Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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And for your pleasure today and tomorrow, here are four of Mr. Porter's Alice poems.

SPOILER NOTICE

For those reading them here for the first time, these poems may appeal to the dog lovers among you.


Alice imprisoned
by steve porter©


Please release me, master,
from these chains I wear,
from this cage of instincts,
my dungeon of dog sorrows,
release me, master, please.

My suffering whines,
my sad blue spirit,
my impulses impaled
upon an iron gate
hard as the glint
of the evil eye cat.

Master, please release me
to run free like the breeze,
to chase my autumn joy
across the yards of my life,
please master, release me.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's the second of the Alice poems. First she was chained and now Alice receives discipline; what's next?


Alice is a very naughty girl
by steve porter©


Alice is a very naughty girl.
She is a bitch behaving badly.

Rough play arouses her passion,
like when I slap her pretty face

and she keeps begging me for more.
Please your master, Alice, slap, slap, slap.

Alice has a tendency to bite because she
hasn't been trained to control her instincts.

What Alice really desires is discipline,
a firm hand applied against a taut flank,

and because you are not trained to listen,
Alice, I will have to teach you that lesson.

Look at me, Alice. You're a bad girl, Alice.
You're a bad girl and now you're in trouble.

Bad girl! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!
Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank!

Alice wimpers and whines and thinks
love is pain, love is pain, love is pain.


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[LeBroz]

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Whatever to do with Alice — tried bondage and discipline and still she doesn't respond.


Alice, did you eat my poems
by steve porter©


What happened to my new poems?
They were here a minute ago,
and now they’ve disappeared,
except for, oh look...here’s a
remnant that says a dreaming heart,
and here’s another: red ripe fruit.
And look, over there,
scattered like a mangled army,
fallen leaves of scornful history,
limping, solitary words, words like
prime factors, black tiles,
have, any, being, that,
and one interesting phrase,
the main ingredient of dust...

Alice, did you eat my poems?


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[LeBroz]

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This wraps up the Alice poems. Reading this, I suspect that Alice will never tell anyone anything.


Go ask Alice
by steve porter©


Are you feeling okay today,
I can hear you asking me.

Looking up from my book
I reply I am feeling fine.

You ask me if I’m sure, and
I nod my head and smile.

Well, what should I say?
What good would it do?

I appreciate your concern
but don’t want you to worry.

There is absolutely nothing
to fear, anyway, not even fear.

But if you really want to know,
then talk to Alice.

I tell Alice everything.
Go ask Alice.

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[LeBroz]

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There's nothing quite like having a Razz poem to contemplate on a Sunday morning, though this one seems easier than most.


Glances,
by RazzRajen©


Speak and
her heart wrote
look and
her sinews burst forth
do and
her warmth gushed
sup, and
she took what she desired

Alone and bereft, suddenly awash,
those that spoke, those that looked, those that did,
even those who sup'd
All are in One and
what did she offer?
Only herself,
complete and whole

What more can she do?
what more can she be?
what more can she give

Who needs it
who demands it
Be not what one cannot be;
simply be who one is.

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[LeBroz]

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Anyone who's tried to write or felt the need to write poetry can well relate to this angst filled poem — it's on at least one person's favorites list. Do you ever have one of those writing sessions?


Glass Bubble Feedback Loop
by Icingsugar©


Contained in a glass bubble of
equal self loathing and hubris
the poet curls up to a primal
ball weeping his spiteful
sulphuric acid onto a still
by pen unmolested paper square
that could become either grandeur
or the carefree crayon sketches
of an infant in a grown man's body.

Combined efforts of muscle and mind
grips the too expensive lead and
pearwood pencil shaft
between a trembling thumb
and an unwilling index finger
as a paper dry whispering hiss
through clenched jaws proclaims

come on come oooon
you motherfucker

over and again but to no end
because a held pen is just another
impotent penis extension
until it bleeds coal and starts
scratching the surface.

Scratching the surface with unarmed
nails bitten down to the elbow
the poet mimes and mimics his dream
into the nothingness of twitches
unregistered and ideas fleeing
faster than the impossibly small
patch of geist roaring at his
tortured temples

shut up you man shaped travesty
take a break and smell the roaches
wake up and smell the coffin.

But the poet clenches his fist
in a Gollum dwarfing snarl
around his own his presscioussss
golden black lead and pearwood
powerless dumbass dildo

that could never write the
mumbling of that tambourine strung
heart echoing too much inside walls
of a glass bubble becoming
too distorted to decipher

unless the poet listens
with an honest open mind

that this very moment threatens
to break his skull from the inside
with the nail and glass
Molotov Cocktail bomb
that his held back pinned down
unattended unfed muse
soon will detonate
just to leave that wasteland
once and for all.

She is just behind his shoulder
if only he would turn and
chance a glance,

but the poet's shoulders
are higher than his head
as he rocks his fetal shell
back forth back forth

and such a degradation
takes too much dedication.

Still the paper,
corner torn surface worn
crumpled to a ball
rocks beside the poet,
empty as ever.

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[LeBroz]

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This poem gives you something to think about — if you see right through someone, is it possible that you no longer truly see that person? Something to set your mind to thinking this Monday morning.


Glass Man
by Liar©


Just because I'm transparent
doesn't mean you understand.

In fact, what is there
to observe when all you see
is though?

The wall I lean against
isn't me, it gives no clue.

But maybe,
if I shift my weight,
try to catch a ray, bend it
around affirmation thirst,
my ectoplasm will reflect
in this realm too.

There's a me
more than vacuum
projected in your space.

Can you see?

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[LeBroz]

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What a depressing subject for a Monday — the most common form of brain tumor and seemingly the deadliest as it is so difficult to treat. This so depressing poem describes it all too well.


Glioblastoma multiforming
by tungtied2u©


Glioblastoma multiforming

Warning

Dangerous to your health

Sinuous, insidious

Infiltrating

Permeating

Every crevice of your brain

No way to find it all

Root it out

Tenacious

Clinging to you as you try to cling to life

Voracious

Can’t beat it

Unseat it from its saddle

As it rides rampant

Consuming conciousness

Say goodbye to those you love

while you remember them

Then sleep



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[LeBroz]

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This poem is possessed of some really haunting imagery.

As to the matter of form poetry, I am reminded, to use an analogy, of the manner in which the compulsories used to be judged in figure skating. The skater was required to leave a particular pattern in the ice, which the judges would then measure. This aspect of figure skating required great mental concentration and control and only the very best skaters did well in both the compulsories and the free style programs. You can check out figure skating compulsories on Google or Wikipedia for a fascinating history of how this aspect of figure skating devolved out of the sport.

Angeline, to carry the analogy further, is one of those poets here at Lit who excels in the compulsories {form poems} and then goes on to excel in the free style programs.

Glosa: Winter Harbor
by Angeline©



To others she appeared anew
At times of dusky light,
But always, so they told, withdrew
From close and curious sight.
~ Thomas Hardy

To others she appeared anew each dawn,
trod her widow's watch above the sea
and cast her gaze along the jagged beach.
She did not look beyond the tide for me

among the ships that passed. At times
of dusky light when waking day triumphs
the stars perhaps she breathed my name
against the wind, shared secrets with the coast,

but always, so they told, withdrew
into the dewy glass. They say she
is a ghost. I am. There is nothing here
save a barren house, sand and sky
where gull cries herald shadowed flight.

She is the voice of fog, they whisper
when they turn away from close
and curious sight.​

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a different style from The Mutt — a form poem no less!


Go Gentle (answering Dylan Thomas)
by The Mutt©


We cannot rise ‘less those before us fall,
for like the sprout that springs from sanguine soil,
each death is life, each dirge a newborn’s squall.

The rose is watered by death’s stinging gall,
each grave’s a furrow tilled by living’s toil,
we cannot rise ‘less those before us fall.

The fallen tree becomes our hallowed hall,
the bones of dinosaurs become our oil,
each death is life, each dirge a newborn’s squall.

Upon our fathers’ shoulders stand we tall,
we trade calm mother’s-love for passion’s roil,
we cannot rise ‘less those before us fall.

Therefore, spend not your days in night’s dark thrall,
nor let the ticking clock your time despoil,
each death is life, each dirge a newborn’s squall.

The Reaper’s touch, seek not you to forestall,
for Death is Life’s companion, not her foil.
We cannot rise ‘less those before us fall;
each death is life, each dirge a newborn’s squall.

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[LeBroz]

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I don't know, a mail order blow-up bride? Those can be as cold as the flesh and blood kind.


Go Postal
by dcpoet44©


GO POSTAL

how dare you!
this divorce; a torch of
our brief follies.
back and forth in all the lies;
truth merely in the volleys.

don't be bitter -
them vows drain.
suffer a short while -
don't blame it on stupidity;
it's not all mis-fortune.

thirst for another to enhance
in marital bliss.
the cup runs over;
conquer the distant lover.
be heroic; reproduction is
all in the act.

all that prodding for truth
in the madness of love,
resembles blow-up features
all to convenient in mail order.

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[LeBroz]

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An exercise in sheer simplicity.


Goblet
by Tzara©


solid round base
slender firm stem

my fingertip swirls
the fragile wet rim

and out sings a pure sweet tone


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[LeBroz]

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Sometimes, as you read poetry, you suffer brain cramps as you try to fathom the poet's many hidden meanings. No such problem here — it's just plain light-hearted, irreverant fun.


god damn billy bam
by steve porter©


here comes billy bam
running down his latest scam
tells you what hes going to do
but never ever follows through.

he says he has a sucker bet
but hasnt paid his bar tab yet
but soon he will be very rich
billy bam you silly bitch.

well pour the boy another drink
and let him think hes in the pink
so heres to billys latest scam
god damn billy bam.

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[LeBroz]

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A little prayer-like inspiration perhaps in this vivid little poem.


God is Horizontal
by Middleagepoet©


God is Horizontal

God is horizontal,
stretched in linear colors,
the horizon at dusk.
Head in hand he leans
over mountains with shadow,
softly yawns a gentle breeze
and drifts to sleep with darkness.

God is vertical,
reaching on tiptoes
in the splay of sunrise
as mighty sequoia aspire with him:
ancient columns of heaven
longing to follow him
into the feathery blue of sky.

God is spectacle
in the infinite variations,
the whispered silence of night,
a rainbow melody of morning
to the booming crescendo of storm.
He sings in a spectrum of sound,
a forever of possibility.

God is silence,
longing the subtleties of choice
he awaits the solitude
in eternal intervals of hope
and smiles at a singular caress
as a face looks upward with love.

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[LeBroz]

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This one may provoke the ire of fundamentalists of every mystical movement. It certainly seems as though it's not constrained by any "prison of convention."


God's Dark Hands
by Sex&Death©


Wild hands, dark, brown knuckled, not held
by the bars of the encasing cage; bound
by the conventional hands, placid
eyes, unyielding heart
of the man watching.

God's dark hands grip hips hard
as they buck back against his dark thighs,
pelvis rocking, no restraint, driving
your center into the grave molten center below.

God's dark hands cup the dark heart
of your grief in palms that will never be
ashes on the thumbs of priests and beat
life back into your four chambers of light.

God's dark hands lift up the diffusing veil of
your bride's eyes revealing heaven,
your beauty raging in the dark shining
core of his vision.

Those hands would be bloody
in the heart of those things
if only the man watching,
a prison of convention,
would draw one new breath.

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[LeBroz]

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Now really, it's in that myth of Noah that you'd find the results of an all night bender.


God's pissed
by tungtied2u©


This was no ordinary rain
This was God after an all night bender
pissed, paralytic
sending his urine down
until spent
overflowing rivers
inundating lives
leaving the stench of his binge
on the banks, reeking
wrecking years of effort
by those whose only mistake
was trusting in the mercy
of some unseen deity
whose methods are
somewhat suspect
and motives are beyond
human understanding

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[LeBroz]

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Okay kids, it's that voice of experience you thought safe to ignore. You never truly knew what Mom was up to before you came along. And now that those consequences are here, what's a Mother to do?


goddamm
by BooMerengue©


whether in story or in rhyme
it makes no difference
to hear from you these words
"mom, you were right"
how could you know
you made this
the saddest day of my life
goddamm
I don't want to be right
goddamm.

okay I'll stop cussing
then should I weep
then I should have been weeping
but I wasn't

maybe I should scream
there
thats the answer
I'll scream it all away
scream it didn't happen
wait
I did scream
but it still happened
goddamm
I don't want to be right
goddamm.

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[LeBroz]

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It may be a long weekend, but that's no reason to let your mind turn to mush. Here's something to set your mind to work.


goes without saying
by oxalis©


chop with a sharp chisel
against the grain before gouging
same for God and demons
cut

wireless thermometer fetish
photos of parts
auto, girlfriend, interiors, galaxies
snipped and snapped, paddy whacked

the numbers keep drumming
head ache #, the magic ratio, no
a fuse to no dynamite, no bottomless well
a spiral of cross cut conch

tender, loving brutal caress
we lay, we sleep little
balloons speak volumes
spoon feeding is us

rampant thoughts down
dangerous potholed roads
we each of us take one
end dusty, requisite to bathe each other

covered millimeters deep grit
your cheeks, my totality
your whole self
my very tiny corner of left chest pocket

you reside
beating, searing, welcome


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[LeBroz]

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Here's a wake-up poem that'll get your mind going with its interesting word play.


Going Home With a Smile on My Face
by Bill Dada©


Eyelight stings my dreams.
I shake the sleep off my hands,
attempt to start a new life.
A new what.
........Butt the cigarette
tells dirty jokes.
In the middle of a word a fly
drives me home.
Home looks unfamiliar.
I greet it like an old friend.

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[LeBroz]

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Here you go with some whimsical imagery.


Going Under
by postobitum©


Too much sugar in my tea,
lost track, lost count.
Guess I was somewhere else
for awhile,
back in the underwater sun.

I burnt my tongue, bit down-
tea sugar syrupy blood.
I just don't want to cry,
not again,
here in the underwater sun.

Steaming hot all over the counter,
clumsy hands just spreading it out.
And everything's too damned blurry
to see,
down in the underwater sun.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's some juxtapostion of imagery to get your mind working on this Memorial Day holiday.


Golgatha
by SunrockSin©


Sometimes you forget the silence,
its somber pall like gray clouds
in an eternal goom, pierced only
in the glitter of a porcelain moon,

when the faint glow of your cigarette
reflects in the vodka on the rocks.
Sadly, rose colored lipstick then stains
the quiet as your whispers freeze,

shivering me with each icy word
as you crucify me with "your" love
until all I see is a faint sun
peeking above an eyeliner horizon.

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[LeBroz]

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With the comments on the original focused on a couple typos, I've taken the liberty to correct them so the reader can focus on the different perspective offered by the poet. Edited in response to Liar's feedback in post #1250. I recall at least one other poem in which Liar had unusual spellings, so deliberately spelling advice as advise is not so unusual. Judge it for yourself.


Good Advise
by Liar©


Kiddo,
listen up

before you
bang your drum
to tear down skies
that heed no master

before you
falter and trade
your granted parade
for a bittersweet taste
of adventures unheard

before you
live too many ticks
on credit karma clicks
in the limelight
of others

before you
steal my worn down
sand and sewer soaked

bloodstained boots

walk a mile
in your own
damn shoes
first.

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[LeBroz]

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It's back to work today and a goodbye day as we leave that long weekend behind. Here's a goodbye that's not quite what it first seems. Though it could use a bit of editing, its aha moment may inspire you to reread this in a new light.


Good Bye
by Da_Imp©


I sit here watching you
as you flit from room to room.
I still can't believe you're leaving.
I watch as you gather up the things that make up your life,
and then I look around.
All I see are the holes
that you are leaving my life.

I remember the first time
I took you around to meet all of my friends.
'What did you do to deserve one that looks this good?' they'd ask.
I didn't know what to tell them.
I'd just shrug and smile.
I remember taking you to the park for a picnic.
I remember sitting in the sun,
the cool grass under us
and watching the ducks as they skimmed across the lake.
I remember going to the swings,
pushing you and loving your laugh as you squealed
and said that I was pushing you too high.
I remember eating alone,
just the two of us.
Looking across at you
and wondering myself,
what had I done to be this lucky.
I remember taking you to the movies,
watching things you knew would scare you,
and you not caring.
Just wanting to be with me.

I remember these things
and it brings tears to my eyes
now as I watch you leave.
I wonder how it can be
so easy for you.
Is it? Now, I wonder?
Can you just keep it inside,
not wanting me to know.
I wonder?

I watch as you float down the stairs,
out the door,
and on to your life.
The tears are closer now.
I watch as you turn,
come back to me,
and wrap your arms around me.
"I love you daddy.
I'll call when we get there."

"I love you too baby."

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[LeBroz]

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From the late Douglas Gamrath, another goodbye poem. Don't you already miss that long weekend? Look on the bright side — we've still 3-4 months of warm weather ahead of us.


goodbye
by smithpeter©


Well, Mr. Stone
How dare you crash and burn
when there is so much work to do

it may be unrelated,
but,
this all happened as someone said,
"read often,
write in the margins"

"curiosity is the best defense of freedom"

pray for peace, poems are billy clubs for
fingers|

tips tend to reach both ways,
light and dark and gray
some red and yellow, some blark
just for someone special


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[Liar]

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With the comments on the original focused on a couple typos, I've taken the liberty to correct them so the reader can focus on the different perspective offered by the poet.


Good Advice
by Liar©

Woah, that was long ago. But I do believe "Advise" was intentional. Although not as clever as I thought.