Best Archive Poems
ARCHIVES
She stood captivating
So rustle and dusty
A sign of century of neglect
Here lies great treasure
The array of scroll marvelled me
I hurriedly departed my thirst so intent
The waterloo not as tormenting
Sea of tears danced down my face
I behold much treasure in crude
Time have been invested
Even breath have been laid
I can’t resist her pains
Why is she horribly kept?
At last the Grand Inquisitor said:
Let the archives burn.
The paper of history weighs us down.
Virtual memory will be the way from now.
A solitary voice rose in protest:
With our memories burn our hearts.
The Inquisitor acted swiftly:
He unleashed fires, controlled and savage,
Beneath the store houses,
Threw Molotov cocktails in libraries.
A billion pages of etched life
In minutes, memos, letters -
The familiar writing of everyday,
Few metaphors, many more lists.
Within a day, ten thousand years,
And more, gone, gone, gone.
The cord that held us to them,
A line of white ashen hearts.
lines are
pale, details...
sporadic
aureate filth
ensconces the
casing.
tag yellow
and withered
with time
yet...
bares the
twain figures
number 99
In lacquered boxes, six feet down,
Rest whispers of the unbought crown -
The paintings left in mental drafts,
The kindness stored away in crafts.
Between the satin folds they place
The morning walks at slower pace,
The letters crumpled, never sent,
The wild dreams left unbent.
A coffee-stained rejection slip,
The novel's pages, torn and ripped,
Three cigarettes crushed in despair
When winter stripped our cupboards bare.
The day we sold mom's silver spoons,
To pay for pills that came too soon,
While mice made nests of unpaid bills
Behind the walls of windowsills.
These fragments sealed in knotted pine:
Dead houseplants, dried in '99,
A pawnshop ticket, never claimed -
Now feed the earth we never tamed.
-
sound file birds voices
in the eclectic garden
amazing flowers
In the vault of sorrows, the lights are dim,
Memories dangle stiff, stark, cold and grim.
In glass-fronted vaults of remains half-dead,
Haunting to avenge losses, regrets and dread.
Bitterness is grit, dust and rust—
Metal relics wrapped in tempered crust.
Too sharp to hold, too old to appeal,
Scars embalmed, behind bars of steel.
Fur skins and feathered bones, long dead.
Eyes once bright, are now glass instead.
Stuffed with pride, stitched in despair,
They rage within riles, gasping for air.
Old garments show arguments, long of old,
With threadbare cuffs, and buttons of gold.
They're sour of fit, and hung too tight,
To ever again leave shadows in bright sunlight.
Such bitterness belongs in museum displays.
Where you can visit it on sad, rainy rue days.
To see such hateful feeling-disheveled, dismembered.
Covered in dust, to be forgotten, not remembered.
Lock it up, behind the glass, don’t let it breathe,
Bitterness will bloom, when we fail to believe.
It should be kept under lock and key.
Where all such sour sorrows, are meant to be.
Meant to be, Meant to be-!
That's the key, That's the key!