COVID-19 RESOURCES
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

Archival Review

.
.
.


Al·Gharb·3
by Lauren Hynde ©


laurenhynde_algharb3.jpg



3.

The seas unearth it
in their tempo of drought

This
submerged temple where shines the slow
dawn of the world stones detached de-
formed
by the elements visited
vigilant

Stones or rocs carved in shadow ships
of human faces

This is the other side of the wound
carved in the centre of the earth the centre
of the sun by the passion of the tides by the tenderness
of maritime weapons
fed by time
determination

Breathe



.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Athena Dawn
by Randi Grail ©

in the break of day
on this distant shore
now a crackled voice
wish to rise soar
monophonic chants
to the sky once more

to Saronic sun
on the cobblestones
of a weary street
now the city moans
in a goddess' praise
by her scattered bones

as I walk the stone
like a sunrise ghost
a mirage of man
bids a gentle toast
beckons me to sit
plays the humble host

a mirage all true
turned to wrinkled skin
ancient eyes that glow
of a song within
on a chalk stone step
he's my sunrise kin

"warm an old man's heart,
be my morning muse
soon the heat will burn
and the streets will ooze
of a million souls
and their trampling shoes"

so I sit beside
and await the whirl
just a tired old man
and a silent girl
a mirage, a muse
an ascending pearl

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

After today's mother lode of poetry, let's not forget that we've also got some very good poems still awaiting rediscovery, such as the following:


At a Loss for Words
by tungtied2u ©

In Berlin
they burned books,
while wordsmiths
turned blind eye,
even as
the words
which inspired
them, were
fed onto the fire

Instead
they succumbed,
produced verse
for the cause,
and the Fuhrer,
whose laws
had laid waste
to wise words

Too late
they realized
evil’s face,
the gag in place
on ill writ tome’s
had hushed their voice,
strangled screams
from neighbor’s homes
the only noises heard.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

After yesterday's so busy day, what with that monster posting of 52 poems, and then that little twit posting Lauren's work as her own on MySpace {plus a whole slew of others from Lit}, I'm posting today's first poem early then laying myself out in a comatose position.


Al·Gharb·4
by Lauren Hynde ©

laurenhynde_algarb4.jpg




4.

The nights
they feed on the excessive light of day
As if a ray of sun had been
left forgotten
across the metallic plains
of the south



.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Feeling much better now that the plagiarist is apparently out in the cold. Speaking of which, here's something fitting for what's to hit the Northeast this weekend ~ another blast of frigid Arctic air. Wonder how Angie's doing.


At the Window
by Remec ©

walking from car to house
and back again
has left a solemn trail
through the whiteness
that once was a green-brown
lawn,
I sit just inside the door,
thick wooden barrier
to the crisp chill that lurks
outside,
rattling shutter and glass alike,
buried beneath blankets and
watching through the crystal-coated pane
as across the glistening stream
and its automotive banks,
small armies wrapped in nylon-encased
down,
heads and hands bound in wool,
both homemade and store bought,
wage war with wintry weapons
until their numbed limbs
demand
cocoa.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Aubade
by jthserra ©

Aubade

Forget the morning, it’s not the same
unless you’re very early
unless you’ve seen the first hint of twilight
in the distant hills
seen forested silhouettes gain dimension
in faint pink backgrounds.
Only then, when dew begins to sparkle
glittering dusted spider webs
to dampen you in pure, clean cool,
you hear the mourning hymn,
the birdsong by dawn
long before the hot cicada’s wail
and you reach to fringe laced clouds
feeling the texture
your fingers part the liquid rays
coloring morning.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Al·Gharb·5
by Lauren Hynde ©


laurenhynde_algharb5.jpg




5.

In this city haunted in this house
turned to the zephyr of fables
in this fable by the sea dissolved by salt
by the sea illuminated
in this lunar ship
by the thinnest speckles of limestone
in this forest of iron where forever the days
the voices mute
in this pier of coloured stones
ochre blood flowers crushed by the sun by the skilful
instruments of light
in this clearing where death is a word
postponed
for another city maritime for another
perfect tomorrow
in this city revisited
by fingers obscure bones
without memory without home

they remember the tenderness hear the ancestors
with whom they share this house once white
but can no longer find the rooms
the hallways
the friends
the fleeting breath
of yesterday.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

If only it were still Autumn...


autumn 1996
by Senna Jawa ©








the long blade of cold
slides thru the closed window
and stabs my shoulder

a week ago
an agitated cloud of birds
settled for their rest stop
on the trees next to the highway
replacing the missing leaves

crowds of birds
would take to the air
like particles of pulsating smoke
in circles in spirals and back
to the trees

go! go! I shouted and waved my hand
half of the sky got dark
soon there was peace
around the leafless trees




wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1996-11-02​
.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

aurora virago
by oxalis ©

take me to your lap
across an arched bridge stream
loved and caressed
not written about
breathed in grainy dream’s
sand years after our meeting
into carpet strands to be weaved
dropping from tipped hat brims
force of experienced habit
to love the soul before eyes

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Al·Gharb·6
by Lauren Hynde ©


laurenhynde_algharb6.jpg



6.

the serene profile the metal unchained sculpted
in these rocks the desolate confidence
in time in entail of death
in perpetual motion

the tender generosity of
silence

distil

our incommensurable pride our steps
of ash our battles
in circles

into dust


.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Just a few more A's to go {but there are still the erotic poems to consider - eventually}. But it's been awhile since I read this and that title kept bugging me and so we'll go ahead and sneak another peek at one of the B's.


Babs is dead
by steve porter ©

Babs is dead.
She died of renal failure.

They stretched her out
in her outdoor house
as her friends and relatives
paraded past, and they
paid their last respects.

One of her daughters
lay down next to her.
With her head on her shoulder
she looked up at the sky,
the beautiful blue sky,
just like they used to do.

She nestled close and
stroked her momma’s belly.

Gorillas grieve too.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Autumn Sonnet
by Angeline ©

Now the harvest moon shines in chilly nights,
beaming pumpkin-like; hung in inky space.
Branches shiver, whip in wind-lashed flights,
crying outrage, gripped in cold embrace.

Now the fulsome greens fade to yellow tones,
or drop brilliant red and shrinking brown
to dance askitter over summer’s bones
in rasping counterpoint to drifting down.

Now the field mice creep to warmth and walls.
Birds swoop codas against graying skies.
The trails of nutshell and flocks’ dying calls
speak a denouément, saying goodbyes.

Autumn exhales an expiring breath
to fall blanketed under winter’s death.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Al·Gharb·7
by Lauren Hynde ©


laurenhynde_algharb7.jpg



7.

Every year on this day
the Arabs
silently
turn towards The West¹
kiss the earth on their hands
and mourn the country
where they no longer live the sea
weightless the nights volatile the earth
fluid
where their ancestors
lit the blithesome bonfires of love




¹ In Arabic, Al Gharb; the lands known today as the Algarve.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Something's come up so here's this morning's posting a bit early. Hope to be back in time to post around 1700hrs EST.

I just realized that the Al·Gharb series is finally complete ~ for those that never got the final installment at MySpace, check out the preceding post.

In the meantime, here's another illustrated poem with major Awwwwww factor:


Amelia
by neonurotic ©


neonurotic_amelia.jpg




.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Seems there's going to be a football game on soon that has some folks rather passionate, so let's get this one done early. Here's a piece that looks like it fits as zappai. Perhaps Jim could say for sure.


Autumn Bliss
by Svenskaflicka ©

Cup of hot cacao
after a walk in grey rain
and a homebaked bun.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

I just came across this and recognized it as yet another poem from the infamous Unlikely Muse/Heather Larsen. Now that that blog is gone, let's recognize the real creator. After reading the comments, I now know why I so strongly remembered the illustration. It was the poem where the illustration was posted on May 15, 2006 and it was reposted with the poem included on May 20, 2006.


I Remain
by Syndra Lynn ©


syndralynn_iremain.jpg



I am ancient
I have lived!
.....this life and many more

the ravages of time may show
but “time-worn”
is the essence of my beauty

For a hundred years,
I have built
my character,
watching fools
.....and sages
grow and die

Yet I remain.

No storm has sent me
.....over the edge.
No winter wind
.....has done me in.
No sweltering summer heat
.....beaten me down.

The winds of change have twisted
.....my frame.

Yet I remain

Nothing lasts forever
and the day will surely come

when I am done
when I have danced my last
when I reach for the stars
.....and the earth
falls away from my feet

Slowly I will tumble down.

But it is not this day.
It is not this wind.
It is not this storm that does me in.

I will feel the sun upon my limbs another day
Because I bend
.....because I adapt-

I remain

.
.
.
.
 
Last edited:
.
.
.

The final A for awhile ~ at least until I get to the erotic poems. A nice note on which to end.

away away
editors.gif

by oxalis ©

any man
whom you affectionate
causes disturb

I know you
will always
regard me as great friend
but not the one
who phucks
and plucks your hysteria
to waking neighbors
policeman, his wife,
cats near and far
crouching ‘gainst mountain slope
cascading style

some wear hats adorned by village
vixens,
purring coolly like menthol
they accept the tiny tugs and primp

Little Whiskers ran off years ago
to party and enhance a compound scene
with her preconceived
notions of what a dry wooded site should be
no one knows fire so there is cuddling abundant

Whisk endures prurient torture
till a rabbit of few words says, “umph”

.
.
.
.
 
Last edited:
.
.
.

Baby Steps
by Svenskaflicka ©

Hope grows
with every encouraging word.
Success
builds confidence.
My back is straight,
my head held high.
Step by step
towards the day
I can let go of your hand
and manage on my own.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

This didn't turn out quite the way Jim posted it. I may experiment later.

Ballerina
by jthserra ©

jthserra_ballerina.jpg


An infinite ballet
dancing over the miles
appears to me, then gone
in a pirouette.

Misty-eyed mornings
you emerge
taking me
in an invisible dance.

In slow steps
to music only we can hear
we lace in the dance
only we can see.

And then, as suddenly,
you spin once,
blow a misty kiss
and dance away... invisibly.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

The MSM has only now discovered the old story about Seattle's drive-thru coffee shops, where the barista is scantily clad, though still legally decent. There's more than one way to jolt yourself awake.


Barista
by Belegon ©

Delivering
a jolt of
black addiction,
as precious as gold
with a silver smile,
brightening mornings
more with the laughter
than the latte,
she sings
below the hiss of the steam.
Not realizing
that on this bleak Monday morning,
it's me she's singing for.
Voice contagious
with the sunshine
the clouds are hiding,
taking the edge off my June gloom
with the promise
of hot vanilla chai
and a soft sung smile.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Now here's one subject to interpretation. What's my take? It's a grown man's memory of a time when, as a child, he was hospitalized and kept hearing the nurses coming and going. Keep in mind that this memory might span decades and the footwear might not have been the comfy footwear these ladies wear today.

See what you think.

Backtracking
by Icingsugar ©

Tap, tap, tap
the footsteps went.
I didn't know
nor understand
back then

what had been given me
with care received and sent.

To me so vague,
so far from true
it seems today
mundane and gray,

but wonders came so easily
those years when all was new.

The first recorded history,
a tap, tap, tap
from then to me
and back.
As far as will can track

I breathe,
and sink so willingly,

to other little
sparks of mind

forgotten
nearly left behind.

But tap, tap, tap
whoever treaded noisily
up to my bed,
is lost, is gone,
I can't recall,
still locked somewhere
in memory.

Who came in
from that windy hall?
Whose tap, tap, tap
to lay a palm
upon my head
it is I hear in echo
through the years we tread?

what happened next,
what went before,
this flash of soul?

I do not know.
nor understand
why tap, tap, tap
became the window
to it all.

I praise you though,
I cherish dear
that stepping ghost.

Your walk is what I am,
your tap, tap, tap
the first of me I know.

The first recorded history,
the building stone
from which I grow.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Bach's Lunch
by sack ©

Have a nibble on a Toccata
just right for a Suite tooth

Dance a Sarabande while munching-
a Courante will also do

Make partitions from a Partita
while creating your culinary Invention

Just a Prelude to the main dish
a Mass of confectionary delight

accompanied by a side dish Variation
sizzling with juicy Passion

a Concerto of love
a Cantata of joy
a Sonata of hope

But please-
don't throw away the Bachs

Mozart's on the menu tomorrow!




.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Baggage
by tungtied2u ©

Hope arrived unexpectedly
disembarked at my front door
suitcase in hand, gleam in her eye,
mischievous smile upon her lips.

She slipped past me at the threshold,
captured my attention with casual contact,
cast a come hither look over her shoulder
as she slinked up the stairway.

Upon my bed, she flung her luggage
opened wide, for me to see the memories
she had brought with her; subtle silks,
sexy satins, gaudy scarves to capture me.

I tumbled to her intentions, allowed myself
to become enrapt, (ahh, no I was more
than willing), a prisoner of my past grasping
for a future to hold on to.

I was bound by her initiative, strapped
down, made to see a life from her perspective,
riding hard and high upon passion's crest,
overflowing with waves of contentment

only to awaken, find Hope had dismounted,
packed her bag with all and sundry,
moved on to the next lost soul
leaving me tied to the present.

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Band Aid
by Icingsugar ©

Out of the blue
it came pouring out,

like when frantic fingers,
not even conscious,
scratch a deepening
wound red patch
that may once have itched
but now only burns
from that relentless assault,

and gives way to the pain
welling up from nails stuck
in flesh tearing
and warm blood
coating that fingertip
from beneath.

You don't even ache
until you feel
that sticky ooze
erasing friction,

forming a trail
down the wrist,
before dripping
off an unaware digit
on the carving hand's
idle innocent twin...

...and then look down,

straining to comprehend
the signals shooting
from that tormented
patch of sensors.

Then reality dawns
and pain explodes,

when it's too late.

Out of the blue it came,
and nobody thought
of ignorant claws,
ignored through years,
carving careless cuts
in the fragile skin
of a delicate agreement.

And when it broke
we were all so busy
looking the other way

that the first drops
hit like rain,
building rivers...

...and inevitable
the flood reigned.

Because
the collective of us,
bereft of will,
drained of self control

just
could
not
stop

scratching
that god damn
infection.


for Rosia 1981-2004

.
.
.
.
 
.
.
.

Let's start the day with a quickie...


bartanka
by Senna Jawa ©







my sweater smells
of beer and smoke
and communal sweat
it went to bar with me
last night​






wh
1995-12-16

.
.
.
.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

Lyricalli
March 2024 Poetry Challenge B: Epistles - letters in poetry
2
Replies
42
Views
1K
Ashesh9
A
BernadetteRochelle
April Poetry Challenge 1
4 5 6
Replies
138
Views
2K
AlinaX
AlinaX
Angeline
2024 Poetry Challenge Discussion Thread
2 3 4
Replies
79
Views
1K
42Below
42Below
29wordsforsnow
February 2024 Poetry Challenge A: 5 in 99
Replies
16
Views
571
XShadynzX
XShadynzX
butters
January Poetry Challenge A - A 5-word prompt poem
Replies
20
Views
742
42Below
42Below
Back
Top