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Best Poems Written by John Lusardi

Below are the all-time best John Lusardi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Dark Side of Oakleys

Dark side of Oakleys.

The black, short linen dress,
floats and careses her thighs, 
a moition so sweet!
In the eveloping heat.
Fine african beads,
dance loose on dark skin,  
caress the breasts above
from a heart beat within.
She sways, and he staggers
In a moment he stands
amongst all the sand that has 
fallen, and crumbled off 
the sandcastle Man.

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Scent

SCENT.
Its Bluebell month ;
My feet break twigs 
long laying brittle in,
leafy brown beds !
In a wave of nostril scent, my
youth and childhood flood back,
sweeten my steps of years,
But!  break me.

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Four Cafes

Four Cafe’s

It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion 
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”! 
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors,  spit tainted in past blood,  open 24 hrs per day 364 days each  year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards !  held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me,  name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.

Count.

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Ethos of 10

Ethos of 10 

They sat, bemused,
 in their inocence;
wearing their guilt, 
braided tight.
Sealed in a pointed star; 
Waiting on the Wolf and Its teeth,
 to severe the braids of gold.
Oh the crimson spurting;  
wasted for free breath.

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Show Me the Wind

Show Me the Wind.

Fragrance of Bluebell, threads between Pines
Caresses gentle crisp Oak leaves, in falling times
Falls Acorns gently, onto beds of Ferns
Whips up sand, and its ripples, in tide that turns
Fans the wild fire, in the dry summer grass
Turns umbrellas inside, out as people walk past
Whispers in sea shells, asleep on the shore 
Carries mists in land, rattles the front door
Keeps coloured kites afloat, held tight by a string
Enables tin whistles, their dance song too bring
Moves amongst hedgerows, and startles the sheep
Blows wild black bin bags, along the dark street
So show me the wind in its glory and form
Accompanied by lightning, moving closer a storm.

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Four Cafes

Four Cafe’s

It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion 
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”! 
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors,  spit tainted in past blood,  open 24 hrs per day 364 days each  year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards !  held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.

Count.

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Chores

What memories and thought pools we swim in
Between two distant unreachable shores
A sandy future palmed and green
Or the rocky crags of endless chores.

2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25'
1/26/2022

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The Right To Choose

USA

Raging in its Male dominated choices
the states, across the biased pond.
Up, Stairs, in the Attic,
stale mingling breath stained rooms
the pigeon panics, flies in its electronic thunder.  
New cars, paramount in shallow importance 
impotence delayed, short of micro chips.
Who are they ? These Women who get it done,
their eggs, sending results, or freezing life, 
raging in its Male pigeon flight panic, election.
Choice is theirs, the eggs belong to the
Mothers of the stars and earth and freedom.

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Breakdown

The hours have dissolved
Like sugar in my many cups
And, all thats left are
Jumbled words and ideas.

9/5/21
Liberum divisa contest
From The significance of table 8

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Winter Is Not Forever

Scrape, bye ; The Calendar 
ticks with no inky point,
segments broken into
whatever minuet, or waggle
and slithers of whats left for you.
You can gaze through, 
honey coombes yellow
along a long one way troop 
of seedless sunflowers,
their low heads hung,
corroded and long Bee,d.
Winter in broken boxes
spilt, blind, even,
warm to strangers
Spring a season of
Infinite meaning, 
Based, on nothing
but the viewpoint of a Bee.

13/7/21