Best Artefact Poems
Some people lie for no reason at all
While many lie with a great reasoning
Most lie to safeguard and be saved from fall
Others let themselves be blamed for speaking.
Few lie for a good acceptable cause
And many just construct a cause to lie
Its not always the flip side of truth's pause
Sometimes a lie stands on its own clean tie.
For lying is a complex social act
More than a habit but a human trait
To be a well functional artefact
Protecting expectations truth can't wait.
Lies cover up another truth to suit
Or made to create a new set of truth.
Categories:
artefact, conflict, confusion, evil, hilarious,
Form:
Rhyme
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
Categories:
artefact,
Form:
Blank verse
In every home
there is a place
That is always forgotten,
Is it
Festering with ants
Or
Inhabited by gnomes?
I don't know what goes on
There
In every
Cranny and nook.
And perhaps I never will ever
Know.
But the the buried corner feels like a song
Without a
tune
That I can dance to,
Barefoot on cold wood.
It tastes like chocolate in my mouth
Sweet, dark, lingering.
It makes me sad,
It has memories,
It is alive.
I can feel its heartbeat
Pulsing,
Parallel to mine.
I feel the pull
Of promises of solitude
And answers to its call.
We dance together,
The forgotten corner and I ,
To our heartbeats
Only we can hear
You never get bored
sitting there
On a bright sunny day.
Watching light chase shadows on the floor
playing the game of
cat and mouse.
(I want to stay )
You never get bored
lying there
Listening to the sound of silence
The sound of dust swirling around.
Transparent like a butterfly's wings,
illuminated by the prefect degree of light
(I want to stay)
Yet there is always a few square meters
Where darkness reigns
Open your arms and welcome it like a friend
(I want to stay )
Sit down for a
minute or two
With hands still full of slippery
soapy foam
Feel the weight
Of memories of objects
Here.
Understand it,
Follow me,
I am staying here
Forever.
Oh look!
(sorry I get distracted easily)
What a pretty flowery blue umbrella!
Why is it lying here?
So lonely,
In this hallway where no one ever comes?
hallway of the forgotten,
Hallway of the lost?
Perhaps it
Belonged to Mary Poppins.
One day
In a time when umbrellas are
dragons and unicorns,
objects from a distant forgotten time.
When you and I are dead and gone,
fallen to dust,
Maybe a child would stumble by it,
maybe auction it off for a
couple billion dollars
That's how high a price
An artefact from the twenty-first century
could fetch.
If you want to bury something
Or let something bury you
Shed your fears
let's go,
You and I,
find that dark corner
A safe harbour,
Full of things long forgotten
And you will be forgotten
Too.
Categories:
artefact, beauty, childhood, children, confusion,
Form:
Free verse
Finally, she could get down on her knees again, not in prayer but to touch rosemary and lavender which had begun to send its fragrance into the spring and rising warmth in nature’s heart. There was no sense of regret that winter passed with revolving anticipation of summer. As she felt soil and weeds slip through her fingers, her hands embroidered new patterns in gravel and time yard directly from the canvas of happiness. A daffodil had been waiting so long to cheer her up and bowed its flower towards a flock of birds picking earthworms and seeds, ready to digest the feast and spread it way past horizon and hedges. Blackberry thorns never bothered her much and she could already taste mouth-watering sweetness on her palate as words gathered to put emotions into poetry in motion. The garden shed was overgrown with Honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper and gave thanks that her secateurs had rusted like an artefact of personal narrative. She had once cut the lawn with household scissors, but this time she decided not to prune or stunt what has to grow for a change. The garden bench needed a lick of paint though and she mixes dandelion, blue bells and wild garlic with linseed oil and saffron tincture and moves the drift wood sculpture closer to the Victorian sash window.
silken fragrance swirls
perfumes season and pasture -
fondles the future
time treasures present
unwind ephemeral scent –
only the wind knows
spring steps to the fore
portrays essence for poems –
transcendent serene
firewood settles
under leaves piled up awaits -
autumn's inglenook
Categories:
artefact, happiness,
Form:
Haibun
I do appreciate the sky
that is not flying high
the moon is so powerful
the yellow grey clouds protective of,
The light blue sky that turns Blue
Latter the white clouds,
Suddenly my memories travel Radical
The magic autobiographical moment that I want,
Turn nature in me,
Graphical
so using some magical mechanical artefact
that makes me rational
when my desire is being classical
To paint...
To paint in silence
That is problematical
A great mental dilemma that demands mostly unfavourable opinions
from people with a million reasons
I loudly chant in my house
pretending Happiness ,
this is the place where I'm Happy
and I'm Happy
and from above Happy
and from hierarchy Happy!
I am Happy by all standards although flaming inside
because my sensibility is claiming
my assertion of right
my call of duty
that demands other space and property
that I have the right too
The undesirable consequences
and my sense of equality and respect for the other
so many times my worst enemy
threatening me
I hazard myself respecting whom living with me does not live like me
I am an outsider to a certain degree
Someone who choses Art,
Writing as your Shopping Cart
Still lives apart
People compliment you
but with no glue on your Do
Or on you going through
Try to subdue you
In how or should do ('s)
and into the news
That Is Your Profession
That you despise
Because you know about the supplies, The Large Supplies
For Commercial and Controversial use
And you Pray for your comrades
Knowing that faith is probably what makes you so far away from,
Because you wear the right outfit, have some skills some writing gift,
But you insist on being dismissed because of your unwillingness to work on something
that indisposes you,
Cynical?!
You are inclined to something contrary to your Uniform
You want a self-improvement into a better condition
That is your ambition, predisposition
because we are not standard made in with a serial-number,
But Limited Edition
And God Bless your antipodal
We are Made of opposition and juxtaposition
Categories:
artefact, art, jobs, psychological, self,
Form:
Rhyme
The Old Straight Track climbs up towards the ridge,
A tangent to this ancient burial ground
Where Bronze Age bodies slumber under mounds;
In number, nine, each barrow with a ditch.
Who were these folk that lie beneath this field –
Hunter-gatherer, warrior, father, son ?
Side by side in death – was it a violent one ?
And those events by which their fate was sealed,
Are they recorded here in artefact ?
The warrior’s sword or chieftain’s sash;
The Leyman’s poles for sighting work, exact,
Along the ley via beacon, stone and flash.
These rolling Lambourne downs are drenched in history,
Come, take the track with me and share the mystery.
Categories:
artefact, history, journey, mystery,
Form:
Sonnet
The rugged bark of an old tree
with imperfection due to its cracks
is a wondrous thing of beauty
and it's the imperfection that attracts
We know that a star-shaped flower
does not make a perfect star
Yet it has a certain loveliness
that induces a sense of wonder
A hand-crafted ceramic bowl
because of its asymmetry
is a wonderful artefact
that is valued very highly
An old-time cobblestone street
has a unique charm and quaintness
due to its imprecise pattern
that gives it its loveliness
Perfection is not easy to attain
and even more difficult to sustain
Beauty lies in Imperfection
and they are a natural combination
Categories:
artefact, beauty, flower, imagery, nature,
Form:
Quatrain
Sometimes there is a time,
Where a thing at a certain time,
With a blink,
Appears to link,
It can be a feeling,
A word, a seeing
or even beauty of dreaming.
Remember that dream you had?
Did anything in reality associate?
It all lies in the fate.
An artefact,
Seems to impact,
The fact.
That some part apart...
A series of thoughts pact or one act.
Comes to interrupt,
What happens in the life you live ,
You take part.
Maybe at present ,
Close or further future,
Imagined or real-time
Memories recapture,
In sort strange structure
Conjunctions of many actions,
That combine ,been certain
Within some relations ,
Situations.
Some link to love
Some link to fate
Sometimes it's love ,
Destiny and fate.
Some link to hope that was kept.
Just ... Even simple suggestion,
Is worth interrogation..
Like a tree ,
Magnificent One... not three.
Leaves of puzzle
You ,Climbing up on the decode,
Leaving behind a code
You do find sometimes you struggle,
Be careful not to fall ,
at a riggle into a paddle.
Pieces through the process integrate
Back and forward at a
Step by step rate.
What is meant to happen
Or did can relate.
Don't be late,
Don't underestimate.
It happens unexpectedly
Just...suspicious.
Deja-vu from your subconscious,
It may seem ridiculous...
But what if it is not an incident
And the moments are adjacent.
Don't think you are expert,
Shockingly you will never know what to expect.
Don't expect but Hope
Remain open to life
There is your jigsaw to assemble
In control you must stay,
It will continue to form
Even without your say.
Categories:
artefact, dream, encouraging, journey, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Our final purpose end is really generally unknown
but there now what better a place for such a strong supporting bone
Bone too high for worms and funerals incendiary flames
inclined bleached bone release from dead body there nature sadly shames
By the fence there the bone propping skywards at the fence
almost an artefact and cheering them before us
Giving support to those who follow hereafter
Ha ha !
Category aka Horror !
On mass murderer Reginald Christie (10 Rillington Place)
The police made many mistakes in the handling of the case, especially by missing the remains of previous murders left in the garden at Rillington Place: one thigh bone was later to be found propping up a fence !
Categories:
artefact, funny,
Form:
Free verse
Flying from out of the eerie world of spirits
The Sphinx has come to crouch and pose :
'To close Pandora's Box solve the puzzle of Greed !'
Trust not Luck , nor Fate but work with wits ;
The fire of greed and desire plays havoc ,
Crippling the ability to seek content even in bits
And wipe out the artefact of divine replica ;
"Abracadabra " ,here is the only panacea that befits ;
Will Oedipus or Jason rescue the race , comatose
' Solve the puzzle of Greed to close Pandora's Box ! '
And find the new glow of hope that emits .
Categories:
artefact, hope,
Form:
Rhyme
True,
they have seen more
than their age.
But in the hazy,
half morning
field of “stelae”,
we, somnambulant
observers,
select our optimal view
between the pages of the Talmud.
Coded,
In the text of your staccato voice,
there is,
our consensual agreement of being.
It is not quite,
the signatured artefact
of strict adherence,
more the oral history
of a recent past.
And,
having recorded
our verse,
concrete and solid.
You have in your mind
the route of discussion.
It is the briefest of tours,
and talks of lives lived
preceding these recent events.
We return.
The streets now awash
with preparation,
I commit to memory the impression of you.
I am conscious.
Limbs that will soon ache with fatigue,
alight from metro and tram
and converge,
on a morning
that is already spent.
Categories:
artefact, places
Form:
Narrative
OLD TESTAMENT
It was wisdom that I sought within those venerable old pages
Yet found tales of folly, arrogance and cruelty in profusion
Where were knowledge, truths, enlightenment, refined throughout the ages?
What direction to a righteous life, discernment, no illusion?
Say ‘tis mankind’s wilful sin that’s outlined in these tales of old
Given detailed laws prescribing how to conduct men’s affairs
By a wise all seeing God whom all the people then extolled
Yet it seems: He had demeanour scarce more ethical than theirs
He gave one selected tribe protection and a special favour
Bringing them a long way round to take a land of milk and honey
But neglecting one small fact that was to compromise the flavour
For the folks already there, it was decidedly unfunny
In the multitude of conflicts that ensued throughout the years
There were some with help from God emerged the winners well delighted
While they without the favour that was given to their peers
Despite all their own best efforts, they would end up being smited
But the one thing it was wise for you to shun before all other
Was to show some interest in another god not called Jehova
If you barbecued some beast for different deity e’en His brother
You could wind up in deep trouble, it could be for you - all over
Now some assert: mankind is product of God’s blest creation
The God defined, described and named by those who answers sought
Ah! But does this not suggest that here’s an inverse speculation
And The god defined an artefact by men’s invention wrought
So this anthropomorphic deity described in the Old Testament
Could be just one more sample of man’s desperate grasping straws
To negotiate a get-out from dire personal investment
And to find another source to blame and flee from being the cause
Categories:
artefact, religion,
Form:
Rhyme
I awoke
in the febrile night again,
half dazed
from my conviction
of your certainty,
contorted
by the pounding of 4 am,
and still restless
with vestigial sleep.
My sense for rain
laps the water
of vestibular illusion
and I am again in the Venetian
dusk of your warmth.
Somewhere,
between July
and this dense archipelago
I hear the whisper of November,
it is the chilled first day,
shared with menses
and candle shadow.
It is all seasons
and every brush stroke of memory,
it is the in-escapable,
visual artefact,
of you.
Categories:
artefact, loss
Form:
Free verse
The youth, wearing only boxer shorts,
is gazing with a sense of awe
at the small square object in his hand.
A smartphone!
It has a screen; it also has a camera.
Its lens has captured a mirror
with the boy within its frame,
gazing upon, contemplating,
perhaps admiring, even,
the screen of a phone that now is holding
an image of himself in the frame of the mirror
holding the object that has captured it
within the frame of the screen.
We see this image as
we wander social media,
where the picture of the boy
in the mirror in the camera,
which he gazes down upon
with awe, as if it were
an alien artefact,
is there for us to ponder.
The image has stolen his attention;
it has captured and confined him,
fascinated and entranced him.
He has fallen into a shimmering pool,
self-referential, gazing at itself.
It is another land.
Categories:
artefact, allegory, self,
Form:
Free verse
From the first time I opened my eyes
You were the first one to hear my cries
You held my hand and showed me the way
Gave me directions so I don't go astray
You taught me right from wrong
And showed me how to be strong
You set the path for me to crawl
You picked me up whenever I fall
I will love you forever no matter what
I swear to God and that's a fact
You're more than a mother you are my queen
There's no one better and no in-between
You have my trust and my whole heart
The bond that we share will never part
You sacrificed your life and all that you do
To take care of us and see us through
You are more than a treasure, or a lost artefact
I would kill for my mother and that's a fact
Categories:
artefact, appreciation, dedication, mother, mother
Form:
Free verse