an echoed voice, tires on gravel, a coyote howl.
Then, dark silhouettes in headlight glare,
they silently seep into the breathless vacuum,
as whispers echo and words tumble on asphalt.
Pressed shoulder to shoulder, face to face
they bleed in steamy beads of sweat,
as they ride for liquid hours.
Scavengers wait to feed on desperation,
their eyes glow in the distant hills
as they watch the weak and dying
in their endless migrant waves.
Miles and miles, far from the border,
far from the river, so far from home
the blinding sun is resurrection
as survivors ooze into the day,
and from the hills coyotes howl.

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[LeBroz]

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Life's frenetic pace getting you down? Here's the solution in a call to spend some time in the soothing embrace of the natural world.


Cradle
by tungtied2u©


I have vacated the city madness of too many
people swarming like ants in a mad panic
to gather sustenance for another day
neither caring or aware of their impact

on those around them, crawling over others
helter skelter, elbows to eyeballs, ravaging
ripping gnawing, sucking the life's blood
of those less fortunate to feast, rest

then begin anew. I have returned to the comfort
of leafy boughs brushing my brow, stirred
by soft breezes whispering through forests
the only crunch that of dropped branches

beneath my feet as I traverse the hillsides
to songbird's serenades in search of laughing
brooks and flying fish, silver sailing
in sunlight lacing the quiet calm

illuminating greens, yellows and reds
texturing the calm carpet of these mountains
this is my food, my breath, my being
here is my sanity, never to be lost again

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[LeBroz]

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I need a drink. Today's word of the day is: alternator. A rather critical engine component found under the hood {bonnet}. It is not fun when it quits in rush hour after school traffic. Now for that drink; at my age, caffeine's so very soothing. How'd I miss this in my string of coffee verse?


Coffee Code
by neonurotic©

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[LeBroz]

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Here's another one of daughter's works, written on a more personal level. The note that follows the poem is hers.


Tuck Me In
by daughter ©

Comfortable under the covers,
I move close enough to breathe for you;
brush my face against your suprise
for me and smile.

You have a thing for hair.

I reach for you between giggles,
trace your lips with my fingers,
lean in and suck your air.

With a quick kiss, turn and scooch,
I fold your arms round, whisper
"I love you."

Drift off without hearing your reply,
dreaming of a time when every night
you tuck me in.


Some readers assume the hair and surprise is sexual. In fact, the narrator is referring to his beard. It is a surprise because of the time and distance between her and her lover. This is based on my own experience.

We'll celebrate 2 years this summer, and still I wait to be tucked in every night.

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[LeBroz]

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I said it before on an earlier post that when I see a poem such as the following with those citations, I am always struck by the fact that 2004 seems to have been a very good year for Lit's poets. Thinking about it some more, it must have been yet another challenge that produced these two poems.


Creation of words
by neonurotic©



Words flowed from my fingertips.¹
lust in blood with tears
of fear and love
written on the body.

A secret language in passion,
encrypted messages
understood by no one.

Except her eyes.

She holds the code that deciphers
this heart ~ this mind
which lies within
the deepest part of me

Herein, she defines
creation.

It is raw emotion
I spill for her
both complex and simple
that moves the muse,
stirs an echo of little words.²



¹ in "Paper Girl", by flyguy69 © 2004
² in "While Smoking a Cigarette Afterward", by Remec © 2004

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[The_Fool]

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I said it before on an earlier post that when I see a poem such as the following with those citations, I am always struck by the fact that 2004 seems to have been a very good year for Lit's poets. Thinking about it some more, it must have been yet another challenge that produced these two poems.


Creation of words
by neonurotic©



Words flowed from my fingertips.¹
lust in blood with tears
of fear and love
written on the body.

A secret language in passion,
encrypted messages
understood by no one.

Except her eyes.

She holds the code that deciphers
this heart ~ this mind
which lies within
the deepest part of me

Herein, she defines
creation.

It is raw emotion
I spill for her
both complex and simple
that moves the muse,
stirs an echo of little words.²



1 in "Paper Girl", by flyguy69 © 2004
2 in "While Smoking a Cigarette Afterward", by Remec © 2004

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I remember that challenge. It was fun...

 

[LeBroz]

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The first image that came to mind when I saw the title is of the college crew sport — I suppose that's one way to get 'em motivated...


crew
by oxalis©


our firm grips
match
you won’t drop
without intent

our duty
is your indulgence
crawl or stay between,
gentle lady

we drink you
scavenge your desire
propose you arch
at your own grace

gravity feed us
we lift you
have us cruel,
rough magic,
prurient street cocks

bought and paid for
pin point strikers
our rumor is true,
are you?

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[LeBroz]

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The kitcheny kitsch smashed while crying out for simple {and expensive} elegance.


Crockery and Chaos
by Barushko©


CROCKERY AND CHAOS

By BARUSHKO © 2004

Suddenly
in the night the dish-rack
falls
off the top of the microwave, sharding
dishes over the teabag-stained floor, they
fortunately
don’t break microscopically like those
Absolut glasses do, they

are in big pale parts, some
flowered so
belonging to a mistress from somewhere, the way
girly dishes are, never
lean and spare and
exquisite to their nature but all chintzy and
kitschy and covered with
shit that raises my ire—from
their Mother’s day, who

wants or needs a rose garden
under a flank of beef, or
burdening up chicken breasts with their
fading petals, I want

only the simplest things here, only
the honest china from
the mills of Staffordshire without

embellishment of any kind, do I lie
by secretly enjoying the red ring, round
the borders of one set of
plates and the occasional
touch of brush to bone with a simple
curve

May 20, 2004 Gulag no. 16 Magadan

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[LeBroz]

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In the deep South, these things may now be only memories as summer's weather has apparently arrived. But here in the chilly North, these are in explosive bloom — finally.


Crocuses
by jthserra©


Crocuses

"Says crocuses
coaxed out of hiding
and killed in the snow”

from: To John Wieners:

Elegy & Response
by: Franz Wright​

It doesn’t snow here
and crocuses could live
forever it seems,
burning slightly in the heat,
if only I dare plant them

bulbs turned upward
in bloodmeal and soil,
the perfect depth
to root like insidious vines
and your Easter lilies.

It’s so hard to risk more
than those white blossoms
each spring, your memory
so fresh and pure
that I fear crocuses

the color of fingertips
ever so gently on skin
a faint sigh, unnoticed
stir of air in the twilight
before a mourning sun.

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[LeBroz]

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Bit of a minimalist natural feel to this — now all you need is your imagination.


Crows
by Du Lac©


White river dreams
Youths lost dilemmas.

Dropped off glacial cliffs
melted ancient water
streaming minds.

Crows sitting, waiting for the warming
Black dots thrust against a fading indigo sky.

Evergreens scream in their green,
forever young,
barren branches whip in jealousy.

Whispered secrets of the Creator.

Swirling paisley dreams,
laced with muted colors of our existence.

Fractals of frozen tears,
pooling on tar covered terra.

Grieving mother,
separated from her young.

Ignorant humans.
Lost in the paisley of crow fed desires.

dlt © Feb. 19 2005

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[LeBroz]

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It's such a beautiful morning today with a slight chill in the air despite the comforting warmth of the sun. Here's a poem that's filled with imagery of another sort, of distressing anguish, of pain — external and self-administered.


Cruciatus
by Jamison©



The never ending view is the ocean,
razor shards of black. It glares
at the sun with its infinite thousand
diamonds, fracturing light until blind.

Someone has to say it; it's time
to get out of the water, or stay,
swim past the breakers never returning.

Belly crawl the shoreline, filleting
right down to the bone. It opens wounds
to drain toxic trash of whatever was said
or done to self-inflict crucifixion.

The healing is through the super-heated
sand, through the ashes that burn again.
Be smooth like glass,

be a one-way mirror no one sees
the inside and no one ever knows.
That is when soul scarification begins
and the internal torture ends.

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[LeBroz]

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Cuisine of a different sort — a fancy feast for the birds and fungi.


Crumbs
by irishcatsmeow©


Day old bread
discarded, tossed to the wind.
No thought to pattern,
scattered hastily;
food for crows.

Crusts still intact;
fancy finger food wasn’t coveted,
but more than a casual tidbit was needed.
Freshness now leeched;
sitting on the shelf,
time offers no grace.

Crumbs no longer sustain.
Stale and without substance;
bereft of value, purity;
a murky gray.
A beggar’s banquet
tempts no more.

You don’t understand
why the scraps once held,
no longer serve me.
A ravenous appetite
demands satiation.
Credence gives hope
for a feast never before known.

Specks of mold form;
particles continue to decay.
As my back turns
the pecking begins;
squawks echo,
vultures hover, and compete
for this worthless fodder.

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[RhymeFairy]

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It's such a beautiful morning today with a slight chill in the air despite the comforting warmth of the sun. Here's a poem that's filled with imagery of another sort, of distressing anguish, of pain — external and self-administered.


Cruciatus
by Jamison©



The never ending view is the ocean,
razor shards of black. It glares
at the sun with its infinite thousand
diamonds, fracturing light until blind.

Someone has to say it; it's time
to get out of the water, or stay,
swim past the breakers never returning.

Belly crawl the shoreline, filleting
right down to the bone. It opens wounds
to drain toxic trash of whatever was said
or done to self-inflict crucifixion.

The healing is through the super-heated
sand, through the ashes that burn again.
Be smooth like glass,

be a one-way mirror no one sees
the inside and no one ever knows.
That is when soul scarification begins
and the internal torture ends.

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This is beautiful!!

Great pen " Jamison " I feel almost mortally wounded when reading this. Yes, right down to the bone !! Exceptional write of agony ... love it.

Just sayin'

 

[LeBroz]

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The sound of walking on frost encrusted ground comes through here, though it's a sound I'd sooner forget as the growing season's only now just started.


crunch
by _Savannah_©


crunch

crunch, crunch, crunch,
breath puffs, air sighs;
crunch, crunch, crunch ,
sun shimmers in the chill sky.

crunch, crunch, crunch ,
wind moans, branches groan;
crunch, crunch, crunch ,
anxious for the first winter snow.

crunch, crunch, crunch ,
colors frost with bluish tints;
crunch, crunch, crunch ,
proof of life in tiny footprints.

crunch, crunch, crunch...

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