Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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Here's one that's not quite as obvious as the title implies. You may find you need to go over and savor its nuances.


fresh sweet corn, next right
by Eileen82©


I lost my language
in Ontario:

Words left unsaid in the foreground of some dewy barn
and a backdrop of cornfields
before the clouds became moving figures.
My contentment unearthed no expression
to shovel light on meaning,
and I let the silence swell untarnished.

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[LeBroz]

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So there I was, checking out glitches with the new feature, "Similar Stories," when I came across this little gem of an erotic poem; I just couldn't wait to share it with you.


Bibliobliss
by Angeline©


When you open a book,
you open my life
or at least my breath
which seems to be lifting
my lungs up and back
in their timeless sea rhythm,
and I must be reacting
more obviously, breathing
a little too hard. Maybe
the sound of my breath
is catching yours or maybe
it's my chest moving more
apparently,

but I can't get the feeling
under control because
your voice is shaping words
in quiet rumbles with soft
precise authority
such that each syllable
vibrates your baritone
a little, and I almost feel
the mattress shake ever
so slightly, but it could
be that I just trembled
and a tiny quiver escaped
at the way your lips move,
open then shut and how
you hold the book
in your hands.

In any case you noticed
because you laugh gently
and skim the pages on me,
flicking them over my tummy
in a shuffle, covering me
with poetry and then
with you and a smiling
question

Oh you like being read
to, do you?

It's like striking a match,
and we press the words
between us like flowers


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[LeBroz]

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It's a Wednesday, which means I've too many new poems to read today, so here's something easy to pass on. It is so in the word play style of our dear friend, rybka/reltne.


Freudian Slap
by Liar©

Freudian Slap

Running
with semantic scissors,
she poked an
I
out.​

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a vision of but a single musical note's existence.


French Horn
by jthserra©


A note, proclaimed
on the shining brass of breath,
fingertips glitter the sound
of bent-light keys
curving, curving
a circular journey.
Harmony
held in the hand
but a moment
......... . . then released.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's something you'd never expect to find at Lit — something that's totally light, innocent, and cute.


Fridge Mice
by raven5©


For my great niece - Ainsley Jane

They live in the fridge and they've black eyes and noses,
They have white silky fur and white ears, tails and toeses,
They eat apples and chocolate, bananas and custard,
They love to eat cheesecake, but they never touch mustard.
They fill up on cake and they fill up with jellies,
'Till they're full little fridgemice with full little bellies.
Hush, hush, whisper who might,
There are mice in our fridge and they're all snowy white.

As hard as you try they can never be surprised,
For they cover their noses and shut both their eyes,
They keep very still and they stay very small,
The truth of it is you can't see them at all,
But when the door shuts and the people are gone,
They open their eyes and they just carry on.
Hush, hush, whisper who would,
The mice in the fridge are all full of rice pud!

You know that they've been there when you come back to see
That piece of the cake that you left there from tea.
But someone has had it, you know it wasn't you,
Or the dog or the cat, oh dear, what can you do?
The cake has all gone, there's not even a crumb,
So you close up the fridge and you go and tell mum,
"Hush, hush, whisper who dares,
The fridgemice are having a party downstairs."

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a twofer special. My thoughts are that the first poem really said it all. The second poem could have been added onto the first, but to what end? The second poem is really just amplification of the last two strophes of the first poem {though it does add in the time element}.


Frigid Kiss For A Blue Girl pt1
by LasciviousSanity©


Frigid,
was the day
he left me
to explore mountains
of affluence.

A kiss, from
wind chaffed lips,
froze me in time.

His cloak caught
in a brutal gust.

Only once
did he glance
over shoulder
to reassure his return.

Between us
his despairing eyes
wrote a song of the blues.

His akward smile
reflected a glint
of optimism.

Would he cross
my threshold again?

Left was a hint
of his strong aroma
to tickle my nostrils.

Out the window
the snowflakes held
the comfort I longed for.

Until then,
I resigned my heart.


© 2006 MLB.

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Frigid Kiss For A Blue Girl pt2
by LasciviousSanity©


As days turned
to weeks.
The clock prolonged
her agony.

The sorrow that
flooded her face
rivaled the Nile

Whispers of doubt
traveled the avenues
of her mind.

Surrounded by chatter
of ill intentions.
Her heart begged
for a sign.

Her only answer,
a whistle,
from the January wind.

Copyright © 2006 MLB. All Rights Reserved.

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[LeBroz]

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It's Friday, so what better day than to have a pair of 'Friday' poems? This one has some wonderful imagery in it with a hint of depression in the image of sitting and drinking in a parked car.


Friday
by Angeline©


Sunset was striated
in the sideview mirror.

It hung in magenta sheets
like a clotheline, gold roped
between two pines, shaded
into the deepening gray.

I waited in the car.

That bottle of Merlot
could have painted another layer
on the Sun's graceful demise,

but we drank it instead
just like the day preceding it.

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[LeBroz]

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With a strict economy of words, this snippet conveys great depth of emotion and another explanation for higher absenteeism on Fridays.


Friday lovin’
by Eileen82©


at five this morning
I felt your arm slide around me
your forehead rested on the back of my neck
breath against my shoulder and
I slept deeply again

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[LeBroz]

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From the less is more department, here's a telling tale of a profound absence.


from a distance
by paganangel©


At Christmas...from Santa
A plain brown package
On her birthday the same
With no name at all
In the spring a chocolate egg
From the Easter Bunny
But never the Tooth Fairy
Or a wedding night waltz

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one about that never-ending fascination with tits, from nutrition to an element of foreplay.


from child to adult
by smithpeter©


i looked across from one teat
to the next

they each had a name

once one was depleted
i am handed to the other
until i am full or my hostess
has tired of the exercise
of nurture

she had hard work

from cradle to grave
the long distance to be traveled
between my lovers nipples
stays the same
from kidville to doom
waking in arms after smooth
rocking sleep

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[LeBroz]

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A seductive travelogue to where two cultures meet, swirl, and rub up against each other.


from Istanbul (07-09-05)
by Algonquin Twit©




from Istanbul (07-09-05)

To minarets, the echoed call
loudspeaker prayer – a chant
a drone, intonation
on vibrant streets alive
in the fresh smell of fish
the trace of perfume
dark hair and the long, thin gait
perfect touchable curve
silent, forbidden grace…

A screech of language
the shouts, car horns
sounded on red tile roofs
and the persistent chime
Turkcell pierced ears
a voice, her soft cheek – dark eyes
imagined words, a possibility
probability? None,
but the light changes, pedestrians

scurry over cobblestone, wet, slick
sliding past scooters, motorcycles
clicking heels and tight ass jeans
the moist ooze of sweat and sex
so ardently brash, beautiful…
suddenly black, flat dark
burn of eyes though narrow slit
solemn berkaed flow, wool
scratched at his fingertips.

Water, barges and the long
suspended bridge touching Asia
from Europe with mosques
aging domes, limestone, plaster
again the call to prayer
rich, deep melody beyond the lush
red lips of the checkout girl:
five million lira change
her smile wonderfully worldly – whole.

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[LeBroz]

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An imaginative and rather whimsical piece of word play. If that title pulls you in, you may end up wondering what a volcano in Mexico has to do with the rest of the tale — I did describe this one as whimsical after all.


From Kettle to Popocatépetl
by PoeticE_motion©


From Kettle to Popocatépetl





Day day follows, Time despoiling,
Teabreaks bravely boredom foiling.
Bubbles boiling in the kettle
test their mettle ‘gainst the metal.
Atoms, constantly turmoiling,
pressure steam which soars uncoiling
till its vapour cools to settle.
Feeling in a finer fettle
see the housewives from their toiling
cease, and, dainty, nothing soiling,
blushing Nature often nettle,
lips, fingertips, paint red as petal.
Some seize Sherlock, Conan Doyling,
J. K. Rowling some, gargoyling,
romance – Popocatépetl –
or turn to T.V., minds resettle.
Thus each livelong day, self-oiling,
turns upon a kettle boiling ...


3 August 2006

(c) Jonathan R

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[LeBroz]

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...and when she asks where she came from, you can always tell her that Daddy blew on a feather... Imagine what that'll do to her psyche.


from my pillow
by annaswirls©



three down feathers escape
amid the tussel

they hover
just above our faces
you juggle them with your breath

weightless
I too ride the updraft
of your whim

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[LeBroz]

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The story I derive from this is of an illicit rendezvous, but don't let my interpretation influence you.


from the rain
by Kaishaku©


..from the rain
your wet hair cascades
....on shoulders

the damp kimono
..opening to me

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[LeBroz]

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Go ahead and let your imagination be interpretive on this — there's just too much chill in this for my tastes as we finally emerge into Spring's warmth.


frost cloud distance
by Sibilaire©


sweater black under gray
strands blow east
eyes gaze west

grass covers worn leather boots
height of autumn
color of winter

you have not guessed,
but I have arrived
watching you silent
from behind

imagining my hands
your denim pockets
presence travels
frosted breath clouds

head lifts slightly
you smell the air
dismiss recognition
as apparition

shoulders shrug off the cold
you turn for home.

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[Guest]

...........

 

[LeBroz]

Thanks for showcasing Sibilaire's work. One of my favorite poems by a Literotican was submitted by her, but she took it down long ago and it's published elsewhere now. It's a shame it's gone from Lit. It evoked something deep inside me, enough that I got misty every time I read it.

Glad you like it. I came across it on the right day and it somehow clicked. I've looked back and found a couple more to showcase that I passed over on first reading; these'll be my morning posts for the next couple days.

Now for our friends in western Canada and the northwest U.S., here's a little something that you're sure to relate to — Spring postponed as Winter returns.


Frosted Carnival
by Du Lac©


I awoke this morning
to a comforter of snow
skittering
across the frozen terra.

Gray skies pregnant
with frozen drips of confused water.

Wind whipping
through a frosted carnival.

Snow flakes playing bumper cars
outside my window.

Far off mirthful screams
wind beating at the glass.
Spring thaw forgotten again!

dlt © Feb. 21 2005

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[LeBroz]

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A certain haunting feel to this, but then I got up at an indecent hour to have a head start on the day.


Aviation Ghosts
by Sibilaire©


"Amelia Earheart and aviation ghosts
only haunt me when they write" ep


Is this how it ends?
Silence?

fingers through cold clay ashes.
smear out the shine of memory

searching heart for tenderness
patience
love

thumb and forefinger
roll sharp bone chips and
embers, cold, both suited for
necklace beads, earring spokes

numb fingers painting Aboriginal
masks of desperate visage-
blackened charcoal outlines,
filled in with gray ash streaks,
and ear pierce tears of red

Is this how it ends
the silence of questions never answered,
unable to speak our secret name?

Solitary silence.

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[LeBroz]

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From Winter's desolation to that of the soul, it always seems to come down to cold.


Frosted Pain
by Miss Oatlash©


Icicles cling to my passionless heart.
Crystalline stalactites.

The frosted pane
obscures my view.
Black ice covers the path
that leads to my future.
I dare not venture forth
until it thaws
and I no longer fear
that I might fall.

This is the winter of my soul.

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[annaswirls]

Thanks for showcasing Sibilaire's work. One of my favorite poems by a Literotican was submitted by her, but she took it down long ago and it's published elsewhere now. It's a shame it's gone from Lit. It evoked something deep inside me, enough that I got misty every time I read it.

Which poem, Mr. Misty? My brain is mushy like rice cereal. Surely Sibilaire is older and wiser and would put it back in half a heartbeat.

 

[annaswirls]

No "but then" needed. It was written when I thought a missing friend might be dead and damn it, turned out to be right. So haunting indeed, glad it came through.

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A certain haunting feel to this, but then I got up at an indecent hour to have a head start on the day.


.[/COLOR]

"Amelia Earheart and aviation ghosts
only haunt me when they write" ep


Is this how it ends?
Silence?

fingers through cold clay ashes.
smear out the shine of memory

searching heart for tenderness
patience
love

thumb and forefinger
roll sharp bone chips and
embers, cold, both suited for
necklace beads, earring spokes

numb fingers painting Aboriginal
masks of desperate visage-
blackened charcoal outlines,
filled in with gray ash streaks,
and ear pierce tears of red

Is this how it ends
the silence of questions never answered,
unable to speak our secret name?

Solitary silence.

 

[LeBroz]

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Oh, these alts are going to be the death of me! Now that the alt's been revealed, I read these selections with a new perspective and think, but of course.

As subjective an experience as it is to write a poem, it is equally so when reading one. What especially sticks with me on this is the second strophe; the image I carry is of a loving wife comforting her mate and helping him relax. Some dreams are best left forgotten.


catch and hold, 22
by Sibilaire©


wake to find you
tight sleeping
kiss flutter over
your soft undersides

wash worry clean
until eyebrows smooth
teeth unclench
breathe easy
again for me


I sleep dream
a bubble
we wake
inside

joseph heller
style

blur
muted
safety tested
filled with our
own oxygen supply

smooth and easy

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[LeBroz]

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Is this that moment when, in father-son relationships, he stops being a boy and is now thought of as a man?


fucking
by No Bagles©


"Do you realise just how
fucking
big that is?"

Breathless conclusion,
contemplation on a cirrus stretch
horizon to horizon
and beyond - most probably
eternal - not possible,
but that's the way it feels.

For a moment I do

and shrink myself to proportional
dust pebble.

The magnitude
stopping my heart,
and rational homo diligent
rushing in alarm to fill the void.

Just a moment,
but a moment enough
to once again make me forget

that I should scold
paternally:

"Mind your language, son."

And instead:

"Yes, I know...
fucking
big is what it is"

Because
it fucking is.


// Kacper 2004 //

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[LeBroz]

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Here is one for you to enjoy again and again; its meanings elusive but fun to try to pin down. One thing's for sure — there're more than just fingers involved here — the fun those ten digits can create.


counting
by Sibilaire©


ten
count them,
ten for you
but is it necessary
to set aside two
just for placing spaces between words?
suppose "opposable" is only good
for so many things...

a pinch, twist
fulcrum and pivot
rides of the past

Important:
where will you sleep tonight
and will you have your choice
of softness under your head
whispers in your ear
and quick learn
temperature turn shower?

tires pull the road under carriage
fingers pull fabric under needle
your love, weight and heat
press away my wrinkles
without the need for steam

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[LeBroz]

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While appreciating her words, also note the connectivity between strophes made with the first line in each.


Full
by impressive©


There are no words for this want
eating my peace.
Soft strokes of midnight
blue
blow kisses 'cross
tomorrow, turning
ache into hope, full
filling, falling
stars of wonder: us.

There is no want for this world
without release.
Cold, blooded bones
buried
in choate pleas.
Yore sorrow, burning
turning pain, full
pleasure into promise -
missing only touch.

There is no world for these words
incomplete.
Liaise on dark fields
yields
more than less.
Unless the heavens
embrace my need, full.

~ ~ ~​

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