Poems by Brian Rosenberger
If I were a Barbarian
I would praise and curse Crom in alternating breaths
a heavy metal drumbeat would echo in my footsteps and
I’d drink enough mead to drown Atlantis and Lemuria a second time
I would write poems the bards would recite and sing songs of doom
that would echo down Hell’s hallways for eternity
I’d laugh in the Reaper’s boney face as if hearing
a cleric, an ogre, and an elf walk into a bar joke
I’d wield a sword inscribed with the words Sayonara Sumbitch
writ in ancient Aquilonian on the blade
I’d ride an albino rhino into battle
leave ashes and blood and orphans in my wake
place my faith only in cold steel
and the warm, welcoming thighs of wenches
I’d behead my enemies and mount their wives
face death alone and avoid conflict with anyone resembling
James Earl Jones or adorned with curling horns,
definitely a fashion faux pas
I’d steer clear of the Tree of Woe and palimony suites
wear really cool helmets for publicity photos and
hoist a large battle axe for the same
weave tales of sorrow about the Tower of the Serpent
attack the page and battlefield with the fury of a warrior born
and treat demonic witches cursed with unholy bosoms
like they were wet knaps
I’d trust no man, god, giant nor cask of tequila
drink snake venom like it was watered down bourbon
and give Stygian belly dancers reason to gyrate
I’d fight the good fight until the royal jewels lost their sparkle,
gold its luster, and a whore’s promise no longer enticed
I would forgo Zepplin’s land of snow and ice, only fight battles
where the Sun scorched the Earth, tans came easy, and bikinis were abound
I’d wear fur and animal skins, PETA protesters be damned
or cleaved in half
I would avoid Zamorian strip clubs like an enemies’ axe
if I were a barbarian
like Hell I would
***
Vintage
Staring at the photos
sepia tones or b/w
lost in another world
time having moved on
the innocence, classic elegance
thickness of thighs
the contours of flesh
landscapes of skin
eyes undeniably alive
full of mischief
hair wild
whether posed in a golf swing,
performing a hand stand,
or just framing beauty
bewitching
with your-hand-on-hips-come-hither smile
the monochrome outline
contrasting with the shadows
exposed but still with secrets
not quite forgotten pinups
models most likely dead now
ghosts on the page
still haunting
***
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. Recent and upcoming publishing credits include the anthologies The Book of Tentacles, Side Show 2, The Terror of Miskatonic Falls and Ghostlight and Hungur magazines. Additional updates can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~
I would praise and curse Crom in alternating breaths
a heavy metal drumbeat would echo in my footsteps and
I’d drink enough mead to drown Atlantis and Lemuria a second time
I would write poems the bards would recite and sing songs of doom
that would echo down Hell’s hallways for eternity
I’d laugh in the Reaper’s boney face as if hearing
a cleric, an ogre, and an elf walk into a bar joke
I’d wield a sword inscribed with the words Sayonara Sumbitch
writ in ancient Aquilonian on the blade
I’d ride an albino rhino into battle
leave ashes and blood and orphans in my wake
place my faith only in cold steel
and the warm, welcoming thighs of wenches
I’d behead my enemies and mount their wives
face death alone and avoid conflict with anyone resembling
James Earl Jones or adorned with curling horns,
definitely a fashion faux pas
I’d steer clear of the Tree of Woe and palimony suites
wear really cool helmets for publicity photos and
hoist a large battle axe for the same
weave tales of sorrow about the Tower of the Serpent
attack the page and battlefield with the fury of a warrior born
and treat demonic witches cursed with unholy bosoms
like they were wet knaps
I’d trust no man, god, giant nor cask of tequila
drink snake venom like it was watered down bourbon
and give Stygian belly dancers reason to gyrate
I’d fight the good fight until the royal jewels lost their sparkle,
gold its luster, and a whore’s promise no longer enticed
I would forgo Zepplin’s land of snow and ice, only fight battles
where the Sun scorched the Earth, tans came easy, and bikinis were abound
I’d wear fur and animal skins, PETA protesters be damned
or cleaved in half
I would avoid Zamorian strip clubs like an enemies’ axe
if I were a barbarian
like Hell I would
***
Vintage
Staring at the photos
sepia tones or b/w
lost in another world
time having moved on
the innocence, classic elegance
thickness of thighs
the contours of flesh
landscapes of skin
eyes undeniably alive
full of mischief
hair wild
whether posed in a golf swing,
performing a hand stand,
or just framing beauty
bewitching
with your-hand-on-hips-come-hither smile
the monochrome outline
contrasting with the shadows
exposed but still with secrets
not quite forgotten pinups
models most likely dead now
ghosts on the page
still haunting
***
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. Recent and upcoming publishing credits include the anthologies The Book of Tentacles, Side Show 2, The Terror of Miskatonic Falls and Ghostlight and Hungur magazines. Additional updates can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~
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