Archival Review

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

The bloodiest of wars are civil wars, as any married couple can attest. Look at this connection explored below and see how it feels. At least married couples can benefit with make-up sex — what a thaw!


Civil War
by hippiedude©


At Fredericksburg,
darkness fell with killing
frost on blood soaked earth,
determined, dead
and quivering arms
draped over Marye’s Heights.

General Burnside cried,
“those men…. those men…
I am thinking of them
all the time.”

But I must think of us,
back to back on frozen bed,
waiting for the sun;
to rise and heat the day
with well aimed words.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

An interesting picture painted here, all tied to life in the kitchen.


crushed garlic
by Jenna Grey©


the pungent scent of garlic
curls through my kitchen.
crushed tomatoes await seasoning
simmering on a low heat.
oh, the timelessness of my effort,
the timelessness of summer days
fading slowly to autumn.

my life is like a clove of garlic
some moments find me sliced thin
browning too quickly, burnt around the edges.
other days i sit alone in the vegetable drawer,
growing soft and moldy.

the size of the cloves vary.
regardless, without garlic,
life would be tasteless,
dull and void of zest.

culinary chores pile around me
canning to finish,
breads to bake.
i see daylight
winding down to night
when at last the kids are in bed
and i can contemplate the things i should and shouldn’t do
the thoughts i should and shouldn’t have.
the efforts made
and naps not taken.
the naps taken and
efforts not made.

the pungent scent of life
curls through my consciousness.
crushed dreams await seasoning,
simmering in the back of my mind.

but for now i pause and reflect
the timelessness of it all.
I stir the tomatoes
and wait for night fall.

.
.
.
.

 

[RhymeFairy]

.
.
.

An interesting picture painted here, all tied to life in the kitchen.


crushed garlic
by Jenna Grey©


the pungent scent of garlic
curls through my kitchen.
crushed tomatoes await seasoning
simmering on a low heat.
oh, the timelessness of my effort,
the timelessness of summer days
fading slowly to autumn.

my life is like a clove of garlic
some moments find me sliced thin
browning too quickly, burnt around the edges.
other days i sit alone in the vegetable drawer,
growing soft and moldy.

the size of the cloves vary.
regardless, without garlic,
life would be tasteless,
dull and void of zest.

culinary chores pile around me
canning to finish,
breads to bake.
i see daylight
winding down to night
when at last the kids are in bed
and i can contemplate the things i should and shouldn’t do
the thoughts i should and shouldn’t have.
the efforts made
and naps not taken.
the naps taken and
efforts not made.

the pungent scent of life
curls through my consciousness.
crushed dreams await seasoning,
simmering in the back of my mind.

but for now i pause and reflect
the timelessness of it all.
I stir the tomatoes
and wait for night fall.

.
.
.
.

In it's own way, this is very erotic. I feel the simmering, jut waiting to boil. A simple stir, is all it takes.

Sexy read here LeBroz and my thanks to Jenna Grey for tempting, the spice in life, awaiting the bubbles ...

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Let's declare it a three-day weekend and start it now with a toast; the work'll get done eventually.


Crystal Lipped Swirl
by smithpeter©


lips painted silver
flavored spicy licorice
lighting through tint
99 Cadillac with stretched driver

The road bumps become
the prescription of Travel Rough.
Enjoy It Tough
Railroad tracks the wrong way.

Eyes meet blue and bluer
mixing cocktails for one
shared between mouth
little spills on plush

between our smears and puddles
Cheers,
*Clink*

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

A bit of a heartbreak piece. Despite evidence to the contrary, it'll grow back. It just takes awhile.


Crushing
by bordeaux©


My heart lies helpless in your hands.
I watch your hands tilt forward;
my very being rolling effortlessly from your fingertips,
hurling hopelessly and crashing to the floor.
The pieces scatter across the cold marble.
Everything I've ever felt,
lies shattered before me.

Your words, "I love you so much!"
ring, throb, pound in my head.
This is your idea of love?

The tears stream down my face,
dripping from my jaw,
collecting into the void
where my heart used to reside.
Brine seering like fire.

You turn your back and walk away.
No words, no sounds, no gestures.

Do I take a piece to remember what once was?
Instead, I raise my hand to cover the hole.
And just as you had,
I walk away silently.
Never again will I have to feel;
nothing is left
in this hollow pit,
to betray me.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Now here's one we've not heard from in a bit. Another coffee drinking poet — is it a prerequisite, I wonder? Coffee drinking, that is. Oh well, whatever you're drinking, enjoy your weekend.


Cup of Silly
by Icingsugar©


Coffee.

A well deserved soother
from the hectic bustle
at the oasis of a secluded gem
still holding out against the hype
and serves a plain black one
in a world of decaf hypocrisy
and maple nut fudge frappuchinos.

I get my fix and
settle in a corner,
scanning the ever familiar
walls and the not always
familiar faces.

Single sippers tonight.

A woman smiles at me
in a not only polite way,
giving my ego
an innocent little micro-boost
to store away for future use.

She might not have noticed
14 carats curved around my finger
or maybe she just don't care.

Or maybe I think
too highly of myself?

It happens, I suppose.

The punky waitress
bored stiff of power ballads
and Phil Collins
extends an arm
an skims the FM band
to a more urban beat.

And then it happens.

Ice-T on the radio.
Ice tea in her glass.
Eyes teasing me
from over the frosted rim.

What a sweet little lapse of logic.
What a silly little flunk of faith.

I feel it coming
and I can't hold it in.
With my dumb little giggle
erupting into laughter,
her seductive grin fades awayy,
her embarrassed eyes looks down,
and for future reference
I will always be
that coffee shop freak.

I can live with that,
I still got my plain black one.

And she did smile.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here you go with a late night treat, a rather desolate sounding piece from Mr. smithpeter.


Crystalline Imprint
by smithpeter©


A pattern is all you left
An indentation in my habits
Meant to snow me,
I continue the flow of daily motion

My arms wave as you sign goodbye
From the backside of memory

To front is desolate destiny
So many Inuit words for a single thing
Say some,
Name one

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

The best kind of spring just sneeks up on you early and hangs on, refusing to yield to summer's heat. Brings to mind sweet Georgia springs, with thick green coatings of pollen.


Cue April
by Liar©


Somehow, spring came
without the usual ruckus.
No tweeting territorial chatter,
no riot of dandelion.

The air just forgot to harm
one day, forgot to suck life
out from between clenched teeth,
and let it fall back, blend with ice
and last year's expectations in stasis
to primordial mud.

Expect no parades
for a silent trimester falling,
but sing in the new,
if you have enough words.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a simple unadorned look at the natural order.


Culled old moon
by tungtied2u©


Wolf moon stalking mocking
Reflecting reflexes
young strong bold
on the rise
Walking in his shadow
I tremble
Old moon days numbered
gray face dimming
awaits night claws
cold slashing light

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's some vivid imagery presented with an economy of words.


Cumberland Mills Cockatoos
by jd4george©

Good fighter
Good fighter
Aren’t they pretty birds​

Nesting mother crooks her head
ice white plumes
ablaze
as deep within the feathered down
soft peeping mimics
me

Good fighter
Good fighter
I’m a pretty bird​

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Take your time and read this several times to better appreciate all the thoughts and imagery presented here; it seems he's never easy.


Cut & Dried, or Was It?
by RazzRajen©


The other day I saw a flower
aquarium,
a Globe of glass
hermetically sealed
when you invert it
My world upside down

Was the ladybug red
crawling
on it,
a Picture captured forever
..........................written in red
lines trailing,
the flow uphill......salmon are pink
where is the roe?

untold generations eaten
infanticide
committed in the tony bistros
of the Champs Elyses
Flutes of champagne
popping of beluga caviar

No one knew, then......what is known now
Yet will We do the same

Who learns from History
..........................Who can?

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Okay, it's a Monday morning and my brain says to crawl back under the covers. So here's something easy to go with a mental slow down day; not near as much fun as his warning about animal crackers on the first page of this thread!

Cut the Fat
by Reltne©



No Matter how well breaded
Pork couplets
Ain't
Veal poetry​

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

If photography was his hobby, is he mixing in something else in with it?


curling photography
by smithpeter©


no matter, my Russian babe
no harm, your lakes and mountains
are secure in my embrace

the blue aura of my saliva
and limbs will remain
on bed clothes

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Got up early today to watch the setting moon get devoured by hungry dragons. Looks like today's going to be as crazy as yesterday — just take it one step at a time.

This morning's contribution captures an era's spirit and sets the mind to thinking.


Daddy's War
by Angeline©


Dear Daddy last night I
watched Saving Private Ryan.
I saw your young man's face,
the fear in trembling fingers,
numb movement forward,
carrying bandages, not a gun.

I can't imagine you crashing
onto Omaha Beach, bobbing
over waves bloody with men
like you, floating, sinking.

Maybe once they knew
how to do the lindy hop.
Maybe once they held
the seeds of daughters
waiting to hear stories,
Damon Runyun read
in a steady goodnight voice
that dipped and nodded,
beckoning sleep.

Do their grandchildren remember them?

A fading face,
a dusty purple heart,
and not a word against
the crawling factory years,
days sung to morning clink,
spoon on coffee mug, and then

goodbye sweetheart, goodbye.

Not a word of friendship
blasted by a single shell,
the scrape of sandy tears,
numb movement forward,
and life beyond 1945
a cakewalk by comparison.

Dreaming.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

This title — the language of filling up the tank.


Dammit
by sandspike©


Bought myself a pickup
with quadruplet tanks.
Damn thing burns more gas
than Oscar Mayers got franks.

Drove New York to Tampa
without a single gas date.
But when I reached Miami
it drank the whole damn rebate.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Today we'll look at a couple damn poems, starting with the following from smithpeter. Take your time on this one — it's so loaded with suggestive imagery, or is that just my dirty mind playing tricks on me?


Damn Salt
by smithpeter©


The tiny granules
Are hugely smaller
Than the holes
In the shaker

They dance when dropped
Onto the faces of dry plates
That were designed
To be occupied by food

Not unlike a kitten
On a water bed,
Finally full and bloated boasting
It’s weight above joists that strain
With each drop

one pint
over the line
and it’s basement, baby,
salt and shaker and all

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's another damn poem where repetition seems to work; the shirt, the sky, the eyes are all brought together.


Damn, the Blue Shirt
by jthserra©


damn the blue shirt

damn it
....the shirt, the blue
....the blue shirt that reflects the sky
....the cloudless sky
that goes on and on
..........dimensionless, immeasurable
......forever in deep blue
..................nothingness

....the shirt, the blue
....the sky blue sky
....cloudless sky

damn it
....and your eyes
....the eyes I've tried
....so hard...

I can't forget
.........not today, the cloudless day
....the shirt, the blue
....the blue shirt that reflects the sky
....your eyes

sky blue eyes
....the eyes I've tried
....so hard
I can't forget
...................you.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Today I'll pop in a couple of pieces from cymry that have gaelic titles, and from those gaelic titles springs her own unique interpretation.

D'earna
by cymry©



D'earna:
Palm of the hand

Wicked senses gather
in the palm of the hand.
Touch lives
carelessly
in the tips of fingers.
The essence
of a caress
is the same as
the soul
of an experienced
explorer.​

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Another of those gaelic title inspired poems; an interesting take on the workings of the mind.

Damhan-alluidh
by cymry©



Damhan-alluidh:
Spider

The subconscious mind
is a spider
weaving the web
of inconsistency.
Sharp spiny
limbs pulling threads
of thought
into a coruscating
tapestry of dreams.
Come vast arachnid,
spin me into
forever.​

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

That damn bug knocked me for a loop. Thankfully, it was only one of those 24-hour varieties and I've got it routed and retreating back to whence it came. Now that I feel so much better, I may feel tempted to try this, but for now I'll hold off on any wild dancing.


Dancing Wildly
by Belegon©


Dancing wildly
beneath the eclipse
of the October harvest moon.
I throw wide my arms
in worship,
drinking in the stillness.
The only music
plays in my heart,
and is accompanied
by crickets
and rustling grasses.
The only light
that of the stars.
The only audience
a startled rabbit
who fled at my approach.
To untrained eyes
I seem to dance alone,
but whenever
I dance,
in noise
or silence,
you will be there.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Okay, feeling better, but not quite good enough to have a night to regret...


dampened encounter
by bluerains©


nepente’s misadventures
heave and spew
it’s back washed tribulation
bloodshot eyes focus
through a steamy mirror
remembering why night was obliterated

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Makes you wonder, which is worse? That he uses those three words or that he won't.


Dangerous Attraction
by ishtat©


Dangerous Attraction


You told me you loved me,
showed me you cared,
unreserved joy in me,
small gestures, touches, affections.

I told you I loved you,
perhaps prompted and less often.
Showed you nothing,
knew it hurt, but didn’t change

I said “I love you”,
you wanted to hear it.
Your response was gratifying,
out of all proportion to my lie.

You made love with passion,
sweet innocent imagination.
I with consummate skill,
fucked you.

I loved the love you gave me,
not the giver of the gift,
loved the greater man you made me,
not you, yourself.

I could lie again, regain you,
have you back. My own.
Or just as easily exchange you.
Allow you to be gone.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's the incomprehensible put into words; tough to read and sure to bring rage to a boil.


Danielle
by Belegon©


The image of her mother
But incapable of the same denial
You watched her
From your bathroom window

Forsaking things you could not have
You focused on innocence
Rejected by the adult
You turned on a child

Her childhood and her life
You destroyed for lustful anger
Mother’s rejection you revenged
With unimaginable evil

After the atrocity
You bargained for her body
While searchers combed hills
You sought a devils deal

Blond haired and blue eyed
The lost child haunts us
Crushed hopes assaulted
Shattered under a tree in Dehesa

The parent’s fears realized
Communities spirits fallen
While you sat in court
And said the lie “not guilty”

Only you will know how long
She cried and suffered
While you drove the back roads
From sea to desert sands

Were you convinced
Before her end
Did her feeble struggles
Reach what you call a soul?

-Dedicated to the memory of Danielle Van Dam

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

A couple dank pieces from Razz. This first seems rather light, in contrast to what the title implies.


Dank Minds
by RazzRajen©


Darkest desires
hold pregnant promise,
Taking the high road
wafting away
on tiny stepping stones
.................................to higher places,

Clouds , as ephemeral
as desires can be,
Take Me to where she
sits,
.................................waiting.
whence came all the
desires
.................................born in Mine
dark minds,
Trembling, taking
.................................then Enjoining

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Another dank poem, this one not quite as 'pretty' as the preceding


Dank Undergrowths
by RazzRajen©



Silently, walking in quiet corners,
slithering
nicely
along corrugated walkways
sometimes the flapping of
a butterfly wings
mesmerizes
then
often
they serve merely to feed

denizens of the forest,
cackling underfoot
as the growth lies high
and dry
baby eels, slugs
of multitudinous colors
why is He enamoured
of all that glitters,
partake
some of that lies
deep in lissom depths

clammy and cold was His heart,
.....................she left it bereft
and then
along came a spider
who gobbled like a turkey
re-gurgitated Him
.....................whole and born anew

.
.
.
.