Best Archived Poems
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
The clinical sentence was pronounced,
perfumed with the devil’s royal scent ~
a relapse that smells
like an ethereal remedy
as every restless leaf abandons
its luscious green to the grave,
where her heartbeat
still sighs amidst the sleepless sunrise
beneath the loam,
where gloaming once, upon a blood moon,
homed the valiant vibratos
of her laughter,
yet if the only way to remember
is to remain unhealed,
as russet strings
of a violin ring through,
carrying sweet nightmares ~
held within the dusk
like beloved nightingales,
letting my inner calendar
return to circling the date
when she last breathed my name ~
O divine darkness,
let me fade until the face
of September’s stars wane
and phase the sorrow
into soundless torrents of
rehearsed requiems
until hurt sounds like a hypnotic hymn.
I swallowed, O Griefversary,
my penance through turning time,
the italicised letters
chronicling the chronic memoirs
while the tongue of trauma
prescribes crippling anxiety
into my thoughts,
I have long bottled
blurred hope
and summer sonatas,
with every memory crushed
like an autopsy listed as an accessory,
weaving words
borrowed from archived affections
as I leave line after line,
no longer aching
for the dark to understand that
my faith developed a stutter,
my pulse filed pleas for Prozac,
my ink confessed unseen panic,
my skin carried fingerprints
of midnight fears ~
and I still walk through
the black rose maze of memories,
around the season of
her irrevocable demise ~
September, the soulful wraith
of ghosts I love beyond death…
Magnetic attraction, enchanting dream of a lifetime -
majestic pyramid attracts my eye,
mystique draws me in
O, your architecture! Pavilions, colonnades; art enclosing art,
every square inch deliberately designed,
ceilings pour forth scintillating splendor
Antiquities from Rome, Egypt, the Orient:
trying to wrap my head around art
created in Mesopotamia 6,000 years ago
Dazed and captivated in your Greek sculpture hall:
Bronze beauty, marble magnificence,
Venus de Milo seduces still
What history you have archived on your walls and pedestals!
Charlemagne holding his scepter,
Louis XIV in regal resplendence
Oil on canvas communicates genuine genius
Rembrandt, Rubens, Raphael,
Vermeer, Van Dyck, Vigée-Lebrun
Mythology awakened to life in marble:
Hera, Hermaphrodite, Neptune, Nymph,
Psyche and Cupid
Even commoners respectfully regarded:
Messina's military man, Brueghel's beggars,
Michelangelo's dying slave
Centuries of religious faith expressed with grace and grandeur:
Moses in the bulrushes, Islamic ivory,
the penitent Magdalene, Virgin and child
Artistic vision reflects and redirects history:
Renaissance masters forecasting the future,
Monet's Impressionism a daring new style
Fifteen minutes till closing, where have the hours flown?
What of tapestries, textiles, drawings, decorative arts?
Alas, another day.
Highlight of the day, world's most famous painting:
mysterious Mona Lisa smile
thanks me for coming to visit
Louvre:
timeless testimony to artistic aesthetic
cathedral of contemplation
history of humanity
Written 15 Sep 2020
I'd have loved to see the bluebirds fly
above the white chalk-cliffs of Dover--
and as they were blithely soaring over,
immersed in thought I'd lie
in calm repose upon that beach,
admiring their swooping forms,
evanescent, in fleeting storms,
like ballet ... far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
symbolic through intrinsic meaning --
like sterling hope and freedom's words
light English springs, forever greening:
while England fought the bitter fight
to hold at bay the 'fall of night.'
Author notes
November 20, 2004 - approx 112 words
What makes Britain great? The entire world would be speaking German and Japanese right now if not for British courage in the face of overwhelming adversity.
Setting, approximately June, 1941, Dover Beach, immediately following the Battle of Britain.
This is a published poem, copyrighted, and it takes you to a specific place as well as a specific time, when the world was at war and the fate of all mankind hung in the balance. It is relevant because we are fast approaching another such time. Bluebirds are not found in the British Isles, but I wrote the poem before I became aware of the fact. The curator at the Dover Museum said I should just leave it that way, as bluebirds, since the song, The White Cliffs of Dover, specifically named bluebirds.
Update: BLUEBIRD is an old country name for swallows and house martins, which have a blue sheen to their plumage. These migrants arrive from the continent in spring and leave in autumn, crossing the English Channel. So these bluebirds appear at least twice a year over the white cliffs and no doubt many spend the entire summer in the vicinity of Dover. As portents of improving weather, swallows and martins are traditionally believed to bring good fortune.
The poem, a quasi-Petrarchean sonnet, is being archived with other writings about Dover and The Second World War by the Dover Museum, in Dover, England.
This sonnet was published in Sonneto Poesia, Volume 3, Number 1, Winter,
2003-2004
Written July 20th, 2003
your love ~ my muse
your voice ~ my prose
s l i
p
s and sails in the sky ~
stroking the silhouette
of
snow-kissed mountains,
mirroring memories
of moon-flames
seized like picturesque
Polaroids of a spirit
that stands still &
firm
held by the archived songs
of seaweed sentiments
where
mists of thoughts
tiptoe
t r a i l i n g
the skin and scales
of serpentine w a v e s
c l a w i n g
through the throat of nothingness
pressed in the
frozen
salt of silence ~
mujo’s murmur
bathed in lucid blues,
like air of angst,
clouds of t e
a
r s
if only the wind could grasp
the water-weed wilderness
ebbing and flowing
within this mind ~
for the heart
is a chaotic odyssey
ferrying footprints
in distress
allowing the currents
to be the sailor
beckoning and betraying
the seekers
in search of briny bliss
w e a v i n g wishes
reweaving desires ~
never settling ~
wicked, yet carved
with starry reveries
pushing and pulling
valves of the ocean
held in the cradle of
endless hope...
but beneath the c r
a
s h
i n g crystals
&
cacophonous crests,
floats fragility ~
anchored in healing,
drifting in hurt ~
an ephemeral effervescence
an inescapable embrace
breathing and b r e a t h l e s s
unmoved by the
tempests of time…
as the sky recalls
the taste of tides
and the tide feels
the pulse of the sky ~
resilient &
relentless
amidst the restless rhymes
phantom phrases
and the clamorous
cadence of delicate life…
Death is not death but a mask of great love
That protects us from pain in archived dust
Where vanity veils and desire dreams lust,
And the spirit's retreat is safe above.
Behind the mask like wings of woodland dove
A heart still beats, and footsteps break the crust
Of memory with shadows of her bust
Along the staircase of time and true love.
For love is eternal and cannot die,
Though a heart may pine itself bare to bones;
The soul that loves forever in the eye
Of God, a kindred spirit life enthrones.
The mask that fools the jaded mortal eye
Is but fickle flesh cradled on our bones.
ITALIAN (Sicillian) SONNET: abba abba cdc dcd
Written: September 6, 2025
**************
The wind does not knock—
it slips through the soul’s lattice,
a breathless envoy
from the hush between stars.
It strokes the cheek
such as a spirit reliving purity,
then fades away,
becoming simply a whisper
of a melody sewn into stillness.
My terms come apart
in the string of stems,
where faint words
weave between tufts of grass
that curl with hymns
that are lenient to say.
Birdsong flows
from lungs in rooms full of people—
a hymn to the untamed,
to the pain that hums
simply seeking to be felt.
Love, in its most genuine form,
surpasses the structure of cognition—
It resides in the root of air,
in the rhythm of the intangible.
No note is ever lost—
each tender tremble,
each faltering flight,
is archived in the breath
between dusk and dawn.
We save our dreams.
In the shaft of the Horizon,
in sparkles that linger
on the verge of entropy.
These are the germs of tomorrow
tumbling in the blood
of the eternity we dare to call.
The summer winds caress my skin.
Teardrops like squeezed lemon drops spill.
A joy ride down my cheeks.
Joy emancipated from sadness speaks
Splash, it splatters on the ground.
A crown like structure in slow motion seen.
Life cannot tarry, to embrace.
A little care, a little concern.
Love needs constant care.
But life is too busy looking fair.
A day has no divide.
No night or day defined.
Just doing my best, looking good.
My life is a unread book.
Money power within my fist.
Dreams are within my reach.
If only I can purchase my vision.
Like when I was a kid.
As a kid my prince swept me off my feet.
Was Caressed and cuddled and spoilt.
My dreams retold before I sleep.
I slept peacefully cuddling my dreams.
Knowing, I was within the reach, of his powerful arms.
Always there to break my fall.
Growing up was so swell, so much fun.
All my passions like roller coaster ride, up and down.
Teenage trauma like actors on a stage.
Well scripted parts Played.
Dialogues written by likes of Shakespeare in his plays.
Memories kept in my notepad archived.
Password protected from curious minds.
Visiting the saloon as often as I could.
Changing fashion to suite the current style.
Movies, picnics, sleepovers and dates.
Boys will be boys, society said.
I was strong enough to defend myself of their carnal need.
And time passes by defining my fate.
Now I am a grown up woman in full bloom.
My career well defined.
Insecurities in this world of Patriarchy everyday face.
Lewd remarks of macho fashion brace.
Learnt to brave these obnoxious moments day after day.
My moral fiber strengthened beyond grace.
But somewhere, deep within myself there is this void.
Need for love of a different kind.
The warm embrace of arms to comfort me.
Strength of arms to catch my fall.
Nimble fingers to caress and cuddle me.
A kind voice to strengthen me when l am weak.
A gentle voice that can whisper words of love.
A heart that can love me for what I am.
In books and movies have known of this type.
But in real life, I doubt, I can really find, that kind?
If, I should wait..? I don’t mind the wait.
And suffer, ignominy of society.
Do I follow the doctrine of natural selection..?
I don't think so..! My heart and soul have a mind if their own.
And so it shall be.
“Shades of Blue, Daily Devotions”
shades of blue
safe harbour
waves lap across
our hearts
we leave the safety
of comfort
out into the
unexplored,
Life, how far
can we go,
minds lift
anchors
shades of blue
deep waters
wash over
those treading
water
walking across
the backs of
sympathetique
sharks
hungry for the
gentle wisdom
of whales
in their hearts
blue sky Jonas
in their eyes
shades of blue
safe harbour
waves lap across
our hearts we
leave the safety
of comfort
out into the
unexplored,
Life, how far
can we go,
minds lift
anchors
in us, an
Ocean,
the colours -
Sky’s
reflection,
storms and tides
forever constant
changing inside us
thunder in our hearts and minds
lightning fire, rain and sunshine
steering small drops
in such a large Ocean
safe harbour
waves lap across
our hearts we
leave the safety
of comfort
out into the
unexplored,
Life,
how far
can we go,
minds lift
anchors
destiny is
unfurling its billowing
daily devotions
steering us there
the Fates, reel us in
we chart the bright morning star
angels or albatross
destiny is
unfurling its billowing
daily devotions
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Maiden Voyage with Jan Blomqvist 2021
https://youtu.be/gDaaJUt_N2Y
Jonas
Sailors' superstitions -
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sailors%27_superstitions
albatross
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albatross_(metaphor)
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"/ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
https://resources.saylor.org/wwwresources/archived/site/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/ENGL404-Coleridge-The-Rime-of-the-Ancient-Mariner.pdf
Initialise >
Under that lid
Lies a labyrinth, glistening
Made sturdy by steel
Perched on an alien-like platform
A circuit board, if you will
Weaving in and out of this entangled metal mech
A perplexing network of cables, the forefront of future tech
Where electrons are trapped, stored on an endless grid
They make up the rules, for this systematic procedure
Infinite possibilities, no humanity to hold them back, no morals to forbid
It wizzes and whirs, primes itself during the boot
Archived processes, numbers; everything it must compute
Upon the completion of this Frankenstein operation
For us, it is reduced under our obligation
'Breaking the Trauma Bond'
Do you still like me?
Let me count the ways.
The tired old familiar abuse,
The ugly scowl,
The “get outta here’s!”
“Don’t give me that kind of sh..t!!”
Vile venom heaped upon an unwary lover.
I’ve been sucker punched, again.
Fallen for the antics of yet another
Unwilling, unable, unstable, and uncommitted to anything
Other than his own pain and confusion.
Oh, good!
Someone NEW to hate!
I know what comes next.
The gifts I have given
Treasures I’ve shared,
Regard, respect, admiration, adoration and affection
Willingly offered
And received,
Crudely discarded.
Run through the disposal
Put out with the garbage
Neatly packed and
Hauled off to storage.
Archived with
All the other
Past violations,
Slanders and
Cruel rebuffs.
My body is crushed.
My spine is mangled.
My nerves are seared.
“I don’t NEED any more PAIN!”
I wail
Mentally shuffling through
Well-worn files of
Past encounters.
Rage rises,
The Ogre is demonized.
Humiliated and dis-graced
Tears fall from fresh wounds.
I take refuge
In dreams resplendent
Of laughter, pleasure
Joy and enjoyment
Where wishes of the wisher are fulfilled,
Where food and delight are found.
Fueling fond fantasies of nobility of character,
Decency and courage
An Equal.
Bitter tears cease,
Fury finally fades.
And yet curiously,
The guilt remains.
I choke on the olive branch of forgiveness,
Again.
Lanky’s Chronicles
We meet a long-limbed white boy that said his family was owners of slaves.
He was a leggy ole boy and bony angular in his physical ways.
Uncle Tom was from his past.
He described plantation life as [w]holistic.
We nicknamed him Lanky.
Lanky always got to the point.
He lives in Gross Point Park, Michigan.
He talks for hours non-stop.
He was wealthy.
He was well off.
Lanky was very sharp.
Now, one thing we have discovered about Lanky is that his family migrated
from the South, which really did not make since when he was white.
He said it was done during the surfacing of Industrial North.
They came to form a greater empire.
1930s is when this took place and today Lanky is an ole boy well to do in
Southgate.
Flip the Script
Lanky is an ole boy from the Confederate South.
He married a Cherokee woman and became tribal.
He became Chief of the Creek Tribe.
He was a White Indian in black folk’s lives.
His family migrated to the North.
They established themselves in Chippewa territory.
Peace was kept and life became whole.
Lanky was seen as a canon in focus with a dogma purpose.
His annals are archived at the Smithsonian.
Lanky demised in 2005.
This is to bring forth knowledge of his life.
___________________________________|
Penned on June 5, 2014 @ 12:33 A.M. EST!
Spaces like Life
Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up in more spots than smooth,
Makes me think of you,
57 murders of the kind I like
with his first touch, you’ve been archived,
dust collecting on your gilded frame,
curating feelings long dormant,
with the first exchange of flesh—no market bizarre bartering,
the store room caught fire, and you are naught but cindered-ash.
The body both fleshy life and a tomb.
How does paradox exist?
Think on it, scissors join to dissever!
It's one absurdity I cannot resist.
Such conundrums mere escapist thoughts
Bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile on a dog.
As I pass cars jacked
Up on bricks, weeds burst through their rusted out floors,
And brick buildings fenestrated with busted out windows,
once strong practical housing for those “less fortunate”
I cultivate a fondness for demise.
I grow a kinship with discarded things; another era
Eased into obsolescence by sheer neglect.
The rising of the seventh moon in an ornamental lampshade is equivalent to a nice round smiley dinner plate that had been recently washed,
Recently washed is neither a rotating wimpy wishing walker and neither is it a raspberry wafer wobbling,
It takes a lot of effort to squeeze a giant igloo through the eye of a needle,
And this is not pleasant for the spectating polar bears whose fish was being fried inside the dwelling holes,
But only a mini strawberry could flex the muscles effectively to cause a jam in a mile of traffic,
That is not good news for the jars who are already late and to be late is said to be as irrational as using a fork to make a morning brew,
A stew is far more intelligent than a gravy as many components equal more experience and more experience means that even a metric metre of labelled combinations could entice a bear from a sleeping hole,
But only when wearing a jacket made from paper,
It is nice and neat and true to form,
But format was often found to be a flame of frog leg on a carpet of mystical swirling frogspawn,
It is wise to offer up a little cup of cat milk to the buds then sit back as the colours loop in and swirl in a sky of answers,
But this can simply not be achieved nor archived when the moon is in the bin and the sailors are racing in the sun ship,
A trade is traditional and traditional trade can be nothing more then a hyper-fluted mini skirt of a skating rabbit on a promenade wearing 60 pairs of headphones,
Metronomes moaning making moronic motionless mixes,
And a nice little pair of glasses on the mantle-piece was swaying in the wind but not swearing for swearing was reserved for those who act out tanker talks,
Themes then?
Yes.
Where there were many now there are few.
But in fuse boxes the conversations are often quite absurd and who would put a floating camel in a tank then send it into a plane to cross the clouds,
Criss cross is a cleaning duty for a mission opinionated cloth wearing layers of clothing,
So what will one bring to the fair?
A mare
A single bud
A sanctified saint cushion with sparkles and satin.
And a heron in a pan of water with 60 fish to eat.
Consummation is the creational consumption cream of cropped chartered chunks. Said the 90 feet of cat by a door.
Z Leptailurus serval Z at 54 lemon sponge cakes laughing at 21 empty flan cases.
"You know, there is still such a thing as execution."
That's a direct quote from Donald Trump
our current puppet USA president,
responding to a question,
regarding whistleblower Edward Snowden,
wanted by our government for the crime of treason,
because former NSA employee Edward Snowden,
leaked not only to the "enemy,"
but also to the entire world's population,
top secret US government security information.
What were these secrets? What was this top secret information?
"Our Government Is Secretly Spying On Its Own Citizens,
Under The Guise Of Fighting Terrorism.
Every Text Message You Send,
Every Cell Phone Conversation,
Is Digitally Recorded And Archived By Our Government.
Spyware Is Now Being Installed In Our Household Appliances,
That Government Agencies Can Access At Their Convenience.
Camera And Microphones Installed In Most Flat Screen TVs,
Can Be Activated Remotely By Any Government Agency,
Allowing Them Access To Your Most Private Moments Very Easily."
Thomas Snowden is a hero in my opinion,
and not at all a traitor guilty of treason.
He had nothing to gain but a life of martyrdom,
always on the run, seeking asylum,
fearing for his life moment after moment,
all because he shared with everyone the truth of a horrible wrong,
the unconstitutional infringement upon the privacy of everyone,
at our government's discretion without the need for a warrant.
In my mind there is no question,
Donald Trump is just another puppet USA president,
blindly following the most powerful elite global bankers' instructions,
otherwise he would grant Edward Snowden protection and freedom,
instead of entertaining the thought of this very brave hero's execution.