Long Archival Poems
Long Archival Poems. Below are the most popular long Archival by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Archival poems by poem length and keyword.
Chronicler of History
History goes back as you might guess
Through vast tracks of time out there to be cataloged and measured
And a couple minutes more, before the universe was born
It discovered Hobo Jack at home within one millisecond
Put him to work to make a list of dark matter, plants and planets
(Planets are the smaller ones)
And all solid things that mattered and had form
Hobo Jack was given birth and raised on Earth
His first love was lamps and gold
Accounting became a knack in natural fashion
With a history of his own
And as a matter of fact he was good at keeping books
Lists of animals he encountered were quickly jotted down
From dinosaurs to platypus
Geiger counters became a fad
So ancient coins, doubloons
Spanish treasures made his day
Hobo Jack and his long white beard
Led their way through history
Among archival masters Jack was the best
He chronicled everything in life then passed away
Rain rushed in like a concert audience.
There’s nothing calm about Spring’s arrival.
The specter gusts regrets and survival,
Strip limbs for whips — a sore obedience.
A path cut through, a cold subservience.
The robin’s heavy breast with cheep revival.*
A rose depressed in past Spring’s archival.
Absence of warmth, enrages audience.
A sip of dandelion wine — desire
spurs wholesome cheat, complete with snowy seeds.
Remembrance of unwrinkled hands - youth’s lore,
A marshmallow on spit, and rosy fire.
Enhance the peace and love of daisy beads.
Unwind the twister’s coil, unleash Spring’s core.
3/21/2018
Greg Cornish’s Petrarchan Sonnet contest
cheep - to utter faint shrill sounds : peep, to utter a single word or sound
(from Merriam Webster dictionary) Also mimics the word “cheap”
NOT THE ARTIFACTS OF SERENDIPITY
The earth a blue planet isn’t alone in the vast cosmic space
A planetary maze the limitless depths of the universe encase.
Life’s evolution milieu isn’t perhaps a condition unique here
Why intelligent organic world won’t exist elsewhere isn’t clear.
Mysterious marvels on the earth have entered archival record
Many such perhaps lie hidden and remain yet to be explored.
Many features seem beyond the old world’s human capability
Can’t be believed to be the artifacts of unexplained serendipity.
If things have been made surely there must have been a maker
Man couldn’t make these why can’t the ancient alien space traveler.
If the descendants of the ancient aliens visit us on the earth now
They’d be surprised to see the alienated humanity in strife and row.
January 28, 2018.
Sanctuary
Wandering through a moveable museum of memories
Dusting off exhibits of moments held fast in gossamer watercolors;
Milestones chiseled into fleeting moments,
Soft edges of first love;
Brushing aside gauzy cobwebs on photo negatives
Blushing with pastel transparency in opaque blended impressions;
Images emerge into negative space awash with nude opinions
Layered into the hard edges in edgy palettes perspective;
Meandering through silent salons shaded dusky murals in shadows of rose
Lending sienna tints and glow to prisms of luminosity;
A sacred place vibrating in cerulean hues –
A chancel of still life in blooms - holy place of signed wax relics;
Drifting through a gallery of jigsaw puzzled passages
Sketched in black and white - fantasies spattered in bold colors;
Visions staring back unblinking at lost victories buried in the abstract
Untouched prints, tattooed in rust, restored;
Still furnishing this holy place
With an ever expanding collection displayed;
Fragments of umber magic captured – deckled grief fading –
Studies of raw strangled cries – portraits of choice set in unforgettable;-
Browsing hand in hand with time -
Lost in mazes of archival, acid free, displays;
Featureless faces hidden within twisted illustrations -
Born out of the gasping barren abyss of flat washes;
Framed in this breathing womb tiny points of waiting pigment
Building up a portrait - nurtured - protected - nourished;
Abiding in the seamless brush strokes
Graphic hills and valleys - sanctum grassy meadows ecstasy;
The unfinished infinite design revealing watermarks
Cherished by the eternal conservancy.
N/A - 9-1-2020
The museum occupies
the skeleton of an abandoned casino.
Visitors enter through a revolving door
that continues turning
after everyone has passed through.
In the first gallery,
a smile drifts inside a glass case~
not a mouth
just the smile itself.
It brightens when approached,
dims when ignored.
Twice each day,
curators feed it compliments
through a narrow slot.
The signboard reads:
Once common.
Population decline unexplained.
Beyond it,
conservationists attempt
to reintroduce eye contact.
The specimens survive
for several seconds at a time,
then startle
and vanish into the walls.
Please do not tap the glass.
In the Hall of Courtship,
an unscripted conversation
circles beneath the ceiling.
Its silver scales flash
between shadows.
Visitors stand perfectly still,
afraid a sudden movement
might frighten it away.
No successful breeding pairs
have been recorded
in decades.
The museum's central exhibit
occupies an entire wing.
Only guides are permitted inside.
Many refuse a second visit.
The museum catalogue
assigns it a simple name:
Mr. Charm.
Witnesses disagree
about his appearance.
Some recall a handsome
charismatic stranger.
Others remember
a woman in a fur coat.
A few remember only laughter
from somewhere nearby.
Everyone insists
he knows something impossible:
The name of a childhood dog.
The nickname no one uses now.
The dream abandoned
at nineteen.
Researchers remain divided.
Some suspect telepathy.
Others believe
the Mr. Charm feeds exclusively
on loneliness.
Each year
the exhibit grows larger.
Each year
attendance increases.
No correlation has been established.
In the museum's basement,
discarded skins of charm
are stored in drawers.
They resemble dried leaves,
old valentines, and
once, according to archival notes,
an entire summer evening.
The final gallery
contains no exhibits~
only a wooden bench
and a stranger waiting beside it.
Most visitors continue on.
A few sit down.
When they finally emerge,
they recognize everyone
but are recognized by no one.
Museum staff assure guests
this is a known side effect
and poses no lasting danger.
At closing,
the lights go dark.
The stranger remains seated.
Each morning,
there is another bench.
My prayer for Mykhalylo Tyaglyy* in his tasks as researcher, writer, and editor:
Desirous to serve God, work toward His kingdom advancement-height
Be useful for His glory, with cooperative, humble, joyful disposition-light
Contribute your necessary part, being a blessing by faith-might.
1Corinthians 12:22 …Much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are necessary.
*Mykhaylo Tyaglyy has been working for the Ukrainian Center for Holocaust Studies doing research on the National Socialist genocide of Roma in Ukraine. He is also managing editor of the scholarly journal Holocaust and Modernity: Studies in Ukraine and the World published by the UCHS. In 2011-2019, he was part of the international project “Protecting Memory” aiming at transforming the neglected and forgotten mass graves of Jews and Roma into dignified places of remembrance. Mykhaylo is also an expert in Ukraine for the European Holocaust Research Infrastructure and for the USHMM’s Archival Acquisitions program, as well as for Yad Vashem’s “Untold Stories” project. In 2005 he authored the book Sites of Mass Murder of Crimean Jews during the Nazi Occupation of the Peninsula, 1941–1944. (https://www.imre-kertesz-kolleg.uni-jena.de/fellows/incoming-fellows/mikhail-tyaglyy)
May 22, 2019
Edited on July 29, 2022
2ND PLACE, "Dr Mikhail Tyaglyy" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick; judged on 7/31/2022.
On synthetic derelict stage of deception domain,
I gyrate the split mind, ensnared by bipolarity chain.
Under illusive limelight of ostentatious time,
I’m entangled in machinated invasive paradox prime.
In make-belief life’s drama I act with no compunction,
I face fabricated faces flocking redundant in conjunction.
Identity lost in conglomerate of counterfeit facades,
I don’t perform by heart's prudent prompt if it pervades.
In masquerading faces reflected in warped mirror,
I see concealed the contorted contours of rancid rancor.
With their phony pretense a conciliation role I tactfully play,
my misshapen face of spite, the actor in me doesn't portray.
Finding a fake place to subsist in pretend archival spaces,
I’m a configured antique in the museum of masked faces.
Soul Sanctuary
Wandering through a moveable museum of memories columnar
Dusting off exhibits of moments held fast in watercolors gossamer
Milestones chiseled into fleeting moments of atonement,
Soft edges of first love painted in golden moments –
Brushing aside gauzy cobwebs on photo negatives confessions
Blushing with pastel transparency of opaque blended impressions
Images emerge into negative space awash with nude opinions
Perspective layered into hard edges from edgy palette dominions;
Meandering through silent salons shaded dusky murals in shadows of rose
Lending sienna tints and hues to luminosity’s prisms in afterglow;
A sacred place vibrating in clear cerulean hues –
Holy space of signed wax relics - a chancel of still life in blooms;
Drifting through galleries of jigsaw puzzled passages
Fantasies spattered in bold black and white sketched with color assuage;
Visions staring back unblinking at lost victories buried in the abstract
Untouched prints, tattooed in rust, restored –restoration intact;
Still furnishing this sacred place
With an ever expanding collection displayed
Fragments of umber magic captured – deckled grief fading –
Portraits of choice set in unforgettable, studies of raw strangled cries invading;
Browsing hand in hand with free form time -
Lost in mazes of archival, acid free, displays in fine lines;
Within twisted illustrations featureless faces hidden -
Born out of the gasping barren abyss of flat washes in rhythm;
Framed in this breathing womb tiny points of pigment wait
Nurtured! Protected! Nourished! Building up a portrait;
Unfinished infinite design revealing watermarks
Cherished by the eternal conservancy in soaring arcs;
And in the brush strokes of this secret sanctuary place
Abides the master plan of the divine intimate grace.
Version #2 of Sanctuary – 7-27-21
Seven minutes lingered, an interim of residue,
a trembling partition between continuance and conclusion.
The body rehearsed survival, a theatre of reflex and delay.
Then the stage went silent,
a horizon drawn flat, an axis without a pulse,
and the world sank into a white silence.
Afterward, an emergence.
Not awakening, but reclassification.
not darkness, but a chamber of neutrality,
where remnants of existence drifted in an ordered abyss.
No faces, only the abstraction of record:
gestures catalogued, errors weighed beside their opposites,
the arithmetic of a lifetime balanced without judgment.
No weeping, no pleading, just the hollow patience of cattle.
An attendant present neither stern nor merciful, only procedural,
spoke as if reading an inventory.
Then a designation was issued.
At first numerical, then nominal.
Identification persisted, even as the self no longer did.
The chamber resembled judgment,
yet nothing of judgment occurred.
Records lay in sequence: notations, erasures, marginalia.
"An account, not a verdict." The clerk read,
Errors and kindnesses balanced in two columns.
The result: Passable.
A new dossier appeared.
Families arranged in archival order,
faces attached for reference.
Instruction: Choose.
The choice was not preference, but compliance
the necessity of continuation.
From abstraction into assignment,
from absence into recurrence.
Thus the cycle proceeds:
not reward, not punishment, but iteration.
Existence drafted again,
not as consequence but as mechanism.
The soul does not inherit.
The soul does not stumble.
The soul is allocated, reinserted,
until the ledger of moral requires no more.
The air in the basement archives
tasted of rotted velvet and wet
copper.
A low, wet breathing synchronized
perfectly with the rhythm of your
own pulse.
Skin-bound ledgers bled dark,
viscous oil onto the warped oak
on the floorboards.
The whispers began, raspy
and toothless chanting your
true name from the shadows.
You looked down to find your
own fingers drying, flattering,
and turning into yellowed
parchment.
The emergency exit signs bled
into a deep, sickening crimson
that cast no light.
Something tall, loose- limbed,
and blind crawled upside down
across the ceiling timbers.
Every exit had vanished, replaced
by endless, towering stacks of
blank, waiting tombstones.
Needle-sharp, paper -thin claws
drove deep into your shoulders
from behind.
The entity peeled back your chest
to index your beating heart under
CLASSIFIED!.