Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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With Colony Collapse Disorder a topic of great concern, here's a tale of woe faced by this particular Don Juan.


DJ Buzz Crucified
by Liar©


Don Juan scans
the field of sweet
nubile nectar
and quivering leaves

this flower deflowerer
lover of amaryllis
aviation acrobat
cruising his reign

where stains of sun
escape through
the lush to blush
the cheeks of a single
swooning lily
so nervously swaying
her virginal beauty

and Don Juan
descends

just as the metal
and nylon
from above

time
skips
a beat

now mummified
Don Juan hangs
pinned to a plaque
behind a glass window
shining the sun
through greasy
fingerprints

the young lily
long since crushed
under the rough sole
of an over zealous
entomologist

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[LeBroz]

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Another softly sensual terzanelle with which to end this series ~ such a pleasant way to start this Sunday.


Amante XV
by Eleanora Day©


Do not move mi esencia. Your eyes are mine.
Do not move, beseech as in unspoken prayer
to my divine consent granted within this line.

No hable! Who would hear you? Your care
has fashioned me a scepter made of moon.
Do not move, beseech as in unspoken prayer

fallen revelado a mis ojos. Míreme, soon
I’ll bid you whisper, pídame esclavo, for night
has fashioned me a scepter made of moon.

I am your Artemis, you must be contrite,
my sin. I’ll capture secrets of your heart.
I’ll bid you whisper, pídame esclavo, for night

designs each step and I, its solitary hunter, part
if you but breathe one beat, suck the skin of plea,
my sin. I’ll capture secrets of your heart

in time mal muchacho. Pida for me.
Do not move mi esencia. Your eyes are mine
if you but breathe one beat, suck the skin of plea
to my divine consent granted within this line.

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[LeBroz]

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Do not disturb — already disturbed, going over the edge. A dark way to finish the weekend.


Do Not Disturb
by TumbleUpStairs©


Drip.
Drip.
My hands are covered.
I’ve washed my hands in turpentine
So many times
(it burns, oh god it burns)
But they turn red in the light.

Hide my hands.
Pockets, gloves, any way I can.
Don’t look, damn you!
My nails are my business.

I had to hang the sign
And hide the hands,
Hide my hands and hope
I don’t-
I can’t-
Loose control.

Every hand that knocks at my door
Brings me one step closer to chopping it off again.

Each knuckle on the grain
Is a tic in my lip,
A twitch of my eye,
A throb of my heart,
A jump in my throat
While all around me bloody fingers
Twist the air,
Tying knots.

In the semi-darkness fingernails
Wink like a hundred eyes,
Open wide and
Seeing me.


Hide my hands,
Red in the dark and
In the light no matter how
I scrub them.

Tap tap tap.

Don’t ignore the signs
Upon the door
Else I might come through.

Each rap of the knuckles upon the door
Is a tap closer to the edge.

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[LeBroz]

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Groan — it's a Monday morning. Start of another work week. Here's a little something to counteract that incipient frown you're threatening to sport.


Doctor Literotica
by sandspike©


thumbing through Literotica
I turned to a page that read,
"oral sex, long toes, poetry,
I do my best work in bed"

"curious and furious
my husband hasn't a clue,
give him a wink show some pink
I've just begun and he's thru"

Doctor sees the problem clear
your fetishes are the clue,
begin with his toes
use him up to his nose,
post the results when thru.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a brief piece, that's so in the spirit of the haiku form. It's all I can handle now while my innards growl their hunger.


Does she realize?
by heterotic©


Mermaid beckons, revels
Man drowns

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[LeBroz]

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Just seems to generate its own heat and an all-nighter filled with jazz.


dog & night
by Senna Jawa©

i see my dog's tail
warm is this cool night​

night. vague dog.
tail wagging clearly.​

PC CD jazz
dog teeth shine at me
-- dawn​

face to face
with clock​

hearing a skylark
ready to collapse​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©

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[LeBroz]

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Some vivid imagery linked to biting social commentary.


Dog Hotel
by 2rivers©


dogs in berets
smoking long cigarettes
dashing hash ash upon plush carpets
of connoisseurs

they beat with all fours
a tinkle, a sprinkle
a full load of howler
a call for more sours

black velvet collar steps
like non other
she is not as sheep……
…ish as she façades

my dream ends there
my want ends never
dogs are not people
people are dogs

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[LeBroz]

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Sneaking in a bit of eros under the radar in the guise of the dogwood.


Dogwood
by smithpeter©


Not in point or concept
Would any but a fool
Attempt to sway a delicate
White pink flower to a cage

Already in custody of the
Loving branches, in turn
Possessions of the trunk
For whom she sports
A cleft between
Her luscious lower petals

Holding her to light
The slender stems bring
Nourishment, umbilicals
Of life, till the need is met
Dropped, folded, renewal

Foolish too to capture,
Cut, snap or twist her free
To die in vessel clay
Or glass, looking forlornly
Over the edge, drowning

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[LeBroz]

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A little down home folksy feel about this that is surprisingly compelling as you read this.


Doing Dishes on the Farm
by foehn©


“I sketch, weave the staccato, the soft and insidious silk of wings of cocoons of wild blackberries.” — Lauren Hynde


His nose is the first thing to get wherever
he goes, how funny! Who was it said that?
Oh yes, Mrs. Drummond, has a talent
for saying things in sayings. I’d hardly figure
she ever gets back of anyone else’s beak.

There, out there in the field, there’s the hat
coming off, even from here at the glass I can nearly
see the little crown of beads, and not just the khaki
sleeve, but what seems to fetch it here and back,
his hand, swiping it off.

I’ll rinse in cold. How can I miss him already!
Just here, he was, and silent at that. It’s our field,
though hot and full of dust, it’s just as much a grace
for me. “I want to try and grow some things,” he said,
and if nothing grows, still – it grows and grows.

I feel ashamed. Our boy’s gone to the city, about
to marry, we hardly ever ... But it’s the one I see now
I miss more, somehow... Oh! (I like the way cups clink
with spoons and such.) He sat, figuring something out,
I watched him sharp his pencil over the paper

bag I set beside him. Mrs. Jarvis may as well keep
her hard-cornered thoughts in her own mind;
what he says heaven may be, that’ll do me fine.
Harps and angels – he laughed at that, and I
laughed with him. Of course, he gets short, too ...

Now the black smoke goes up, he’s on again.
No, I couldn’t deny that, and still be me.
Hurts like a knife ... worse, maybe,
when I say nothing back, and I try not to.
It’s the little crown of beads of sweat,

that’s the real reason he got down. Just like the
sink gets splattered with them, but not white, off-gold.
Likes to stand with his feet right on the soil,
with any excuse, like weeds hung on the harrow.
Stand and look out, get a drink. Well, it is nice.

Why am I counting forks? There was the time
our old dog got sick past helping. I called her Sorta,
he’d said, “I think this one’s sorta the best lookin’,”
and we gave the rest away. Queer, how names come.
And having to do it tore at us both, him more ...

it was funny about that, too. Oh, I could count ...
but it’s like water, no, I can’t. Has that clock stopped?
Maybe he’s thinking about me. I wonder what
ways his eyes go, his hands always somewhere in that
thing. Big green machine, he looks so much larger.

Well, that should do it! Some few times, when I’ve
been away, come back, and he’s done these dishes like this,
I don’t know what, something about his fashion,
it makes me either want to laugh or cry.
Now, I think I’ll read a while, and rest.

It’s taken us good time to get this easy.
Look! There’s the dust, way down there at the far fence.
Turning. That dust is my husband. I’d have God
take him first, if I could order, to spare him
what I ... well, I don’t know what. Somewhere there’s

an article on blackberries I want to study.


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[LeBroz]

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Some reunions are best left understated, as is done here, giving the words greater impact.


doing time
by laelia©


there’s a dark side
he’d been to prison
the wasted 80’s
she pondered all
implications
but is unconcerned
having been locked
in the dark too
she understands
a hard hungry man
going down easy
with a soft woman

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[LeBroz]

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A picture presented here, done in the style of Robert Doisneau. Enjoy.


Doisneau
by kotori©


Doisneau

Arising from the warmth of your bed
Crossing to the window, lighting a cigarette;
The blue flare of the match is quickly extinguished.
Pushing back the drape just enough to peer
Through the rain into the warm wet late-summer night.
The floor is too high, the angle too oblique
To be concerned about my nakedness.
Gazing out to the street below, neon-lit
By signs over darkened shopfronts, two lovers
Huddle under an umbrella, scurrying arm-in-arm;
But where? To home? To their destiny, anyway.

Two lovers huddle under an umbrella, and are gone;
A moment captured like a Doisneau photograph,
Soft focus provided by the streaking rain and drowsy eyes,
Cigarette smoke and the lingering taste of stale Guinness
On my lips. The lingering taste of you.
Black and white in spite of reality, looking over the
Rain-soaked streets of Cleveland Park at 2:00 AM.
Drawing the smoke from the cigarette, slightly more acrid
As it nears the filter; releasing the drape, turning inward
Once more, the room again dark, the drumming of rain on
Glass muffled. I return to bed.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one where the rhyming is so unobtrusive that it's only after you've finished and it feels so complete that you may notice the rhyme. Here, the rhyme fits the poem and not the other way around, as most people do here at Litland.


Dolce color d'orïental zaffiro
by Lauren Hynde©


Dolce color d'orïental zaffiro,
che s'accoglieva nel sereno aspetto
del mezzo, puro infinito al primo giro

Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)
The Divine Comedy, Purgatory I:13-15

Here blossomed the islands of delights
For those who navigated due South,
Endured the Torment of the Cape's mouth,
Orienting their path amidst blackened nights.

Beneath these high clouds, white lyres,
For the first time was shown to the brave
The balanced mantra of wave upon wave
And the sweet blue of East and sapphires.​

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[Angeline]

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Here's one where the rhyming is so unobtrusive that it's only after you've finished and it feels so complete that you may notice the rhyme. Here, the rhyme fits the poem and not the other way around, as most people do here at Litland.


Dolce color d'orïental zaffiro
by Lauren Hynde©


Dolce color d'orïental zaffiro,
che s'accoglieva nel sereno aspetto
del mezzo, puro infinito al primo giro

Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)
The Divine Comedy, Purgatory I:13-15

Here blossomed the islands of delights
For those who navigated due South,
Endured the Torment of the Cape's mouth,
Orienting their path amidst blackened nights.

Beneath these high clouds, white lyres,
For the first time was shown to the brave
The balanced mantra of wave upon wave
And the sweet blue of East and sapphires.​

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Good to see another Lauren Hynde poem posted. For those of you who are not familiar with Lauren's poetry, I encourage you to explore it. She's good and very versatile; she can write romantic and she can write really edgy. Some of my favorite (and imo the best) poems here are by her.

 

[LeBroz]

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No matter the main course, there's always plenty of guilt to cover it.


Dolt
by dorksicle©


I skipped breakfast
because I slept past two,
but you spoon feed me
from a tacky, silver platter

sympathy and guilt on the side

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[LeBroz]

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Some raw jagged edges here in this poem which is not a poem. Wrap your mind around that!


don't read this poem
by jthserra©


don't read
....this poem
it is not
....a poem
........it is impulse
........electrical
chemical
....neurotic
not art,
....but explosion

I am owned
....by demonic
pride
........arrogance
....to think
........you might
....read
....don't read
........this poem
....my words
........it is not
....arrogance
........a poem

to think
....it is impulse
you might
....chemical
read
....neurotic
not art
....no tart
........but
....ex plosio n
............consider me
....not art
........arrogance.

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[LeBroz]

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A Ferrari, Jag, BMW too and he wants to sing the blues? These are the sort of problems you might expect up there in the Malibu hills.


Don't Tell Me I Can't Sing the Blues
by Algonquin Twit©



Don't Tell Me I Can't Sing the Blues

Hey there driver, give me the screws
I shed real tears now when I cry.
Don't tell me I can't sing the blues.

I order reds; they send me blues:
blue Ferrari? I could just die.
Hey there driver, give me the screws.

French mechanic, "Merci beau coups,"
every time he sees me come by.
Don't tell me I can't sing the blues.

That mechanic hasn't a clue,
Had my Jag since first of July.
Hey there driver, give me the screws.

Then there's my BMW's
engine troubles that multiply.
Don't tell me I can't sing the blues.

My chauffeur you cannot excuse,
speaks some lingo -- think from Shanghai.
Hey there driver, give me the screws,
don't tell me I can't sing the blues.

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[LeBroz]

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The trials and tribulations in relationships, especially during their long-distance moments. This works on so many levels, thanks to word choice and rhythm. Read it a couple times and immerse yourself in its feelings.


Don't tell me it is the Season
by annaswirls©


Don’t tell me it's just the season
We count backwards from ten
sidetrack detour bar stop water
cooler the new girl the new girl
stop light phone call reassuring the others
you are so beautiful so beautiful

And we never make it back to each other
You dig down through tender shoots
and sleeping bulbs
down through metamorphic layers
of lost lovers
that still cling for nourishment
The pick slams bedrock
sends jolt through muscle

Its around its around
its around here somewhere
backtrack follow the trail of
rose petals dropped lightly
you would never do this
put your nose to the ground
follow my scent

Anyway, I am buried deep under
where I should be
here with my inspiration
for love lost poetry

It is snowing
the ice is due
He called from California
Jenny you will love it here
it is so beautiful
so beautiful.

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[LeBroz]

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For those without a three-day weekend, here's a bit of edgy porn to warm you up for the work week. And that ending manages to deflate any fantasy.


done my time, hard
by SeattleRain©


time to let me out
shaking my cage
blanket covered dark and hidden
so the bird forgets to sing?

I will not be closed out
come on, give up the key

breaking free not with
a gentle trickle stream
over sand warmed toes

no, flooding out and out
and out, tidal wave over the floor
get a rag and watch your step,
if you were not already
knocked over.

my pussy whip demanding
demanding to be called “cunt”
cut the bullshit
poetic dancing around
what this really is
who I really am

not a gentle
snow shaking
sofa curled puss
sleeping on flannel

paint your name down my back
yeah, you heard me right
spell it out clear
you know the words
the harsh hard words
on fire with simple truth
your whore, your slut,

your key, please
time is up

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[LeBroz]

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Before hip hop, before rap there was {way back} doo-wop, brought to the fore by the generation with no name, before the boomers came along.


doo-wop for a demigod
by Liar©


well yeah
doo-wop anything goes

whatever flows
from your fingertips
every odd and other night

tipsy trips travelled
from toreador to torpor
a little Halcion
in a lot of
...........hallelujah here comes
...........the body shots!
can go a long way

if told
from table tops
panicked parading
sugar iced crystal
one after the other

sneaking down
the sickly sweet
seduction

well yeah
i forgot
doo-wop everything works
when you're a fucking
renaissance rock'n'roll
...........(did I say doo-wop?)
shiny superstar
booty call free-for-all
barbie doll

anything, right?
that fans your heated head
and wraps a fiber glass
thread mesh
around the outer limit
of your constitution

us mere morals will remain
to suck up the confusion
like nectar
...........or saliva
...........or doo-wop whatever works
run over burning,
itching neck
chest
hips
thighs
oh those
thighs

to finally fall
into the puddle
of the rest of us

by your glorious
right on
rock'n'roll
fancy
feet

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[LeBroz]

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Pleasantly descriptive variations on a theme.


Down by the Willow
by KR©


down by the willow
whose graceful new-green branches sway
is a woman dancing barefoot in the grass with a wand in her hand
her eyes are closed and she is smiling

down by the river
brown and parturient with recent rainfall
is an old man communing silently with a praying mantis on his hand
they are smiling at each other

down by the forest's edge
where sunlight falls dappled and in beams
is a little girl molding a ball of golden light between her raised hands
she meets my eyes and smiles

down by the bamboo
diamonds of dew glint on trembling leaves
I am kneeling at the flowerbed and mixing soil with my bare hands
dreamy-eyed and smiling at you

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[LeBroz]

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How to turn memories of joy to tears of pain and loss.


Downtown
by Belegon©


I walk the streets of downtown,
and everywhere
I see your shadow.
The café we laughed in,
the corner
where you broke your heel,
the quiet bar
that I loved,
and you hated.
The memories come
so thick,
I brush them away
to see the sidewalk.
How fitting
that the places
we were so happy
now make me sad,
and the quiet bar
that you hated
is where I go
to cry over you.

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[LeBroz]

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So, you think you know about the bonds of love. Try this one on for size. And, on another note, it's a real rhyming poem, from the master of the rhyming poem here at Lit. His rhymes really flow in a natural way; no twisting a poem into a pretzel to make a rhyme fit.


Dragon Princess
by The Mutt©


At castle’s highest parapet, the Princess stood in tears.
Below, the clash of armored men assailed her tender ears.
Pig Warriors, spawned in hellfire, tore through her father’s men.
She feared the flag of King MacArt would never fly again.

At tower’s base they battered through the castle’s wooden door.
She heard the sounds of women screaming coming through the floor.
Then from the wall above her bed she drew a heavy sword.
With trembling arms she set to meet the beasts who’d slain her lord.

The door crashed in and up the stairs they came on cloven feet.
Their heavy tread could not drown out the pulse of her heartbeat.
She fell back to the balcony to make her last stand there,
but her gown tripped her and she fell into the open air.

She fell without a scream or cry down to the muddy ground.
The quiet prayer that ‘scaped her lips would be her final sound.
But in a rush of leather wings, a shadow on the sun,
she was swept up in a scaly claw before her fall was done.

Into the sky her savior rose; a dragon, fierce and wild.
Its grip on her was gentle, like a father with his child.
Above the fray the dragon soared off to his hidden lair,
the Princess clutched to his warm breast, protected from the air.

To his cave the dragon came and lay the Princess down,
and with a gentle saber-claw he straightened out her gown.
With tender puffs of dragon’s breath he kept the Princess warm,
and with his bat-like leather wing he sheltered her from harm.

After a time the Princess woke, her eyes grew wide in fright,
for though he was a gentle beast, he was a fearsome sight.
With a voice like rolling thunder, he spoke the Princess’ name,
and told her that he’d heard her prayer and that was why he came.

“My name is Ajax Amber Eye,” the dragon told the lass,
and settled his great body down upon the deep, green grass,
“Since days of old when all the sky was dark with dragon breed,
we Ajax dragons have always served your line in time of need.

“If ever there was time of need, that time is surely here,”
The Princess said, her eyes ablaze, they did not shed a tear.
“My father’s slain by warrior pigs, the castle is aflame,
I must return and send the pigs to hell from whence they came.”

“And how will you, my tender lass, defeat the warrior swine?
They’ll tear your body into bits and on your heart they’ll dine,”
the dragon laughed, but then he stopped and scratched his scaly chin,
“unless I turn a Princess meek into a warrior queen.”

And so the sun it rose and fell and many days did pass,
as Ajax undertook to train the fierce, but slender lass.
Soon her arms were hard as iron and steel was in her grip
And light as air she swung the sword she wore upon her hip.

And perched behind the dragon’s head they’d strafe the fields of corn,
and with her sword she’d top the stalks just like a warrior born.
By day she’d cut and hack and slash and make her broadsword sing.
By night she’d sleep exhausted sleep beneath the dragon’s wing.

There came, and soon, the day that she was ready for her fate.
Well trained, she was, and now her skills were equal to her hate.
Now the warrior pigs would learn the fury of her wrath,
and woe-betide the hapless swine that came into her path.

“Now’s the time, the dragon said, to put your sword to work,”
and from his chest he grabbed a scale and with a forceful jerk
he pulled it free and gave it to the Princess as a shield,
to guard her from the warrior pigs and from the swords they’d wield.

Through icy air the Princess flew atop the dragon’s shoulder,
and from her perch, with steely eyes, she saw the castle smolder.
The filthy swine did laugh and dance and caper in their glee,
until the dragon’s shadow fell across their revelry.

They scrambled for their weapons then and arrows filled the air,
but they could not pierce his scaly hide-- he showed them not a care.
The Princess blocked their arrows with her shield of dragon scale.
They set upon the piggies and their piggy snouts grew pale.

Pig’s heads fell from their bodies as her sword sang out its song.
With blasts of fire bold Ajax sent a panic through their throng.
They fought from dawn til sundown and the pigs were on the run.
The Dragon Princess and her soldier had the battle won.

But one pig warrior stood his ground, he wasn’t scared to die.
With flinty nerve he drew his bow and let his arrow fly.
It sailed up towards the dragon’s chest where his heart was concealed,
and found the spot where he had pulled the Princess’ scaly shield.

It buried deep, and down the dragon tumbled from the sky.
The light began to fade away within his amber eye.
He placed the Princess gently on the castle’s highest spire,
then crashed with frightening fury down into the bloody mire.

The Princess screamed and down the stairs she flew like hellfire burning,
and raced up to the warrior pig and as the pig was turning,
she plunged her sword into his chest and cleaved his heart in twain.
She fell then to her knees and wept, her tears fell down like rain.

Behind her then she heard a laugh, she turned her head and saw
the smiling dragon standing there, the arrow in his claw.
Her crying became tears of joy, her heart leapt in her breast.
She ran up to her dragon love and hugged his monstrous chest.

“But how?” she cried, “I saw you die! The arrow found its mark!”
The dragon laughed and then he winked-- his eye an amber spark.
“We dragon’s have two hearts, he said, and so we’re hard to kill.
The heart within my chest is stopped. The one in yours beats still.”

For Doormouse.


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[LeBroz]

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After a decades-long fascination with McCaffrey, I just say here that the dragons make you do it and leave you uncaringly exhausted.


Dragonspeak
by jd4george©


I am prey, orphaned by the lust of Dragon
and fire breathed from sky.
Below, angry tides boil and churn
as the full moon rises, part of some nightly dance.

I hear her whimper, as if she were chased there
by the flamed breath of sun,
as echoes dance lazily swirling amid the shadows,
hiding from the memories

hidden in the ashes and dying embers
of some other man’s passion.
I am lost in this lie, this Dragon’s ruse of hope
wreathed in dying flames,

as I hover lightly within that steamy realm
foretold in fables long since past.
This mind, I no longer recognize as mine,
quivers as visions start to appear.

My body speaks in tongues, no longer listening
to me, but to my burning.
I hear my dark moans muted by lofted lizard
wing and wonder, another lie?

These words, this Dragonspeak that singes
my heart again with misspoken promise,
tender words that scorch me and tempt my innocence
to again surrender,

for I am but the ashes and blackened embers
of some other man’s passion.
I am prey, orphaned by the lust of Dragons
and their fire still breathed from sky.

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[LeBroz]

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The welcome mat's out for her to check out my drawers any day of the week.


drawers
by smithpeter©


drawers

in yours
you mine with cleats that catch
no matter what it takes to open

I saw him look at you,
at your legs and smile
aimed just so

he seems to like
bare footed
mountain girls possessing shoulders

an accent dreamed about
from long anticipation
finally, so near, so fenced

there are parks with equipment
meant for long talks.
some end in frowning

suite~

we have dreamed and touched in the clouds, on dirt and while ambulances plow past making a space for you to wonder what is/was meaning

I have met the angel of death and the angel of lust. Neither use business cards. However, both leave a mark and punctures

Sex sez silence. It is an individual characteristic to be long winded and long of letter when only four characters will do. 33 have been wasted.

/suite~



09/26/2002
small sadness allowed in all things
much joy and dimples prevail
Good Morning

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[LeBroz]

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Indeed, I can relate to those last four words. What about you?


Drawing in the Aires
by smithpeter©


I am not afraid of the cones of light,
they make depth of field effortless

I resent being referred to as the far
~north east~
w/bare balls held by your
warm hand, your left

a fetish of left hands
rooms full of left hands
grasping testicals

a wind passed object-floating
is the only way to describe
my horizontal behavior
movement from left to write

I want to fall in there
but, of course I can't
without your wink and nod

I need holding
bad

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