Archival Review

[Angeline]

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Now here's one practically bursting with love's spiritual giddiness — makes so many love poems seem so mundane.


Dharma Life
by Angeline©


Bob Dylan and Middle English
reign on this love supreme.
Poetry slides down walls,
rolls in cookpots.
Words simmer, bubble
strophes, stanzas.
We harmonize in cantos.

I look at my knee,
pick up a scabbed rhyme
dropped from my stony past,
and press on another phrase.

He brings me music.
He brings me books.
Kerouac speaks in his voice,
and Dharma is lionized
twixt silly smiles,
mouthing metaphors,
understanding.

We're two wacked out intellectuals,
he laughs, then reads
from some medieval text.

I feel lazy like a sunflower,
swayed and dark eyed,
lifted out of the storm,
brightened in poetry grown live
with arms, legs, shaped
in fingers holding my hands
to the bristly texture
of his sweet face.

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That's one of my favorites, Leon. Thanks for posting it. It's almost four years since I met eagleyez here in this forum and he still reads me Henry Miller and Kerouac and plays Dylan for me (cd and on his guitar). I think that poem really stands the test of time for me.

 

[LeBroz]

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Here're some late-night images to play with, or early morning ones, depending on your point of view.


Dewdrop
by Curiouswife©


I knew what he needed
in the second that it took
to swallow cappuccino
confessions at three a.m.
and against my better judgment
I extended comfort’s hand
to brush the wisps of hair
and dreams, fallen in his eyes.
I took him home silently
curled into his leather,
treading dew drenched leaves,
forging a slippery path.
It was after he’d sunk in
that I queried what I’d done,
and if he’d ever leave,
and how I’d slip away.

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[LeBroz]

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A poem about love is such a joy to read; just look a couple posts back at Angeline's. But sometimes love fades and dies and recriminations abound. Here's one such with a medical spin. Appropriately, it has a more clinical feel to it, making it seem that love's death is inevitable.


diagnosis
by lobomao©


There was no ambulance
As my love lay dying.
And I the ever stupid ass
Could only sit beside her
Whispering “don’t go” again and again
Until the words lost their meaning
So she kissed me and left.

I went to the doctor
To try and save my love
After too many tests, needles, and lies
The results came in
I didn’t love myself enough
So why should she
I sat there naked stripped and stunned
In those little paper gowns
My ass clinging to the paper
That they leave on the bed
In the end that's the only thing you own
Some how it made sense
I was to blame in this blaming game
After all I had done to love her
It was my love that she hated after all

Her ghost is everywhere
On the arms of other men
Laughing free full, falling like water
We traded deaths she and I;
Bartered haggled and hemmed and hawed
But I am happy for her now in her afterlife
When mine comes I want to be cat
To sleep in sunpatches on a kitchen floor
Love my love with teeth and claw
Leave my liking through a little cat door

I try to bury the past
But I buried it alive
I hear it kick kicking scream
Muffled under cover covered
Like a dark seed brooding
Finger root pushing growing out
I dream it becomes a beautiful dark tree
That maybe someday I’ll dance around
Lie in its shadey night shade
Eat it’s delicious poisoned fruit
That tastes of sex
Or love
Or tears

Someday
Someday soon
I'll breathe a little breathe again
It's on my list of things to do

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[LeBroz]

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There's poetry in anything, even in the morning's faint residue of an evening shower.


Diamond Dust
by Cerriwiden©


Raindrops fell
like glitter. The sidewalks
wore patter jeweled patterns.
First a pendant,
then pearls, spreading
until whole avenues
shone treasure.

In the morning,
sun dried flecks
sparkle in concrete
like memories.

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[LeBroz]

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Making light of poets? Putting poetry in perspective? You be the judge.


Diary 10/04
by Preta©


"The difference between madmen,
climbing towers,venomous
spiders with guns,
and poets,is that the madmen
hear the voices then follow directions.

The poet simply listens and writes it down,like taking dictation."

This is what the know it all rock near the lamppost told me this morning.

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[LeBroz]

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Taking a break from my Heroes marathon to add this wonderfully and creatively original piece of word play. Go over it a couple times and really savor it!


Dictionary of Rogue Verbs
by Cordelia©


I conceal meditations of that subjective tense from myself,
where clues of why your syntax may be indifference to myself.

I fasten onto your way of conjugating my ache until
I become the persuasive phrase you’d gauge innocence in myself.

When I can pen your hair into gold, the lucrative emerges,
but your daunting ease drains silver from the eloquence of my self.

Stretch taut my desire over the copper of your framework’s embrace,
and in esteem’s calligraphy – stained to permanence through my self.

Parchment-ready for prurient brushes with the ink of glances,
I inhale and find in the thesaurus of confidence: my self.

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[LeBroz]

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What if the plastic surgery and other cosmetic procedures fix not only the outer appearance, but also restore the reckless abandon of youth? Here's one perspective to give you food for thought.


Die young, stay pretty
by tungtied2u©


Bright white teeth
ultrasonically cleaned
Erased years of nicotine
Bright red Kawasaki
Flash machine
Accented the new look

Speeding homeward
Round the gy-rotary
Not looking
Came a truck
He’d never see
Until it was too late

Bright red blood
soaked black leathers
Bright white teeth
Knocked out of his head
Bright soul shining
Extinguished in a flash

Lying on the tarmac
Torn to shreds
Too young
Too bright
Too fast
Only ash remains

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[LeBroz]

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The Mutt comes through again with some words á la Mr. Kipling.


Dieu et mon Droit
by The Mutt©


The creakin' ropes of halyard lines,
the shout of "Port's the lee!"
We're gone to build an empire, lads
and tame the base Chinee.

We'll smite the heathen Ethiope
and flog the swarthy Jew,
We're gone to spread the Gospel, lads
and kill a wog or two.

It's bogs and boards for billets, boys
and beetle root for tea,
We'll teach the naked savages
British civility.

And when the wogs are kneeling, boys
and praying to Our Lord,
We'll split apart their bleedin' hearts
with good Birmingham swords.

We'll raze their Golden Cities, then
and put them to the sack,
We're gone to rape and pillage, lads
and shan't be comin' back.

So kiss goodbye your faithless wife
and tup a plump young lass,
We're gone to build an empire, lads
the rest can kiss our ass.

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[LeBroz]

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Transitioning from The Mutt's piece above to this from Senna Jawa may be quite a shock to the system, especially the way this one ends.


different live$
by Senna Jawa©

a new life is made between the sheets
a life is worth a pile of money
how big a pile of money?

one crumpled handful if the sheets were in yugoslavia or russia
a lunchbox of money if in sweden or england in a 3-bedroom house
and a truck-load if uncovering the sheet
the one nearer the ceiling and gold chandelier
presents a view of an oil tycoon and a press tycooness

but if a life is made in a damp cardboard box
shared by a bunch of sleeping babies and sleepy flies
then life is worth (more or less?) but a tear​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1990-10-18

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[LeBroz]

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What do you think you'll see when looking in this mirror?


Different Mirrors
by dorksicle©


We were innocence
tangled in bubblegum,
undoubtedly a layer of filth lay between us,
torn by short distance that overexaggerated
in our immauturity
and lifted by courage and droughted by the fear, we
were separated.


Morning was the time to smile and night to cry.

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[LeBroz]

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This gives added meaning to the idea of seeing the world through a child's eyes.


different world
by Senna Jawa©

two military jets
wing by wing
cut the sky in halves

a small girl on the sidewalk
leans closely to the woman
the woman remembers

when i was your age
i was happy
to greet birds & planes
in the sky

but mommy i am scared
i am afraid of errorists​

wh
2006-10-21

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[LeBroz]

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A foxhole as school and work and climbing out for retirement, picking up where you left off.


Dig in, kids!
by steve porter©


Dig in, kids!

This is trench warfare.

Dig yourself a foxhole
and hunker down
for the next sixty
years or so.

If you survive
then climb out.

You'll be amazed
at how different
everything looks.

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[LeBroz]

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A passion illuminated by, and that simulates, the digital alarm clock.


Digital
by jthserra©


Digital

Digital
.............I count the time with you
.....in LCD readout
numerical expressions
..................of you
..........You fade
.......momentarily
..............and I drift
...............then awaken
..........in alarm
...............to your passions.
Flashing,
..........your anger
.............disarms me,
...............I am powerless
.............forgive me.
..........And in the darkness,
........in the faint
.................glow of twilight
...............we touch
..........with a rhythm
......................a motion
..................and join
..........in timeless ecstasy.

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[LeBroz]

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An interesting take on cyber relationships; meeting, dancing, loving. Synchronized while never coming face to face.


digital dance
by bluerains©


you click your mouse
and I am the melody
with a keystroke
I am your ivory piano
you play me like an
old blues tune as
your words tease my
computer screen
I am the notes driving
your mainframe
stored on your harmonious
hard drive
I am your memory chip
that keeps you alive
so lets burn this cd
and make our computers
dance....

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[Syndra Lynn]

I LOVED all 3 from yesterday, especially the one by blue. (hi blue!)

But I wanted something a bit more sensual, so I dug out an old fave of mine. Simply yummy!


Verbotan
by Sabina_Tolchovsky©

I am the smell of jasmine and sex left on your sheets.
I am early Saturday mornings
and late afternoons.
I am the whisper of memory on your neck
the longing that wakes you in the middle of the night.
I am the thirst in your veins,
the silken body snaked next to you in your dreams.

I am your wanton goddess
that will do anything you ask of me...

Bend me, shape me, break me if you must
I'll be your fuck puppet
if thats what you want.

I can be a little dirty
or I can be a little sweet
I can stand ready to give
or kneel waiting to receive.
I'll be the one that fulfills
all your sticky sweet needs.

Tie me,
spank me,
slip it in slow and hot
Please,
touch me in all those dark, secret and trembling spots.

I'll be your verbotan slut
charm you,
please you,
arouse and awaken
I am flesh for the taking.

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and if you want to hear a little something sexy, check out this audio poem by my all time favorite Lit poet. Here's a link to Kundalinguini's Just a touch

Stay sexy out there poets!

Syn

 

[LeBroz]

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And even those few stored images will fade in a few decades, as 1's become 0's or the 0's become 1's.


digital memories
by bluerains©


faded photos
won’t be found in dusty drawers
when I’m no longer around
no negatives shall I leave behind
to whisper hidden ghostly secrets

In silence my fingers will trace
cold figurines not sold at a tag sale
so I’ll leave my screensaver
filled with each happy smile
that he gave me

the one who
rang my bell

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[LeBroz]

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The phone lines experience her far more than you can ever know. Frustrating, isn't it?


Digital Tapestry
by Decayed Angel©


You shine in sunlight:
as bright fiery hair
singes your shoulders,
warming your face

as you toss your head.
Your fingers stoke
the strands in a flowing
cascade drawing me to flame.

I reach out to touch
your hair, breathe
your scent, suddenly
you quickly flash away:

an image on a screen
words branding a picture:
searing a digital tapestry
into the phone lines.

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[LeBroz]

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Let's start the day with a little travelogue.


digressing
by Senna Jawa©

you greet and you part with your friends
at airports around the usa
you travel again and again
till you can't tell the heads from the tails

the lady luck's traveling too
she smiled in maryland to you
smirked in reno from every die
rolled like oranges in florida

texan crowd waves the hats at the airport
sail straight for you no more escorts
no claim pass the baggage room light
the city lights offer serendipity​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1991-06-10

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[LeBroz]

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What woman wouldn't love a strand of pearls?


Dimension
by cward2©


A sleeping ocean
curled up inside
a pearl

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[LeBroz]

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Yep, he sure did say it — lick and drool. Somehow this gives it a more erotic feel; just what is being consumed here?


dinner summer dusk
by oxalis©


some damn good chow
promise nourishment
deliver salsa
wide flat tortilla
basil with parsley
dishes themselves sauced
never finishing the feast
eating till dawn bows
serves the palate of pleasures
here spreading,
insatiable till unconsciousness

first awake consumes the night dust of lover
till dreams slide down as oysters
as claws storing meat of cheek
bottom feeders of the Gods
lick and drool
roll in it, shiny olive oiled

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[LeBroz]

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Speaking of dinnertime, before I fix mine, here's a light, fun poem with rhyming couplets. Might not be mentally stimulating — its meaning's quite clear — but it's sure a simple pleasure to read.


Dinnertime
by tungtied2u©


The 8' oak table(it might have been ten)
Had 2 benches each side, and a chair at each end
the grain had grown dark, the finish worn thin
if you looked close you saw initials carved in

Folks gathered around it,then took their places
Wearing grins that spread the width of their faces
First Grace was given, then the food passed around
Eyes big. Mouths watering, not hardly a sound

The sweet smell of bread. The gravy was dreamy,
perfectly spiced, rich, thick and creamy
Corn so juicy it burst on your face ,
As you chomped your way through it as if in a race

Did I mention we talked, and we laughed as we ate
How the car got away but was stopped by the gate
(I know now to use the emergency break)
But I had to pee bad- it couldn’t wait!

Eyes sparkled, wine flowed, we all had our fill
of good food and good people, not to mention good will
We shook calloused hands, kissed each other good night
Hard working, hard living- it all seemed so right

The joy that old table saw soaked into its core
so deep we had no choice but to come back for more
taters and talking, meat and malarkey, sweet corn and corny jokes
and big hearted, hard working, fun lovin’ folks.

Amen

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[LeBroz]

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Here's an object lesson in 'free' health care, where everyday horror stories abound of rationed or denied medical care {unless it's for your pet and they get next-day care}. Or dental patients solve their problem with a pair of pliers. Tell those tales and eyes glaze over in boredom; write poetic satire and the messages come across just fine, though I doubt you'll ever see this one discussed in a high school English class.


Dipyldium Caninum
by scheherazade_79©


I’d seen them in the garden,
I’d seen them in rock pools.
But one day my whole world ended -
‘Cos I found them in my stools.

Worms like limp spaghetti,
Squirming in my shit.
When I saw them down the toilet
I nearly had a fit.

I dialled NHS Direct
And held the line for hours.
Then a voice from India said
“Sit naked in the flowers,

“And watch them bloom, my friend. You’ll see
Their beauty lies within
That portly frame that you now have.
Rejoice! You will be thin!”

He wasn’t lying. In a month
I looked just like Kate Moss,
With fried egg boobs and famine ribs
And legs like dental floss.

But that was where the perks ran out –
I’m bound to have a moan.
Those bastard worms were eating me
Right out of house and home.

I served up double portions
And ate all through the day,
But nothing I put in my mouth
Would keep hunger at bay.

My life became a misery, but
You’d forgive my constant bitching –
If you could for a second feel
The way my arse was itching.

I must have caught them from the cat,
Or from the dog next door.
Either way, I made my choice –
The worms could be no more.

I marched down to the vet’s that day,
And armed with worming pills,
I came back home and took the lot,
Then counted up my kills.

I might be fat these days, but at least
The ‘Alien’ scenes have ended.
The worms are back where they belong
And my digestion’s mended.


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[LeBroz]

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An intriguing composition of a relationship, leaving more questions than answers, as you try to fathom their roles.


disappointment in black and white
by normal jean©


Of course he is disappointed.
The job, yes that job
the one I wasn't invited to
fell through, and now he's stuck
and probably thinking
that I can't hear him complain
how tedious we have become
and he must have forgotten
how thin the walls are
and that the volume
on the phone is turned up to four
because he says he can't hear
all that good anymore
but he hears the tap-tapping
of my keyboard at midnight
from three rooms away
so I steal minutes here
hours there, hoping
that He will stop by to say

Hello, My pet
type quietly, but stay.

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[LeBroz]

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Yesterday, between football and baseball, I reviewed my notes and found I'd set aside several series of poems to read later. Here's the series that easily made the cut and we'll start each day for the next two weeks with the handiwork of Eleanora Day. It's also an example of the use of foreign language in a poem. Enjoy.


Amante
by Eleanora Day©


Mi querido I scent my skin with jasmine,
become a garden para tu,
spread beneath you over me
like the Sun warms Earth, like rain
coaxes ground to unfold its fecund bed,
and cup life in the valley of its palms.

Precioso I open myself like lashes curl,
flutter against the skin of your whisper,
and hold you, hold you though dying night
when dreams wake us with terrible truths.

When you shiver I say ya ya ya,
there there there, mi dulce,
cry here in this arbor of arms,
pour the ancient fear from behind
your eyes, from within the man
you are. The child you were is safe
siempre aqui amante, siempre aqui.

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[LeBroz]

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What a strange vision — what was being ingested while sitting on the couch?


disastrous results
by oxalis©


a nod a wink the obvious odor of seduction in the air
French Toast air with E’s everywhere
and syrup from New Hampshire factories
dirty floors and sawdust tents
what ever

near dashing hamlet pub lurks
Damian who will not be mentioned again
till end

far dancing half nude men with bellies
like author plague over solutions to this evenings
want and emptiness
ahha, lease a bus with driver
off we merrily go

seventy centipeders down the rowed
we discover imagination
worthy of capitalization but not dexterity
a juicy ruse

all one hundred tires were pumped and rubber rubbed
all injected, pre-heated, oxygenated and poked
scenic propaganda distracted, to prevent eye turning
sight see cranking

for what?
none of us returners ever asked
not our bucks, nor memories,
the chills the single spill

I fell in a puddle
Marjorie hung by a device of her own weaving
Glenn floated to the horizon 3 times
Beth stood in a corner the whole time
Jenn made good her warmth
Fritz flew the official kite the hell out of the sky,
Damian remarked, “those heaven gashes should have some first aide.

-written while sitting on a couch-

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