Archival Review

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a little piece that YDD described so perfectly as anthropomorphic.


Battleground
by Shadowsandflames ©

The grand monarchs once more awaken
Adorning themselves in emerald finery
And begin to compete amongst themselves.
So focused on these greater rivals
They do not notice the stealthful approach
Of much smaller combatants
Who's great speed and numbers allows them to swarm upon their foes
Severing limbs
Devouring flesh
Until the weakest of these ancient warriors
Finally topples to the ground
Dying so that others may live.

Nearby, others raise brilliant banners
Radiant colors to draw in the aviators,
Messengers as talented as Hermes himself,
To deliver most important cargo between them.
But the fliers don't work for free
And so, when their mission is complete,
They drone back with their bounty
To their grand palaces of many halls.

Through the fields march the soldiers
Burdened with their plunder
From a fierce giant's temporary settlement
Of red and white checkered cloth.
Ever onward march the soldiers
Toward their vast underground bunker
Where royalty awaits the spoils of war.

Great armadas again patrol the waterways
That were so recently sheathed in ice
And the sun is at times eclipsed
By immeasurable squadrons
As they return once again from far off regions
To the land of their births.

The warfare repeats itself yet again
No one able to come out victor
Only able to maintain an unsteady alliance with some
And with others, merely a stalemate
But even though it is a battle no one can win
That doesn't halt the fighting
For to stop is to surrender
And to surrender is to die.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Ban Poetry
by cward2 ©

‘Ban poetry!’ the whispers say.

Hang the words on the trees,
Drown them in the streams.

We can’t have these words
Corrupting our sheep.

‘Ban poetry!’ the whispers say.

We can’t have these feelings
Corrupting our regime.

Burn these words,
Gas them until they choke.

‘Ban poetry!’ the whispers say.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Special note: There seems to be something built into this bulletin board that blocks certain words from appearing. The first two words of the third line, crab shell are actually a single word but, if presented as a single word, all you get are cr*******. Go figure. That's why the link comes in handy so you can see the original poem for yourself. Sorry ee for the slight change but I think you'd understand and would prefer this than seeing all those asterisks marring your work.


Bass Clarinet
by eagleyez ©

Was the tone
Yelped from the
Crab shell Ashcan orchestra,
When the usual feral Cats,
Finding Fedora hats,
Humidor boxes and empty bindles of blow-

Well, you could always count on Louis,
He slid those red cedar shingles under his chin
And in no time, shoulders sweltered and all
Embrace, lit by this fire-the mercy of the flame the focus of the eye-seeing each other.

over and over.

for Ange

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Battle Cry
by irishcatsmeow ©

Preparation; staring into space
lost, roaming the recesses.
Bleakness beckons, not from afar;
caught in the crosshairs.

Darkness invades hallowed halls,
searching for a chink in the armor.
Metal compromised and tainted;
strength tested, undisciplined but malleable.

No commander; marching as solitary self,
frightened by the scene that unfolds.
Stripped to bare essentials, uniform no longer;
the unblemished soldier challenged.

Blind to the minefields of the psyche,
seeing only the inevitable and illegible.
Third eye searches for clarity, destroys camouflage.
Strategic plan calls for powerful artillery now.

Consumed by the process; terrified by the content;
maneuvers previously unknown are employed.
Depths are bridged, self-imposed barriers stormed.
Access is tardy, but not denied.

It’s real here, deep down in this foxhole;
going under, then over the edge, up and down.
Too much time to analyze,
no time to sort the images or reactions.


Wielding the blade, yet stabbed from behind,
caught unaware; now fully alert to the danger.
Knowing only I can save myself is a daunting prospect,
but one known when I accepted the mission.


Eyes shut, but pupils wide;
the myths slaughtered, the truth discovered.
No vacancy here for subterfuge.
Introspection heals deep-seated wounds.

Not a bloody battle.
Tears fall along with the enemy.
Dragons are slayed without swords;
unrest is overcome.

Peace is restored, composure regained,
intangible but genuine profits garnered;
the combat well worth the battle scars.
Overwhelming victory.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Okay now, I'm jumping way ahead and over to another illustrated poem. It's just so rather unique I thought I'd bring it to your attention.


vBulletin me
by Linbido ©

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Those 19th Century Symbolists, especially the way those two men, Verlaine and Rimbaud, carried on even when one was already married {to a woman}. Those French sure know how to play.


Baudelaire, Verlaine and Rimbaud
by smithpeter ©

I dreamed in Spanish before I was born
now there is nothing to remember
except French bumps on logs

we used the humping lumps
like they were our friends
then ran away laughing
when they started to wake

in every room we passed through
there was a mist, a whisper of vapor
a hint of growth and mulch that could be tasted way back in the rear of our mouths

now we are together
sometime we will be apart
don't forget

our blood is too thin
it flows like a river
to another joint
blood brother and sister


.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Bee's Knees
by Icingsugar ©

This is it
the shit
it's the bee's knees, baby
the real thing
once and for all
a reason to wing
to have a hell of a ball
to break out laughing
in a lapping loving
lung life lips luscious
gracious groovefest

Glittering
so gorgeous
you're the knee's bees, baby
one of an age
a gazillion of reason
to overload my mind
and celebrate the season
with the queen of the vibe
a shining sexy supergirl
the way you swirl
soar sing strip swing
smooth sultry slender
lick my soul so whole
to sweet surrender

This is it
the better way
we're the bnee's kees, baby
bouncing boldly
purring precious
growing brave to braver
delirious delicious
a flimsy flunky flavour
to suck up suck in
and savour the splendor
a raunchy roller-coaster
crazy careful tender

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.


Been that kind of day; feel like something mellow.


Blue-Green Blues
by Lauren Hynde ©

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Is this what he tells you at this time of morning, when he comes home so late after some time out with the boys? Does this little song and dance have a familiar ring?


be that way never
by oxalis ©

eat it
let me see the stains
he liked it
did he?
did you?
did you consider
our promises
our oaths
our little journey?

ok, okay never mind
she was nice and silver slender
to me and we like, liked
the slippery,
she is so tanned
but, boy, you are,
like so white
like porcelain
please baby

take me back again
like you did after,
oh,
never,
mind



.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Feeling pretty good this morning; time to get some breakfast. So, on that rather upbeat note, let's get this poem out of the way.


Black Dog Tides
by ishtat ©

In the river, in her mind
tides surge and push, upwards and outwards
with slow and melancholy strength
denying constraints.
Irresistible.

Mile wide Severn, grey- brown power
carries tugs and barges
to dock at Sharpness
before the ebb tide.
Safe home.

On the bank a woman waits
submerged within depression’s waves,
maelstroms of silent despair
strain and pull at tenuous moorings.
She listens.

A Siren seductive sings.

“Let me hold you, comfort you,
your cares your torments let me take them away,
come to me, lie with me, to hold you forever.
I am turning now, turning.
Back to the sea.”

She stood, contemplative, slowly at first
but then with purpose, went to her suitor,
slid and slipped on the great black banks.
A soft mud road
to hardened certainty

At the water she stopped, hesitant, doubtful
for a time, then turned away.
She went back from where she came,
Why or why not, unknown.
Unexplained.

But tides will turn,
and the river again will sing its Siren song.




Note .“Black Dog” was what Winston Churchill called the depression he suffered in the 1930’s when he was isolated politically and under severe pressure financially. I do not know whether that name originated with him or someone else.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's someone we hadn't heard from before. Even better, it's got a bit of humor mixed in. At this time of year, with temps running 20° below normal, problems with ants and bugs would be a blessed relief!


Beneath The Gum Tree
by Mystique Woods ©

We sat beneath the gum tree as happy as could be
The birds were chirping merrily, the sound of honey bees!
You looked in my direction, a smile upon your face
Your arm moved round my shoulder, for a quick embrace!

I looked upon your handsome face, the twinkle in your eyes
My fingers reached to stroke your cheek, but brushed your lips awhile!
When suddenly your face screwed up, in anguish and in pain
My hand retracted instantly for fear It was to blame!

You stood and ran toward the loo, I followed close behind
You jumped and leaped and swore and cursed, yet still I knew not why!
Alone inside you stripped your clothes and ran toward the tap
And then I saw the blob of dots, marching on your back!

One million green ants dancing, biting at your skin
Covered now in welts, as they prick at you, like pins!
I ran in desperation and helped you drench your shirt
Then wiped the blob of dots from you, and shook them in the dirt!

Your spasms now subsiding, a lunatic no more
We’d sent the last ant packing, he was heading for the door!
Dressed only now in jeans; you walk, with me, outside
I find my trusty ‘tiger balm’ and smooth your back, your hide!

We sat beneath the gum tree as happy as could be
When suddenly your face screwed up and I thought ‘Fuck … why me?’




.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

It's his birthday, so how better to remember him than with one of his poems?


Cling to my words
by Icingsugar ©

Come sit at my table
come raise me a bottle
and drink to commotion
and toast to my fate
Please stay like a lover
please buy me another
and cling to my words
when the hour is late

Come cling to my words
when tomorrow is closer
and yesterday feels like
a lifetime away
What yesterday brought
I will tell you tomorrow
tonight I must drown it
I beg you to stay

My nail-bitten fingers
the blood on my knuckles
have witnessed a story
too basic to tell
With carnal distraction
and too many bottles
I'll fend off the ghosts
and forget about hell

There isn't much time now
so join me in chorus
and shout down the angels
from heaven so high
Come join me in laughter
in sheer desperation
of having to end this
hysterical lie

Come raise me a bottle
and drink to confusion
and drink to illusions
of pureness and trust
For here comes tomorrow
I promised a story
so heed to this witness
of love turned to dust

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Bête Noire
by Liar ©

Can you see, bête noire,
what castellated cardboard
walls you raise?

Can you hear the bellow
from regurgitating depths?
A par excellence charade
hauling spikes and venom,
another exigency in disarray,
twisted to your petty pleasures.

Can you smell, bête noire,
the reek of soot and decay
from every word you speak?

Can you feel
reason spread thin
over your emptied domain,
all yours to keep
but silent forever?

Bête noire,
taste these lines,
roll them gingerly down your
throat, and you’ll either choke
or live to tell the tale.

And have someone
who’ll listen.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

In this age of Google, I'll let you figure this one out.

Beachd-Smaoinich
by cymry ©

Beachd-Smaoinich:
Contemplate

Minds travel along
myriad threads spun
by mortal query.
Tattered webs
of troubled sleep
coiled around intention
suspend
unintentional truths.
Time wears its mantle
as a beggar
wears his rags
defying the immaterial
even unto death.​

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a little Cordelia I seem to have missed.


A Simile for Your Kiss
by Cordelia ©

A Simile for Your Kiss

The full moon took its time, and then my breath
Away as I saw clouds reveal its light;
Then gave me pause as when our lips first met.
I gasped in recognition -- pure delight.

Remembering your kiss, your touch -- that smile
Stopped my anguish at a moment’s crest
As liquid silver was my truth. And while
I memorize your touch upon my breast.
And, stopping me with white, the water mist
Reflects the singing moon as tarnished fire.
Just where my breath had paused before your kiss-
That same soul-filling memory of desire.
Mixing milk then bronze into the vial
The moon is metaphor still in your smile.


.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Be Like Bukowski
by dcpoet44 ©

BE LIKE BUKOWSKI

the most imitated.
some say there will
never be another again.
great challenge in those words.
i'll try it, though i could suck.

it begins here:
I put a handful of
black pepper directly under
the president's nose.
the intent is to get
a real nice reaction.
i have probable cause
of what might occur.
i'm starting to see an effect
upon his eyes; teary - they look.
it's about to happen - eyes squint
and the head starts to drop a tad.

i think he's hesitant - trying to show constraint
like a true conservative ought to be.

the black pepper has worked.

he finally sneezes -
major flow runs from his nose.
i was right - it was - black humor.

don't know if it sucked though.


.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Valentine's Day. So who's been fixed up on a blind date for tomorrow? On that note, contemplate this:


Blind Date
by irishcatsmeow ©

Countdown
Grabs jingling car keys
and the thought of ‘what if’.
Foot to pedal;
the other raised,
checks ‘Hotty Pink’ polish.
Confidence booster.
Toes wiggle.

60 minutes pending
CD player in gear,
fires up sultry musings
of expectant notions.
Wonders if
full disclosure
was disclosed.
Perhaps, misrepresentation
will be the flavor of the day.
Sigh.

Examines hair in rearview.
Yes, humidity did
its only redeeming job.
Curls still spiral;
no frizz though.
Sigh of relief.
This exhale most welcome.

30 minutes and counting
One-handed steering,
while other frantically searches;
traces Braille in cluttered purse.
Reads lipstick tube.
Fingers squint and see ‘Paprika’;
right on target.
Digging done for now.

Lips pucker-up.
Spicy creme glides
over bowtie mouth.
Another glance in the rearview.
Glossy stain achieved;
stayed within the lines.
Smile, bright eyes.

10 to go
Spritzes scent
on translucent neck hollow;
milky-white pillowed cleft;
delicate wrists;
rub-a-dub-dub.
Appropriately sweet,
not cloying.

Locates time piece by piece;
discovers second hand
is an ally.
Smoothes skirt
with trembling hands.
One final fluff
of waved shine.
Last mirror check;
passes judgment,
I guess.

Deep breaths.
Still wonders
about the unknown;
or is that, wanders into?
Recites the mantra
"I am worthy".
Repeat after me.
No expectations.
Yeah, right.

Blast off

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Okay, so it's a rather down piece for Valentine's; it is, though, about everyone's very first Valentine.


Beatrice
by jthserra ©

Beatrice

Dark brown eyes, dulled with age
the faint fog, clouding lenses
recognizing only misty familiarities.
Sound above the ambient fluorescent din
and persistent beep and whir
of the machinery of life, hope:
a click, a beep -- repeated again,
but again, familiar here and there,
voices, background whispers
and echoed words: "Mother, it's me."
Joan or Bill, the name's bright,
a luminous gleam in memory,
as children, her hair curly, his straight,
the dreams of sea green lawns
surrounding the tall white pillars
and deep gray flagstone porches.
In the years, white paint chalked
and flagstone cracked, weathered,
children became grandchildren
and black hair, ever so slowly grayed.
Gray now strangely green
in the haunting electrocardial glow,
liquid digital reminders of the fade
of life, of hope, of a candle light
as the flame crumbles to ash.


.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's something a bit different. And it's a collaborative effort as well. Enjoy while I start reading/reviewing today's poems.


Benign Logistics
by analyze this ©

Joint poetry of annaswirls and Liar.
----


Benign Logistics

If you read this poem backwards
you might not notice lips tripping
over hexameter wire, gripping at slips
and knots for a lick of sense.

Even you would barter reason
for design. Deny logic,
for in these logistics so benign
no one notices the delay.

Who is wise enough to say,
"Knights to the nursery! Pawns to the throne!"
So choose a direction, each to their own.
You read as you please anyway.




Logistics, Benign

You read as you please anyway.
So choose a direction, each to their own;
Knights to the nursery, pawns to the throne?
Who is wise enough to say?

No one notices the delay
in these logistics, so benign.

For design, deny logic, for
even you would barter reason
and knots for a lick of sense.

Over hexameter wire gripping at slips,
you might not notice lips tripping
if you read this poem backwards.


----
Written for the Grab A Partner challenge

.
.
.
.

 

[matriarch]

.
.
.

Here's something a bit different. And it's a collaborative effort as well. Enjoy while I start reading/reviewing today's poems.


Benign Logistics
by analyze this ©

Joint poetry of annaswirls and Liar.

----


Benign Logistics

If you read this poem backwards
you might not notice lips tripping
over hexameter wire, gripping at slips
and knots for a lick of sense.

Even you would barter reason
for design. Deny logic,
for in these logistics so benign
no one notices the delay.

Who is wise enough to say,
"Knights to the nursery! Pawns to the throne!"
So choose a direction, each to their own.
You read as you please anyway.




Logistics, Benign

You read as you please anyway.
So choose a direction, each to their own;
Knights to the nursery, pawns to the throne?
Who is wise enough to say?

No one notices the delay
in these logistics, so benign.

For design, deny logic, for
even you would barter reason
and knots for a lick of sense.

Over hexameter wire gripping at slips,
you might not notice lips tripping
if you read this poem backwards.


----
Written for the Grab A Partner challenge

.
.
.
.

*stunned*

That is........fucking amazing!!

*prostrates myself before genius*

 

[annaswirls]

*stunned*

That is........fucking amazing!!

*prostrates myself before genius*

I cannot believe that was over 2 years ago!!!! How can that be???

I think we need another grab a partner challenge, what fun!

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a sweet piece to get all mushy over; all together now, "Isn't she cute? Awww."


Bedtime with Buddha
by tungtied2u ©

Bedtime
Tucked up warm
my wife and I cuddling
In between baby Buddha
a giggling, grinning presence
tasting chocolate
sipping Guinness
(never too young for the finer things)
rub her belly for good luck
nuzzle her neck for fun
(ahh- baby powder- new life)
deep inhalations
gummy vacuum
wet nose
mistaken milk faucet
wispy chin ticklers strawberry blonde
responses swift instinctual
no ulterior motives
happy smile, sad cry
tired sleep
sleep the sleep of babes
sleep the sleep of peace
sleep gift of the gods

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

After spending all night carousing and carrying on, the dawn comes finding you all red and bleary-eyed. It must be all those beauties you witnessed; the more you drank the more beautiful they became...


beauty is in the eye...
by Senna Jawa ©

a particle is in the eye
it makes eye red
beauty is what makes eye red
beauty is the morning after
a sleepless night​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1996-december


.
.
.
.

 

[Liar]

I cannot believe that was over 2 years ago!!!! How can that be???

Days fly, my friend. Days fly.

Now, back to the scheduled programming.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here we go again with Lauren as tourist checking out Beethoven's past.


Beethovenhous
by Lauren Hynde ©

*


The house where Beethoven was born
has four stories
but it is small
so small and cheerless:
after 233 years
it is tired.

The floorboards creak hazardously
under the feet of tourists
that walk slowly,
apprehensive.

In a corner
two period grand pianos
sit in silence
timidly
fearful of any
unwanted touch.

In every story
in every wall
are old portraits
and old scores
lie drowsily
in tarnished showcases.

Complementing
hearing apparatus
are the hazy eyeglasses
of the Maestro.

His house lies empty
because the Maestro
is gone.
Only in the garden
lingers still
in the soft murmur of foliage
an inaudible voice
a distant sound
that resonates within.


*
.
.
.
.