Archival Review

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Okay, some of the pieces that have appeared here have been rather long. So how about something a little shorter from the pen of, who else, Senna Jawa.



1995-12-18 miniature
by Senna Jawa ©

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wh ©
1995-12-18


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A Screen Door Slam
by darkmaas ©

Screen door slams
somehow insufficient
for the moment
but they are only metaphoric doors.
They confer no privacy
or safety from whatever evil
may be lurking.

I wonder if the Queen
slams screen doors.
Maybe she has a white-gloved footman
to glide behind
and close the screen behind her
against the bugs of Buckingham.

She’s not like you
and I can say with certainty
she’ll never find herself
standing naked in the dappled moonlight
of my back garden.

What might the neighbour think
awoken by the slam
peering out his bathroom window?
If he could see
the tears that streak your breasts
would he surmise that they are perspiration
or maybe just the early morning dew?

He might be forgiven
if he failed to notice
the brass serpent
clutched in your fist
like some weapon or a Barbie™.


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While still playing in the A's, I found this from Angeline while we await some news.


Anew
by Angeline ©

Freshly showered
raindrops tears
wax wane unfading
my inner landscape
merging cloudy two-seater miles
to a man in a hat and smiles
walking through aisles
automatic seatbelts click
encircled in goodbye snap
hello stairs Pad Thai
kisses

Now two regrets
rain small voices
wax wane unfading
the distant landscape
lifting clarity northeast
while my heart's two lobes
tangle in this dichotomy
of loss
of love


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"Seaside at Summer's End" by Angeline

I still like this one by Angeline:




Angeline,
2003-August





Regards,

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Before we get carried away and this turns into an Angeline thread {not that there's any problem with that} here's something else to ponder; what's the ultimate old folks' home like?


"c o f f i n"
by Senna Jawa ©

good people
feed me
and let me sing a bit

my hair is gray - won't
there be a place one day
that will be my home ?



wh,
1991-04-12

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While awaiting further word from ee on Angie's state, here's another piece from her body of work.


Anew Too
by Angeline ©

The Wisdom of the Heart
sits to my left not right,
perhaps inappropriately,
but Henry Miller is sinistral
here though not unwise.

My wisdom is sitting nowhere
uncentered, snowflake swirled
or ground fallen.
Perhaps it will peek
up again crocus-like

when spring breaks
somewhat later in this town,
April being not a cruel month;
just days knitting my unravelled petals
back together,

looking for a green bench,
momentarily empty,
but with enough slanted sunlight
to bloom.


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*.*
by smithpeter ©

This is
Star
Dot
Star

welcome to this poem

it is because of thought

characters have no thought
but they exist
because they come to be

somehow characters come to be
on paper
in space
and upon space
friendly

with clubs and dot orgs
so friendly
with clubs and fists
all the characters

welcome to the end of this poem

may I remove my hands
from your shoulders
so we may hug?

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27 years
by BooMerengue ©

For 27 years I was just about me
surviving by my wits and learning
when to flirt and when to run
and I was floating quickly towards my end
but it was ok cuz I was just about me.

Then you came along and my heart was caught
I was just about us-we were just about us
and life was perfect and we floated together towards
everything that was good and clean and honest
we did this for 27 yrs-just about us

Now its just about me again
but I don't want that
and you are just about you
and everything that was good
just floated right by us

do I have another 27 years?
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8 15 2004


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If you're heading out for a bite to eat down at the local diner, just what is it you're about to eat?


At the Diner on Route 59
by postobitum ©

I came home late again,
A double shift at the diner down route 59,
A greasy pit of shit I'd heard the truckers say,
But good for a burger an a piece a ass.
Anyways, I drug up to the door like old man winter,
Cold an old an wore clean out, wantin sleep.
An then I heard it.

First it came outta the pines back the house,
An echoey call like ghosts in the field.
Pantin an callin to God an Glory.
Cept' it wasn't ghosts an God wasn't comin,
Just me. Or her, however you wanta look at it.
I tip-toed round the back,
Wet dew to the knees and darker than the Devil's den.

I peeked up real slow through the winda
And I saw her, spread legged and sweaty
Gaspin an wrigglin like a hooked fish under you.
An you, you with your sweet words ridin beer breathe,
Your doe eyes and farm han muscles
Fuckin some little piece in our bed.
It was our weddin picture hittin the floor that did it.

Nex thing I knew the axe was red.
Nex thing I knew there was blood on the bed
And blood on the winda an walls and my head.
I think I screamed louder than she did
I think I tasted blood an that's what got me down.
I couldn't jus let your parts an her parts rot there
The bed was a good one iffen it was stained a bit.

What else could I do? I cleaned the room
Tar'd as I was I did it fairly quick,
Then lay down an got back up the next mornin,
Pulled out some meat from the freezer,
Carried some of you an her back to the diner in a dollar store bag.
You was gettin drippy by the time I got there,
Smellin a little high but I guessed it was fine.

I figure you know what happened next
You an that slut made mighty fine hamburger.
An you know, as I watched the truckers lick their fingers
I smiled for the first time since I married your tasty lil ass.
An it is tasty, believe you me.


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3 a.m.
by sophia jane ©

3 a.m.

my daughter at three a.m.
running
sleepy but so awake and alive.
I can understand that-
I am exhausted, so tired
of this day to day motherhood,
so weary of constant demands.

But I am so alive inside
burning with a want for freedom,
burning with the passion
for living-
only able to really be free
in poetry.



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Let's try something a bit different. It's listed as nonerotic ~ what do you think?


Amaranth of Amore
by Artina Heartflash ©

AMARANTH OF AMORE
(Love's Electric Rose Wild)
dedicated to an Italian guitarist


Light as angel feathers, his fingers did stroke
His hot, hissing, singing sword. Softly awoke
Sweet foliage of favor from blade of the same;
Our own Amaranth of Amore, aflame.

Strong-nectared notes dripped from his breast onto mine;
White-petaled explosions along lightning vines,
Melodious passions. Drenched in their perfumes,
My butterfly heart trembled 'mongst the first blooms.

His fists rent crying rocks and palms shaped laughing streams.
He plucked, strung, arranged like stars vibrant my dreams.
Growing pleasure in measures bold, our hands gave rise
To fierce, budding dendrites fast-prickling our thighs.

His garden ablaze, in our blood ozone rushed.
His thoughts pierced, entwining my ear as I blushed;
Though foreign the words, so familiar the tongue.
To his blossoming voice and warm body I clung.

Glad garlands exotic, sensational sounds,
His bright exclamations; My off'ring he found:
Flick'ring, fragrant praise held in my teeth as I smiled---
So his mouth drew from mine Love's Electric Rose Wild.

cpyrt 1999 Artina Heartflash /(DH)



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LeBroz said:

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3 a.m.
by sophia jane ©

3 a.m.

my daughter at three a.m.
running
sleepy but so awake and alive.
I can understand that-
I am exhausted, so tired
of this day to day motherhood,
so weary of constant demands.

But I am so alive inside
burning with a want for freedom,
burning with the passion
for living-
only able to really be free
in poetry.



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Click to expand...

I so get this one



Thanks Leon ~

RhymeFairy said:

I so get this one



Thanks Leon ~

Click to expand...

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Don't thank me, thank Sophia. I merely displayed the product of her mind at work in that piece.



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LeBroz said:

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Don't thank me, thank Sophia. I merely displayed the product of her mind at work in that piece.



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Click to expand...

I do apologize Sophia.
I really did not mean to sound so flippant. I loved your poem
because it reminds me of my life. Sometimes, we are drawn to the familiar

and here, I am living it ~



Leon ~~ (consider me properly spanked )

Thank you, for bringing this poem out into the sunshine ~

RhymeFairy said:

Leon ~~ (consider me properly spanked )

Thank you, for bringing this poem out into the sunshine ~

Click to expand...

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It was all my pleasure ~ the poem resurrection & the spanking

And on to other poems. Now that winter has decided to make its appearance with all its bitter cold, let's just say, I'm ready for April.


April Haunt
by smithpeter ©

Spring is for pussy willows
The soft underside of bunnies
And all sides of lovers
In new sun

Laying on road backs
Sides on the way to town
Waiting for the new flesh
Weathered from cabin stays

Some look curious, stunned
In the daybreak, seeing others
Buying pork,
Enjoying company

Others delight in the burn
Occurring in log stays
Long deprived of companionship
And Easter pastels

The spinning eggs of resurrection
Will never tip if kept attention
Is not denied


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I hope I can keep finding fun poems such as this. That's fun not form.


An Intimate Act
by Syndra Lynn ©

Touching me
gently at first
then plunging in,
spreading me open

I catch my breath
Christ! a little foreplay please
just breathe, he won’t take long
this is a breeze

Try to disconnect
Try not to connect
What if I respond?
if his touch turns me on?

Me embarrassed? Not likely.
plaster crack splits the ceiling
just breathe, cold touch
yet somehow, there’s something

Is that two fingers or three?
Does he like what he sees?
Slick finger up ass
just breathe, don’t breathe fast

Hands me tissue
annual tryst
finished
gynecologist


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Let's hear it for the guy who started this thread!

A Girl's Best Friend
by LeBroz ©

A Girl's Best Friend

Mortuary house
Blank glass panes look out
She sits there every day;
Now things gathered through the years
Dress in dust and webs
While she sits
Her back facing them.

Daily ritual complete
Bejeweled with shining crystal rock
She sits looking out
Unseeing...
Caressing them;
Crystals show more life than her
Sparkling with cold light
Warmer than her soul;
Now alone
Wondering
What has she missed?

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Well thank you Angie for that interesting piece. It shows some promise if the poet wannabe would just apply himself. Now here's something with a bit more quality.


an eye blink love
by BooMerengue ©

Sitting staring at my latin Amo Amas Amat
Glasspacks roaring by the house
My dad lifts his head and eyes me
I smile to myself I was 16 and you were there

A knock and you open the back screen door
Coast guard jeans slung low and rubbed in the back
By your long glorious locks-My Mom looks away
I smile to myself I was 21 and you were there

A peach fuzz soldier nudges me back to the curb
His rifle barrel under my chin his hands trembling
Handing him commune fresh muffins and a daffodil
I smile to myself I was 25 and you were there

Packing jeans and tie dyed T’s in my old duffel
My baby’s first foray into Cayce’s realm
Looking up I see Ollie on TV amidst flashing bulbs
I smile to myself I was 37 and you were there

Standing in honor in New Orleans heat as the kids
Toss their boards aloft and mine runs as a child
To show me her paper glancing across the Quad
I smile to myself I was 50 and you were there

Walking to the sink to rinse my tea cup
My grandsons scream their energy and chase the
Sports demon across the court I feel your arms encircle me
I smile to myself I am 16 and you are here.


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Now here's a sight to contemplate ~ Lauren as tourist. I see her more as headed for making history than looking at sterile old houses. Anyway, give a read:


At Goethe's House
by Lauren Hynde ©



During an intermission
changing trains
in Frankfurt-am-Main
I visit
the restaged home
where Goethe was born.

It's charming
with its many stories
chambers
vestibules
full of period furniture
books
assorted memories.

It's a museum
but there's a harmony
an equilibrium
an almost tender manner
so homely.

I climb the many stairs
I even saunter through the kitchen-

The attic
however
is off-limits.

I wonder if that's where they store
the dark secrets and fantasies
the official memory
proscribes.

In the gift shop I
ascetically
buy a mere
postcard
a portrait of the Poet
histrionically reclined
over an imaginary Italian landscape.

With time
every poet turns into his own spoils
but can you
ever again
hear the inaudible?


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A Woman Fell (A Sonnet)
by JUDO ©

(touched by WickedEve's forum on abused women)

A woman fell near City Hall last night
Whose solemn face was known by none we knew.
No shove nor glass was seen from where she flew
For Death had not the face to earn her fright.

I wonder who she cried for when alone
Or where she lived and who could make her laugh
Or never did, and that was Life’s big gaff --
A sorrow upon Sadness’ darkest rhone.

Sad end to come I’d reach, if Love grew cool.
An enveloping blackness spinning down
Would pull me to Eternity’s white frown
My leap from height’s too great would be the tool.

Sometimes it only takes an evening’s call
To save a Love before their final fall.

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appreciating the dream
by normal jean ©

To thank the one who possesses
both whip and knowledge
of threshold for pain
only a smile was required

He churned his vision, obedience
like butter frozen cream
in a rusting blender, stuck on slow
that used to muffle the cries of a woman
who lived in a cage and prayed every day
for a merciful chance to die


Then one fateful morning
from a time much fairer than mine
he came from the woods
armoured in strength of body and mind

He carried me to his tower of will
with tender stroke and gift of time
he brushed my tangled, honey hair
and then taught me to fly


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Read this slowly and deliberately; make the image vivid in your mind, and then ~

This will be your only warning. Break out the tissues. You have been warned.



Ascending Angel
by Debbie ©

(Dedicated and inspired by "A lady of
courage, love and a wonderful inner spirit.")

Moonlight bathes the young babe's faces
Silently they sleep, full of happy dreams;
Filled with fairy cakes, lemonade and parks
Ducks waddled, birdies sang and they played
Mommy smiled and there were many games

Hide n seek in shrubs and behind trees
Smothered giggles as they were found
Now they slumber, bathed in bubbles
Dressed in warm 'jamas and tucked in
Snuggled under warm, colourful covers

Mommy read Green Eggs and Ham
Mr Sandman tugged at weary eyelids
Soon they slumbered, snoring lightly
Limbs soon relaxed, blankies askew
Cute faces resting upon plump pillows

In the corner, quietly sits a young woman
Seated upon a wooden chair, watching
A nightly ritual, her thoughts are deep
Her vigil from late at night till morning
To simply watch over her li'l darlings

Content in the tender short moments
As her angels sleep, she patiently waits
Knowing the night will pass quickly
Needing to be there when they awake
Their first glimpse of the day dawning

To be her smiling, happy loving face
Running to her warm, enveloping arms
Holding them tight, kissing sleepy faces
Laughing as they wriggle and shout
"Mommy, we love you, Mommy."

Each day a blessing shared with others
A gift of time and two precious bundles
Knowing one day soon she would pass on
To become a bright star in their night sky
Happy in the knowledge the time well spent


Lost in her own thoughts, she softly smiles
Thinking not of yesterday nor of tomorrow
But of being so alive in the present second
Grateful for the moment and hoping for more
She sighs, getting up and adjusting quilts

Softly kissing each young childs forehead
Placing an errant teddy bear under an arm
Tucking in and making her babes comfy
She returns to her place in the corner
As the night lightens, ready for morn

The sun begins to rise as the Moon dips
Birds start to cheep, as a new day dawns
Another beginning as her children start to stir
She stretches, and laughs as her wig shifts
Pushing it back into place she lovingly waits



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4 Pumpkin
by Liar ©

Pumpkin,
would you
rather not smile
that Cheshire cat grin?

Has it
cut once too often
your silence and skin?

Hallowed outside
but hollow within.

Pumpkin,
do you dream
of November,

licking the wounds
of a scorching
but beautiful ember?

Would you rather
not even remember?

Pumpkin,
tell me
how did you stumble,
where did it begin?

Did you try
once too often
to wager and win?

Pretty to pieces
and lost in the spin.

Pumpkin,
will you
ever grow weary
of clamor and sin?

All the
Cheshire incisions
that leak your pulse thin.

Where wonder bleeds out
and winter seeps in.

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From one of smithpeter's several alts comes this look at a regular house pest {no, not the in-laws, though they must be up there somewhere}.


another new stranger
by oxalis ©

I know you are an old house fly in an old house.
you are an obese fly and clumsy with those bifocals
and cane bumping into things.
I have hated your kind but sad to hear the defeat of yet
another health care package for senior
Musca domestica Linnaeus

I show my sympathy with the invention
of swatter with larger holes,
a handle of laser charged to show the way,
away, away
to a condo in Sarasota or Fish Creek,
that’s the buzz


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here is a contribution <grin (~_~)

Zen Putty
by Du Lac ©

Stroking, burying the vibrant reds,
covering blood with Zen putty,
healing rituals of atonement,
painting walls, colors renew.

Choices to be made,
cycles to be broken,
red disappears,
tranquil clay, shaping disciplines.

Self induced sophism,
fades with each new morn,
whispers of truth emerge,
serene wisdom reigns.

Once Tellus kissed,
past shattered, future devoured.
I felt your dis-ease,
denied through my dreams.

Serene wisdom, perceptive paint.
Shut down.
Run, hide in the red.
Ancient rhythms, irretrievable.

An owl floats in my soul,
screeching painfully at self,
imperfections found in the walls,
step back and beauty lives.

Time you need, to see your strengths.
Crafty is fear, when we love too deep.
Red fading, Zen putty molding my heart.
Owl loves patiently.

dlt © March 14 2005