Long Archived Poems
Long Archived Poems. Below are the most popular long Archived by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Archived poems by poem length and keyword.
Cornucopia Of Stars
Whilst cruised adrift soared vast ocean read stars,
Afar interval page Earth's crystal seas,
Space passengers booked sums bout avatars,
Chapter launches since archived gravities.
Scan per reposed heavens, Earth angels host,
Sprawled free honesty exalts harmony,
Wanderer's blessed hearts a sung melody,
Harp solos sojourners attuned utmost.
Origins, through edges, test proper hopes,
Advent horizon explorers broad scopes,
As Terra dwellers foresee remote news,
Of another Earth subsists whilst their views.
Nirvana utopists merge trudging past,
Transpires being the most advanced outcast.
2019 October 15
*Honorable Mention*
I sense Tomorrow is the Future
~~Sheri Fresonke Harper
Please describe the item as accurately as possible.
If uncertain, check all that apply.
? It was not an object
? It occurred briefly
? It may have belonged to someone else
? It was never in your possession
Date last seen:
approximately when you thought
you would become different.
Location:
near the sentence you did not finish
because it felt too final.
Condition upon disappearance:
intact, though increasingly hypothetical.
If the item emitted sound,
describe the sound.
If the sound was silence,
describe how long you listened
before mistaking it for peace.
Items commonly turned in include:
– misplaced convictions
– original opinions
– the courage to interrupt
– the correct version of a story
– an unnamed tenderness
wrapped in urgency
Please note:
we do not accept responsibility
for items that dissolved on inspection,
or for feelings that changed shape
once removed from context.
If the item was alive,
please specify whether it required feeding
or merely recognition.
If the item was a future,
indicate whether it arrived
ahead of schedule
or not at all.
Claims may be processed within
five to seven working eternities.
Unclaimed items will be archived
under General Human Error
and eventually redistributed
as intuition, regret, or art.
Before submitting, confirm:
? You are certain this thing existed
? You are prepared to receive it back
? You understand it may not recognize you
Signature: _______________________
Date:
now
or earlier, if necessary.
Form:
Turning pieces face up we begin
picking out the straight edges.
Working to establish the margin
we fix the boundary, the outer edge
from where we follow patterns and lines
gradually revealing a picture,
framed to capture a scene that outlines
an observation frozen in time.
In life I begin from the centre
discovering what will fit with me,
interlocking, exploring outwards,
growing patterns that become my life.
I will find without need for margins
how I'm formed with you in a design
beyond the limits of a boundary.
I do not see the world through square eyes.
Our horizons are not limited,
together with others we connect
and exchange, joined to an adventure
that reveals what it means to belong
to be held by the Other – embraced.
But the puzzle is never complete:
later in life if I'm losing it,
puzzling over faces and places,
finding memories no longer fit,
I shall need that boundary, edge pieces
containing me among those I love.
Then when all is done and I am gone
it will be time to gather my pieces
in a box, archived yet unbounded –
unbounded that I may live as part
of God's eternal jigsaw of life.
Our Past, Times Mirror
Miracle Man
10/26/2024
When we look into time’s mirror,
we behold only our past.
Both pleasing and unhappy,
that during life we’ve cast.
Our past is totally ours,
and our protected read only file.
Memory cause some to grimace,
to others it brings a smile.
We make no attempt to alter,
the things found archived here.
It’s like a book containing pages,
some, our memory might dog ear.
While others know many things,
from vibes that we might send.
Until death locks our memory,
only then will it see its end.
In every life there’s dysphoric things we Can’t forget
and also things we cherish and remember.
Tom
There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations
that remain as was,
for lack of a reason to be other.
Small town restaurants are steeped
in a comfortable inertia;
diners serve
all broasted, broiled and breaded everything.
Amish noodles nestle in thick white bowls.
There are still drive-in movies
where movies once missed
can be missed again.
We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for long archived selections.
Beer here is brewed as brawny
as rolled-up forearms.
We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way.
We are post-modern Jetson reruns,
we dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.
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…
'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.
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…
If California may hear
In between eyes clerical
and Justices Repeal
Both names
Have been titled
Titled as an altered code
and violation of building standard
Becomes currency
Contempt of Congressional Ledger
Perhaps suffices
3650 characters left
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This is a law
Poverty law
Poverty of dwelling on a matter
A matter of worth
Creating a slaves hide
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Wes Moore
Bernie Sanders
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And myself
I recall words, revisit them,
are surprised how many
have different meanings to me
now than before.
Memory keeps racing into the future,
while stacking up more interpretations -
more import from words.
Symbols and pictographs,
evolved into a written language -
words created Babel.
Babel impelled diversity.
Words dreamed for us,
they began to live in both our reality
and our myths,
we were learning
to cross over metaphysical bridges.
Words are millennials deep
each noun and verb
has built our perception;
understanding these deep roots,
these multi-layered runes,
clarifies how much we see through
a glass darkly, or clearly.
A large horse in a small field.
One day snow falls,
one day it rains,
sunny days….humid, dry
windy, not windy,
colors and climate changing.
You remember all these images once seen.
Each image has its own archived impressions,
together with its myriad meta-associations.
Words are like that, poetry is like that,
when you recall them,
the words ‘horse’ and ‘field’
have endless connotations and aspects.
Then we realize, understand,
that it was never about the actual words,
never about dictionary meanings,
more the act of recollection,
a contextual disclosure
that discovers roots and their revelations;
you remember universal truths,
origins that deepen the more you
recall that they were always
a part your psyche.
These words we tease apart
seeking for hidden innate meanings,
open new realities; new apperceptions
help us see where this you
came from, and where you are now.