#monument
Venice’s Commemorative Monument to Bartolomeo Colleoni - 1488
The general glares downwards from his horse,
faithfully keeping watch over the mundane,
the tedious progression of centuries.
A sentinel, he had imagined himself—a noble,
intended to become immortal,
traveling ever forward in time,
defying the erasure of memory.
But time is the enemy of all things.
The pigeons and the rain could be tolerated;
time, however, has become relentless and unyielding.
It has eroded his heroic relevance,
he watches unblinking as his glorious benevolence
fades from all memory.
Generation after weary generation
manifests the ruinous decay of collective forgetfulness.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 10:28 PM UTC
Tower in the bed
of sand, the unlit beacon --
of a happy time.
Oct 7, 2024
Oct 7, 2024 at 4:02 AM UTC
the fly carcass stuck
on wall ten years monument
to a life well lived
May 2, 2023
May 2, 2023 at 12:45 AM UTC
The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women
The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments
and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city
'Ecce homo', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 4:04 AM UTC
the fly carcass stuck
on wall ten years monument
to a life will lived
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 4:52 PM UTC
Wisdom carved in stone
is lost / what we know we know
under an accumulation of moss
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
Nothing can be said from the lip of the sun,
To array with full redress the wind-flayed waters
Of the river-run and the naked broomrape of Spring,
Absolve naiads of their blued minstrelsy in venous scream,
Or pour a yellow songbird from the gold-rimmed cup of war.
Nothing is said in the liver-spotted ground of rain-ghosted gardens,
Where love’s monument is a blot of dried flowers and grayed thorns.
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 10:44 PM UTC
it took him two hours to
count the bills; would you
believe that?
hihihi
global network
brokers
state's attorneys
distributors
transnational trucking
not to mention the
containers
entrepreneurs like him
timeless my dear!
he descends from
a lineage of
cold-blooded
hawk-eyed
eager
men
quite brutish well but who
wouldn't fight for money?
you see?
moreover as far as
i'm concerned
we are talking about a well established
name here; engraved above monuments
nationwide
you mustn't worry
good people
clean reputations
don't look behind you
don't mind the reflection
don't try to feel the hole in
the back of your head
it's just your blood
it will be over
you have to die now
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
_I am a monument
To your sins and despair
In the dark of the world
In dead leaves and cold air
I stand a gray statue
Caught in winter's snare
I am the eternal self
Bound to the Earth and dirt
My toes dig like roots
Green leaves form my skirt
Memories of far away times
Deliver winds of old hurt
I am an innocent child
A simple and tender age
Basking in warm sunlight
Awaiting the next stage
Blessed by green gardens
An untamed sage_
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
.
I have been searching for you
in the centuries
In lost dreams
In icy seas
Tracks covered in snow
And you are no more
Everyone ‘s undone
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart is thawed
It will beat for you
Memories I lost
Turn my blood to frost
Tear droplet so young
On snow covered ground
I shine from afar
But no one awaits
To lessen my pain
That is neverending
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart defrosts
It will beat for you
Sun will disembogue
Like honey that’s thawed.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
One day, in my travels, I found a monument to the forgotten.
I found footprints there, and though they fit my feet, I had no memory of being there before.
One side of the monument was blank, full of words that could not be read.
One side was burnt, and ashes twisted in the mourning breeze.
One side was covered with a sheet.
One side towered high, yet was gone before I fully looked away.
And all around, footprints.
All of them mine.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
Searching for a monument to build,
to my stranger nature.
A display of living purpose,
but it's paper,
A failure to surface,
when the current spills
my hopes out to the maker.
I'm breathing toxic calamity like a vapor.
I'm receding, firing soliloquies over faders,
and waiting for it to taper.
The baser instinct to sink into
to a shape conforming destiny's favor, amazing
but it's death in a manger.
A gift of unrequested breath
to levy questions of our nature
impartial but starting to loose
the fruit for us to play with
Don't play with your food
the canopy vines can't seem to stay in the mood
when amity cries
just as we bite another layer
and hope our spirit affords an existential favor.
The corporeal farce of the mortal coil
Where I'm going, what I've done,
who I am, who I have to become
Who am I to give a ****
about what has to be done
will I be actualized
if I inhabit the gun
will I be dazzled to find
that I should never have won
that all my fevers of prayer
were only threads to be spun
I am the definition of survivor's bias
clamoring for comprehension to a writer's silence
buying into lines reverberating in my mind
and all the while I soak
in revelation of the killing kindness
an absence of a unique purpose
a lavish elusiveness revealing
time as worthless, when I dig for deeper meaning
but seemingly informed by enduring
anguish in a world to test which
axiom I'll push the furthest
my reluctance to lift the curtain
My redundancy in spilling refusal
sooner empty than truly certain
My abundance of energy
filling the room
I bask in knowledge
Honoring the right to never learn it
And so I paint
I drape the walls and fall into
the sordid echoes,
calling through the mist.
Simple soothing bruising lips
They whistle darkness
move your hips
I'll leave a mark
I'm through with this.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Crooked,
ghost houses.
Mad houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
Pet cemeteries.
Monuments
to unknown soldiers.
But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.
Usually, not even that.
Only rubble.
Only silence.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
The winds whistle my name
As I walk on this lonely path
Everything looks almost the same
Except the monuments ruined art
The heart was stained red
Tear marks on it's face I saw
The monument looked sad
On this bright day, it refused to glow
As I looked closer, I felt drips of water
Over my shoulder, as I stood near
A feeling of a mother, missing her daughter
In those still eyes, sipping out was its tear
I never thought stones could really cry
Crafted by men, a persona beautiful art
Even if I wipe out its tears to dry
I wouldn't feel the pain it bears in its heart...
©sim
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
An orange
sought crunch
as nightfall
waned in
northern tier
and would
annex more
than south
as it
lied encumbered
with KE
when Robert
E, Lee
incandescently drew
lion's share
of resistance
in Yorktown.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
A lonely spider,
No bigger than a tack.
He has built his home,
A sturdy web between two great wooden pillars,
Overlooking the lake.
His silk is strong as steel.
His web is a silent monument to his will.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
Preserved for calm hue
The river of lava rests
More dancing for rain
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
I am a monument of love,
sitting with pen in hand.
I breathe deep inhaling fragrances, for inspiration.
I open ears, to hear birds sing enhancing thoughts.
I dance, moving with energies that carry me in breeze.
I am a monument of light,
writing to fill hearts
I focus, to ignite dreams of self inside song.
I invite all to come,
as love anchors inside my roots to share.
I bow with gratitude,
as the world evolves in blossoming fields of love.
Come, stand beside me
as I write to cradle hearts inside the moment.
A moment, where light leads the way,
as my monument stands tall
and I scribe to guide in grace.
StarBG © 2017
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
There's a monument outside of town
I go there when the sun goes down
And I listen....
The names upon that granite slab
Are worn and rusted, slightly drab
Still I listen
There's a silence hanging in the air
Hiding the thoughts of those not there
And I listen
I sit upon the steps below
In rain, or sun, and even snow
And I listen
Thirty men remembered here
Though none of them are buried near
So I listen
I've met others beneath this pigeon roost
Whose spirits I have tried to boost
As I listen
I wait to hear them from the grave
The voices of the dead, the brave
And I listen
None has spoken out to me
I know they watch and they see
As I listen
I keep watch throughout the night
I head home when it is daylight
And I listen
During the day there's too much noise
To hear the voices of these boys
But, I listen
So each night as the sun goes down
I venture once more out of town
And I listen
I listen.....
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
We are the missing, the dead, the lost
Never found, and in the world
No monument exists for us
No flag has been unfurled
We lie in riverbeds and wood
Beneath stream beds and in fields
Were tears of woe ever wept for us?
Did a heart break, did it yield?
We wandered off in cases, some
In others, lured, abductions
Our bodies never found, but though
We caused a family some reduction
In others, we were found too late
Dead, mistreated in a hole
The one who did this thing to us
Until caught, god **** their soul
We lie here waiting for the day
For our remains to be found
We lie in woodlots, basements cold
Buried crudely in the ground
Some of us were lost before
We ever lost our lives
Roaming streets, with no real home
Dancing on a hundred knives
Some of us are living
Still at odds with where we are
We're prisoners inside our mind
And have gone and wandered far
But, those of us, the dead, the cold
Lie waiting for the day
When our bones will be discovered
And then at rest we'll lay
Are there people out there looking?
Many years for us have passed
Are we still an open case?
Or has the time for that just passed?
Do we still have family waiting?
Time goes slowly when you're lost
We lost our lives to violence
And I question at what cost?
Are we still considered missing?
With us the searching will not cease
We lie here, the dead, the missing
Until our souls can be at peace
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
You tenderly carve, day and night
my heart with your chisel, sharp, incisive
as if it's a block of alabaster, at your disposal
chosen to create your one true masterpiece.
I believe in you,and submit, why? I can't really tell
Isn't it true love, that transcends limits of thought?
I let you do it as I can see it pleases you the most,
after the moment your eyes had fallen on mine first
and stood still; I saw a divine excitement on your face.
Is it pleasure or pain?I can't answer that question
I love you, and want you to do what pleases you the most.
My muse said, "Don't let her do this, she doesn't know
it's true worth, she'll ruin it in her, enthusiasm without limits"
I said in a whisper "I've hopelessly fallen in love, for ever"
I'd be your monument of whatever, success or failure,
I feel the forces of nature that decide what it turns out, at last
and I listen to the sound of hammer on the chisel and patiently wait.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
I am built like city blocks
crooked and running in all directions.
My veins run up and down like busy streets,
lit by headlights and street lamps.
My scars are like demolished buildings,
a reminder of something that once was.
I have a skyscraper mind that
reaches higher than anything else.
My heart is a monument that many see
but don't really know.
My thoughts are subways and buses that
move everywhere all at once.
There is no stopping- only a hushed hurry.
I am hard and concrete, my sidewalks are stained;
but to some, I am home.
I have hidden secrets inside, that you only know once
you decide to stay in the city
and choose to love me.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
on the steps of the notre dame
i lost my sense of color
every moonbeam through the
cracked walls of the House of God
danced around me like blue gypsies
performing a ritual upon
every ringlet of hair on my head
in the catacombs of paris
i lost my sense of touch
every skull feeling like silk
dead calcium caressing
the flesh beneath which
my bones were moving
alive and restless
beneath the arc de triomphe
i lost myself
the curve of stone caving in on me
like a Parisian Goliath
and I, a madman David
names of fallen soldiers
engraved upon the walls
breathed back to life
from dust they have returned
they reach into my cerebrum
their stone fingers pulsing
with the hymnals of war
to meet with the battle
of indigos and crimsons coursing
through every nerve of my anatomy
behind the eiffel tower
i lost my art
paris lights beating down
a beast sleeping through the
tides of eulogies and odes
its orphans have to offer
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC