Archival Review

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While waiting and hoping that Boo improves and can reappear in Spring, here's a little something.


As a windchime
by BooMerengue ©

Malachite and agate
turquoise and jade -
caught in the tendrils
of the deadly nightshade.

Narrow and jagged,
smooth and inlaid
with gold and with copper
hidden in shade and

mystically woven
in a Crones braid as she
chimes down the lightning -
a thundering tirade!

When I am a windchime
my debt will be paid.

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For the writer whose pad goes everywhere with him, contemplate this ~

60 Sheets/Gregg Ruled
by jthserra ©

60 Sheets/Gregg Ruled

Dark green on light
spun in spiraled steno loops
a Gregg Ruled pad ages
with fading ink.
Words and sketches dot the pages
steeped in possibility
a gelling errant thought
waits in a corner, torn and tattered.

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Apples and Oranges
by LilyMelb ©

Apples and oranges
Can not compare
The difference too stark
No relation there
The past now long gone
The future apart
I stand in the now
And scream in the dark

What was once
Can no longer be
Yet I try to cling on
Desperate to see
The apples you gave me
The smiles that you wore
How special you made me
Uniquely adored

But instead one small orange
I slowly will peel
You give me one segment
The rest another’s meal
Is it enough?
You believe it to be
But once you gave me apples
And I remember feeling free


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6000 feet
by Senna Jawa ©








6000 feet up plus two
of my own
in the stars' backyard
surrounded by God's toys
catholic lutheran methodist pentecostal...
and grass lawns which grow
cigarette butts
will I join
the midget trees
in the midget town?





wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1996-jan/feb
 
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Okay, let's try something fun this afternoon. Something from the audio files. And if you've Real Player you can even listen to her read her poem.



The Commercialization of the Penis
contest.gif

by CharleyH ©

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Click Here to listen. (1 min/RealMedia)
You need Real Player to listen to this file.

* * * * *

Smooth
silky cream that sticks
to lips
to cups
on glasses
on faces
it amasses
you can't seem to
get it off

lip
stick

that phallic torpedo
held ever so slightly
held just so far
from lips ajar
parting
longing
selling

it's promising
but what do I get
for the exchange
of my

lips
tick?

lacquer
paint
paste lips
smudged lipstick
all over my face
at greetings
parties
in the back
seat of cars
run away red ruby lips

drip away
lick away
wipe away
and don't leave any remnants
in the corner of my

lip
stick

stick it lips
plump lips
gaunt lips
no lips
lipless
lippy lipstick
pretending to be lips
splashed on my cheeks!

I don't need the extra blush
prodding
probing
pretending to be a penis
to enhance my look
amplify my attraction

retract
withdraw!

Lipstick.

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That last was a nice respite from the A's, though there's still more; now here's a sneak peek at the B's.

Bathyl II
by Lauren Hynde ©

(for Tracy)




This time I forgot my name, I forgot everything.
I let myself be taken by a wind that shook
warmth off my heart and veins off the leaves
of the trees, bent outside.

I'm not afraid.

The truth is I haven't yet searched
the memory, or even the hidden figures in the sky
nor the segments, which divide on my map
the countries, gods, slaves, navigators.

Shapes lose meaning in a thunderstorm.

You listen to time.

It's the imponderable logic of sounds came from heaven,
losing space on the way and making home in
the most remote fountains of self.

This time all was too much. I lost Venice,
didn't lose much. I lost Byzantium, lost a bit more.
But the blue, the colour, the mystery, the ocean, the ocean, the love, laying

by the poem of your seashore...

Now the undercurrent of water, of white lava, is a fountain of sound.

Hisses and whistles. Hurts.

The summer.

The symmetry.

This time I forgot your name
and lost everything.



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It is so nice to see these words from the late Mr. Smith. Sometimes you start to wonder, "Is it me?" {Hint: No}

4mw
by smithpeter ©

there are poems
I will never understand,
there are bridges
I will never stand under

there are situations
I should have learned about,
there is consideration
I will always doubt

one woman or two,
a way to see things
Master and lady, through
growth, must do

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Here's someone who shows he knows something about the process of writing.



A Birth of Me
by jthserra ©

Nurtured in warmth
a pulsing flow of liquid thought
churned in the life-mix
of sound and movement
a twitch, a kick of possibility
then silent again, waiting, waiting…

To breech the page
in fitful screams -- primal anger
snatched into the frightening cold
bright, shining, sterile world
dripping of ink and blood
each breath burning the liquid life away
each line obsessed with yearning
wanting to return, longing the soft, wet warmth
and yet, reaching here, there
anywhere to grasp hold of a thought
a rhythm, perhaps a rhyme.

Alone, so terribly alone
each cry, each word, each stanza
a tear in the tearless world
a dry, empty planet.
Scratch the ground in uneasy steps
one foot before the next
turn the page, read a verse
one lonely voice, a pause
a breath and once again a poem
-- a birth.​
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Here's a piece from Art, that other Texas poet. Now if only his spell check would work so well on all his other poems...

A Bottle of Poetry
by My Erotic Trail ©

Cast upon an ocean of white, I write
glass words, reflective and transparent.
There is no hiding the note I tone
caught in the current, life.

Bottled up inside my journey
reading others as they drift by.
Feeling the emptiness of my void
save a page of cursive thoughts.

Ascending and descending
like a bottle shaped all wrong.
Focused on being tossed about
on an aimless ride upon life's swells.

Engulfed in the raging silence
of the sun and stars guidance.
The winds, a steering push by friends.
Weathering blue still waters and storms.

Filling droplets of life, patiently await
submerged in fear of allowing them in
for that which uplifts my vessel,
can also sink me.

Castaway, marooned in my dreams
an ocean of endless possibilities.
Until, embracing tidal sands bury me
and this time-capsule's voyage ends.

May I not kiss jagged rocks fate
but land softly upon a paradise shore.
Where a finger's touch opens me,
a bottle of poetry.


(A special thank you to the 'one' that edited this poem for me,'nameless') (*_~)(Inspired by Eve's challenge)

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:)
by Liar ©

this one goes out to your smile
cast into the gloom room
like tear gas inverted
spreading fog of bubbly
blush blood rush

a regal ricochet bouncing
chamomile kisses and
split second splinters of splendor

penetrating kevlar armor
with sunrays and daffodil intention

and so it goes
when opening ones eyes
is tactical warfare, remembering
to breathe is infantry storm
in full bloom

you are my weapon of
mask reduction

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arborculture
by eagleyez ©

movies piled high
jazz stuff,
and me with all my comedies.
We get hybrid, we listen and laugh, as the willow out back busts green in the morning's pale light.

tank full of gas-
just made it on fumes.
lead foot lucked out-
interstate runnin again.

oh not to mention the alders, the beech, the poplars growing in columns, both crows and chickadees hide up there.

the white birch and the black oak.
mingle on the fenceline-
standing guard where the apples grow


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LeBroz said:
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arborculture
by eagleyez ©

movies piled high
jazz stuff,
and me with all my comedies.
We get hybrid, we listen and laugh, as the willow out back busts green in the morning's pale light.

tank full of gas-
just made it on fumes.
lead foot lucked out-
interstate runnin again.

oh not to mention the alders, the beech, the poplars growing in columns, both crows and chickadees hide up there.

the white birch and the black oak.
mingle on the fenceline-
standing guard where the apples grow


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You're just getting to the Ar's? ;)

Hey thanks Leon for the props to ee's poem. I enjoyed it for the mention of the birds and natural settings. You wouldn't think it, but it's true. I'm a bird watcher.
 
neonurotic said:
You're just getting to the Ar's? ;)

Hey thanks Leon for the props to ee's poem. I enjoyed it for the mention of the birds and natural settings. You wouldn't think it, but it's true. I'm a bird watcher.

I'm up to the Be's. There are, so far, 134 poems on my list. I've only posted 58 so far. I was originally trying to limit myself to 1 or 2 a day to post to this thread but I've found there are way too many really good poems showing up, some that I like and some I think other readers might like.

For those into the nature scene, here's one to try.




Apples Grow In New Hampshire
by Rybka ©


APPLES GROW IN NEW HAMPSHIRE




Apples grow in New Hampshire.
Wild they ripen, tame and feral
From summer sun to Christmas Carol,
But the fall scent
Of those allowed to overgrow
Perfumes the air
From bluebird flight to lasting snow.




Apples grown on orchard trees
Are picked and sold
And some are squeezed.




Apples wild in forest wood
Seldom bear
Much fruit that's good.




But apples on abandoned farms
Still drop fine fruit
In nature's arms.




Both mouse and bird do make full use
Of choicest flesh
And apple juice.
Deer and coon are sure to stop
At slightest cache
Of windfall drop.




And as I've gone along my way
More than once I've paused
To pray.




Meeting God
I just stand mute
And breath the scent
Of autumn's fruit.



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I must admit that what piqued my interest on this one is the reference to seeing America from across the lake. Makes me think of that odd weather phenomenon where in Canada, when the weather conditions are just right, you can look across Lake Erie and see over the horizon to America. Normally, when this happens it's supposed to last no more than half an hour or so.

Ashtray by Lalique
by darkmaas ©

your top floor view is really fine
high above the street no sound
except the noise of vintage wine
swirling round around

at your feet my grey slush town
but if the weather’s clear
you can look across the lake
see America from here

love the A. Y. Jacksons
hanging on the wall
love the Persian carpets
flying down the hall
curtains are soft Morris prints
it’s understated retro chic
drinks are served in leaded glass
even the ashtray’s by Lalique

you say that you like older men
they add depth and spice to life
but just because your husband’s rich
you are no trophy wife
his friends may bore you silly
they roll you with their eyes
the older women hate you
for your buffed and slender thighs
and though you grew up blonde
in the suburbs of Anjou
there beats a savage Cajun heart
behind discrete tattoo
it’s a long way to the bayou babe
the winters here are grim
you’re trapped behind your accent
and that fragile pretty skin

you talk of Paris or Hong Kong
and you fly your girlfriends in
they flirt and eye the locals
stiletto heels that snicker sin
and you don’t give a tinker’s damn
for what his friends might say
you love the way it ticks them off
when we whisper en francais.

but you’re lonely in your tower
love him when he’s not away
hate him for that woman
he keeps down in LA
it’s hard work keeping spirits up
so what’s the harm you say
close friend’s conversation wrapped
in expensive chardonnay

you say I have a way with words
a certain rough elan
I always make your girlfriend smile
white teeth and winter tan
Sophie, ma petite cherie
I really ought to go
it’s risky finding men like me
even in a nice bistro
for though I hold my knife and fork
just like un vrai anglais
you might wake up to find
I stole your damned ashtray


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LeBroz said:
I'm up to the Be's. There are, so far, 134 poems on my list. I've only posted 58 so far. I was originally trying to limit myself to 1 or 2 a day to post to this thread but I've found there are way too many really good poems showing up, some that I like and some I think other readers might like.

For those into the nature scene, here's one to try.




Apples Grow In New Hampshire
by Rybka ©


APPLES GROW IN NEW HAMPSHIRE




Apples grow in New Hampshire.
Wild they ripen, tame and feral
From summer sun to Christmas Carol,
But the fall scent
Of those allowed to overgrow
Perfumes the air
From bluebird flight to lasting snow.




Apples grown on orchard trees
Are picked and sold
And some are squeezed.




Apples wild in forest wood
Seldom bear
Much fruit that's good.




But apples on abandoned farms
Still drop fine fruit
In nature's arms.




Both mouse and bird do make full use
Of choicest flesh
And apple juice.
Deer and coon are sure to stop
At slightest cache
Of windfall drop.




And as I've gone along my way
More than once I've paused
To pray.




Meeting God
I just stand mute
And breath the scent
Of autumn's fruit.



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LeBroz, you certainly have good taste!!

I have loved this poem of Rybka's since forever!! He has such a way...that I adore in so much of his work..

I meant to ask you, how you decide which poems will go into your archive ?

and also, thank you for those of mine and my alts that you have posted here

:rose:

it feels good to be read...:)
 
you gonna propose a print anthology, Leon? Looks like you are off to a superb start.

Maria2394 said:
LeBroz, you certainly have good taste!!

I have loved this poem of Rybka's since forever!! He has such a way...that I adore in so much of his work..

I meant to ask you, how you decide which poems will go into your archive ?

and also, thank you for those of mine and my alts that you have posted here

:rose:

it feels good to be read...:)
 
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Such very good questions. An anthology? OMG, I'm only wrapping up the B's. Though, for obvious reasons, I'll probably get through the erotic poems much quicker. Still, that's way too far in the future; Lit could make some $$ on such an endeavor.

And since yesterday the total on my list has jumped to 152 ~ one of those days I love/hate. I love coming across so many good pieces but I hate that it makes my list grow faster than I'll post them to this thread. No more than 3 a day ~ I want people to read them, not overwhelm them!

Like I've said before, the poems I'm selecting are those I like or those I think others might like. Among the considerations that guide me are:

1. That it be fairly easily understood. I liked those lines in smithpeter's poem posted above, "there are poems I will never understand," so when I come across something that appears well written but I find myself spending too much time trying to figure it out, I'll pass on it. There may be some I include that I don't wholly understand {some lines may be obscure} but overall, "I get it."​

2. Spelling and word usage must be correct. I'm not playing editor here. I might let slip in an excellent piece with a rare typo.​

3. The poem says what it says in a style appropriate to its message. If it's about human emotions, I want to feel something. If it's about events or locations {with or without people}, I want to be able to visualize it. And yes, it can even be humorous ~ check out the Uncle's Christmas poem.​

I know of 2 poets (3 names) that will never appear on this list. One has so many poems that start sounding the same that they've become devoid of feeling. It's like they're churned out on an assembly line. The other fervently violates my second criterion, even after I left comments suggesting changes. It tells me that she doesn't care about her readers; if she doesn't give a damn, why should I?

There's another, somewhat flexible, criterion ~ the age of the poem. When I come across poems pre-2003, I'll try to include them, even if they seem a bit obscure. On the other hand, more recent poems have a harder time making the list. After all, this is mostly about older poems. Though I must admit to the recent addition of a couple of KittenishJane's pieces; it looks like she's not removing this collection {thank you, young lady}.

Finally, I must admit to being impressed by the quality that exists here. Just yesterday I went through the entire thread and am in awe of the depth and breadth I've uncovered ~ not a credit to me but to the excellent work of Lit's poets.

Keep on writing!

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Enough of this small talk; on to poetry.


6 and 9
by 2rivers ©

instead of seeing the Six
I saw its hole
the lower loop visible in most text
unless allowed to escape due sloppiness or haste

I was looking deep in there
no flowers but much turf,
sand and conch,
mulch is life here this day

so small the empty parts of loved
or despised numerals,
the ache of Nine
it’s heady ignorance of gravity


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Speaking of KittenishJane, here is one I got on so many levels...


A Lady's Dictionary 1944
by KittenishJane ©

[...]

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This guy keeps showing up all over the place; doesn't he ever take a break?


a 4 am goodnight vow
by Liar ©

tomorrow
I will try
to fall
in love

and do my very best
to bask in still
veiled glow

there
in the
reflection
of unexplored
eyes

make some kind of difference
have some kind of moment

experience
applaud
and lose my cool
for a while

be kind
for no reason

and
maybe
even
smile

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I started the day thinking of maybe something light and breezy; then I came across this piece by JUDO which struck me as being one of the better pieces remembering Columbia.



A Brief Moment of Brilliance
by JUDO ©

--- dedicated to those who knew the Columbia's crew the best ---

For a short brief moment
I rode by your side,
Grace brought me to you
And love glued us together.

A brilliance, a warmth, a tender understanding
Unknown to me before.
That was the touch, laughter,
And soul you shared with me.

For a brief moment
You, an eagle among the clouds,
Coupled with me, letting me ride along,
Hanging on your every movement.

We loved, you and I, and
For one brief moment,
I had a glimpse of the Heavens
You sought among Men.

A flash of God's brilliance
Brought you to me,
And took you away.

With these tears, I thank you --
For my love has flown,
And shall not return.

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A Breath Out Of Tune
by Randi Grail ©

Spanning from horizon to eternity,
electric storms rage overhead,
while a million ground bound
beacons holler "I am here"
into the void.

There, among them, yet another
turns the other way,
and peers at peers
instead of swaying, chanting
in adoration of the skies,

and sees the world for real.

A god eat god scenario,
while dogs in desperation trample
and pile their brothers' bodies
to maybe, maybe taste

just once,
the lightning of their sky god,
laughing ever out of reach
at their feeding frenzy folly.

No rhyme,
no hope,
no escape,
she surrenders
and joins again the chanting masses.
Maybe, oh maybe,
salvation will come from above,
and not from within, after all.

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Chicago won but New England lost; a neutral ending, so why do I end up picking this sad little piece?


A Broken Hearted Psalm
by turtledove ©

I sing to you,
My dearest Friend.
My heart full of sadness,
That your sweet life,
Has to end.

Your smiling face,
Your form full of grace.
Will be missed,
Here among us’
In this place.

Sleep well Dear Heart,
We say our good byes.
With broken hearts
And tears in our eyes.

I lay a rose at your feet,
Though I can’t be there,
Where you sleep.
You’ll always be with us,
In that I will trust.

So good bye,
My Dear Friend.
I love you, you know
I will feel you with me’
Where the warm breezes blow.

You’ll be here in the wind,
When the early bird sings.
I’ll hear your laughter,
In every bell that will ring.

Good bye, BeckyAMH
We Love You

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The first time I read this piece I was momentarily puzzled; then I had that eureka moment. Now here's one way to build a library ~ a page at a time.


A Cheap Thief Making A Move
by dcpoet44 ©

A CHEAP THIEF MAKING A MOVE

I bought two books by Bukowski.
One was prose and the other poetry.
But it was poetry
That I wanted to satisfy
This hunger for the word,
And when I thumbed my way
Through a few poems
They soaked into the sponge of my mind.
But then I spotted a poem
I really wanted to read
And at this unusual moment
I was left to speculate
About its title “A SMILE TO REMEMBER,”
And came to this conclusion,
It went like this:
There was a man desperately wanting
To impress a woman
Because he couldn’t come up with the words
To get her attention,
So he went to the poetry section
In the bookstore and found what he needed
And went on his way.
Then two things happened,
The thief got laid,
And poetry got some needed attention
Because I had to return the book
Since page 18 was missing.
But these words that I leave behind
Is my expression with honest feelings
That will probably get me absolutely nowhere.

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Since Tess brings up the subject about bees...


A bumblebee of poetry
by Icingsugar ©

vocal
velvet wings
too small
to lift above
the page

grammar weak
and cliché built
too small
too trite
for screening
scholars

but you're
a bumblebee
of poetry

so you don't care

and soar

because
that is you
and all you know

I watch you rise
defying
common sense
and gravity

and fly
with other
bumblebees

to make love to
the reading roses


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