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Christopher Lowe Mar 2014
There he was, Archibald Walker, like every mornin standin on the riverbank starin across the water as the sun began to rise.  He would just stand there with his lunch pal in one hand and that funny bowlers hat in the other.  That boy always had a big ol’ grin stretchin across his face from ear to ear.   Archibald Walker the third was actually his name.  A college boy from down south, he came from ol’ money.  You’da never knew though.  He came up here to escape he said.  I had always wondered why anyone in their right mind would give up money and education to come be a logger, but there was Archibald just starin across that river as happy as a peach.  I used to ask him what he learned down there in school and he would always reply the same way, “Good Jokes”.  I never could tell if he was being serious or if he just didn’t care too much to talk about it.  Archibald was real good at his job though for being a college boy.  Came in before everyone else and worked ten times as hard. Never did see him ***** up either.
He liked to keep to himself.  I was the only one he ever really talked to and even then he never talked about much.  Took me a year and a half just to figure out he was educated and from money.  I looked at that boy funny for a week after he told me that.  I was dumbfounded as to why someone would give that up for this gruelin job.  Funny thing is, he seemed to like it.  He had to clear up logjams and keep the wood flowin smoothly down the river.  Boy was he fast.  He would skip across them floatin logs like he was walkin on dry land.  There he’d go just a bouncin up and down across them logs, big smile across that baby face, with that funny lookin bowlers hat on.  He always had on that goofy thing.  Looked like someone had glued a bowl onto a plank’a wood.  I asked him why he liked wearin it so much one day and he just laughed and said, “Now what makes you think I like wearing it”.  Still don’t know what that boy meant, but I never took to tryin to understand him.
Everybody called him Walker cause he walked across them logs all day and it was his last name I suppose, but mostly cause he loved walkin them logs.  It was a dangerous job, but he never hesitated to go runnin out there with his push pole and clear the jam.  I told him to be real careful what logs he pushed outta the way cause if he got the wrong one, well he would end up crushed out there between two of those god-awful things.  He told me we all end up stuck between two pieces of wood in the end anyhow, so he didn’t care.  Boy shoulda listened.  Wasn’t a week later he went walkin out on them logs, smile and all, and wouldn’t you know it he sliped, got crushed between two big ole trees then sank all the way to the bottom of that river.
We searched the river for three days and never did find Archibald’s body.  It was sad to see that boy cut down so young.  We hired a new boy about a week later and he wasn’t half the walker Archibald was.  He wasn’t even a walker.  Nicknamed that boy crawler cause he was so scared of them logs he would lay down on his belly and crawl out there to fix a jam.  Three separate occasions we picked him up a mile down the river clingin to a log for dear life.  Boy was something else.  Needless to say we let him go down the river the fourth time and politely told him to not come back.  Symbolic in away.  Archibald got taken by the river and that’s how we let crawler know he was fired.  Just let it carry him away until he finally reached the bank a mile or so down river.
I finally took Archibald’s post after we couldn’t find anyone to replace him.  I won’t lie I was scared at first, but then I remembered what Archibald had told me about all of us endin up stuck between two pieces of wood in the end.  I figured he was right so I would just go boundin across them logs day in and out just like he woulda.  I still didn’t know why that boy was always happy.  Even though I did the job, I still hated it. For a while anyway.
One day I came in about the same time Archibald used to and I stood there on the edge of the river and watched the sun come up.  I knew why he was so happy all the time.  Boy it was the most beautiful thing seein that sun comin up.  It was like for a second the world was just explodin with life. I’m not sure what it’s like to have money and be educated, but I’m sure it’s nothing close to watchin that sun come up like that over the river.  Wouldn’t ya know it though when the sun was done risin and I was about to finally get to work there was that goofy hat of Archibald’s washed up on the bank.  It was a little soggy but not in bad shape.  It was like that boy knew I was gonna be there and had just left it for me.  That hat didn’t fit to well and it looked awfully funny, but I wore it everyday I went walkin them logs.  Now I start everyday like Archibald did, standin on that riverbank with my lunch pal in one had and that bowler hat in the other watchin the sun come up.  Still don’t know why that boy wore the thing, but I’m glad he did.
I know it's not a poem, but i still decided to share it.
Ben Jones Jun 2013
Fleas as a breed are troublesome
And some much more than most
There’s a vegan flea that lives near me
By the title of Archibald Post
He has a peculiar aptitude
For the swift calculation of odds
So he hunts for his prey on the high street
Leaving peas sound asleep in their pods.

When he leapt up and nibbled the ankle
Of a bloke as he ambled on by
He parked his parasitic posterior
And gazed up at the open sky
The bitten man stopped and scratched an itch
And harassed his smitten limb
When a blind man with a Labrador
Careered straight into him

He fell over and dropped his hamburger
The dog lunged and caught it with speed
But leading his man into traffic
Was the price of this dastardly deed
A car swerved and walloped a lamppost
Which fell through the front of a florist
The bulb set alight an entire display
Like a fire in a miniature forest

A girl in the office above the street
Grabbed her phone to call out some help
When she dropped it in her anxiety
And it fractured her toe with a yelp
She lent on the windowsill urgently
And knocked off and apple she’d saved
Its descent to the street was in moments complete
And the apple was thoroughly paved

Archibald smiled, breakfast was served

**
CA Guilfoyle Dec 2013
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.

Archibald Lampman
One of my all time favorite winter poems
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
I will think of you my love
before they take me down
I will think of you my love
to help me smile and not frown

I will think of you my love
as they lead me away
I will think of you my love
throughout this my last day

I will think of you my love
as they lead me up the stairs
I will think of you my love
as the hangman he prepares

I will think of you my love
neath hood before the knot
I think of you my love
till my life ends with the drop

And when I've been pronounced
and my soul flies free above
know that for eternity
I will think of you my love
A poem should be palpable and mute  
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless  
As the flight of birds.

                         *              

A poem should be motionless in time  
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,  
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time  
As the moon climbs.

                         *              

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean  
But be.
Ben Jones Apr 2013
A selection of limericks

There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks

-----------------

Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet  
-----------------

A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification

-----------------

A sculptor named Arnold Duprees 
Carved a ******* from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze

-----------------

Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould

-----------------

Oh ***** you make my knees quiver 
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver

-----------------

A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Damaré M Jun 2013
I got the blues like James cotton and the crew

The blues in my hands
Like the crew and James c.o.t.t.o.n

Not like k.r.a.f.t
More like zatarains r.i.c.e
...A lonely mans meal
The blues
For crying out loud my ol lady left me
Every 5 minutes for 9 minutes
I cry without tears coming down my eyes
So no need for a bucket
My cheeks are dry
I cry through my trumpet
My cheeks are cramping
I cry so often and so long
The way in which my feet tap you can't tell that it's a sad song

I thought I would've Lost harmony when Monica left
But my harmonica explains the exchange of breaths going through my chest

Yet, blues explains my mood
On stage with my dudes
Audience in-tune with my news

The blues
I got the blues
Can you relate?
Did she escape?

No wonder why you're rapping and sagging
Bluffing and bragging
And your not huffing; puffing , and nagging
To get a case of the blues the love between the two once upon a time had to be true

I got the blues
And it's hard and complicated
I am strung like the guitar
...Observation!
There's no contemplation
Nor hesitation
I abandon my mentals
And create instrumentals
I got the blues
And to prove I have the bruise
Heartache and headaches
Allow me to groove
The blues, skies, teals, turquoises
No lies, tears nor voices

Real blues like fats, Percy , Ruth, king, archibald "stack-a-lee", hank Williams "nobody's lonesome for me"

The blues
My aching trombones
Drug free, but my bass is laced
I let my fingers rake
The blues
She don't know what she had
Hope that I can put down my flask
when I move on to jazz
Bijan Rabiee Aug 2019
I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
  
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
  
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
  
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
  
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
  
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
  
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.
Memory by memory the mind--
  
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
  
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
  
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not mean
But be.

Archibald McLeish
I have found that for those who do not understand, I can't explain the world of poetry.
Galaxias is greek for milky
Your skin is Galaxias
It is the root word of galaxy
I drink milk because it tastes like space

Twentieth-century american theoretical physicist john archibald wheeler summed up einstein's general theory of reletivity as, "matter tells space how to curve; space tells matter how to move".

I guess you are space
and I am matter.
I tell you how to curve
and you tell me how to move on.
Hollie Aug 2010
From where I sit I see the stars,

And down the chilly floor

The moon between the frozen bars

Is glimmering dim and hour.



Without in many a peaked mound

The glinting snowdrifts lie;

There is no voice or living sound;

The embers slowly die.



Yet some wild thing is in mine ear;

I hold my breath and hark:

Out of the depth I seem to hear

A crying in the dark;



No sound of man or wife or child,

No sound of beast that groans,

Or of the wind that whistles wild,

Or of the tree that moans:



I know not what it is I hear;

I bend my head and hark;

I cannot drive it from mine ear,

That crying in the dark

- Archibald Lampman (1861 – 1899)

---------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------
I’m sitting here under a huge willow tree and I can see the stars shining through the leaves. I can also see the bright full moon lighting up this ash and yew forest as if it were daylight. The peaked snow drifts are pushed into miniature mountains against the sides of the old roman road.

I am camped just off the road in a military-issue leather tent, which is not the warmest thing for winter patrol, but it doesn’t leak. The hardest part about garrison duty is that I’m camped on the border of the Saxon shore and I’m all alone. The next closest military camp is half a day’s walk, which is a bit too far if I get into trouble, but I can’t do anything about it.

There is no sound at all, except for the popping of the dying fire. It is as peaceful as peaceful can be in the dark wilderness. Suddenly I hear the strangest sound I’ve ever heard in my life. It sounds like something crying in the dark. It fades and I hold my breath waiting for the sound to repeat itself. It doesn’t sound like anything closely resembling a human, but it sounds like crying. The wind doesn’t even make noise like that. I tell myself that it must be the trees moaning, even though it is starting to make the hairs on my neck stand up.

I stand up and search around my small campsite, peering into the shadows that surround my tent. There is nothing that I can see out in the winter darkness except shadows and moonlight reflecting off the snow. I sit here huddled in my fur-lined cloak for warmth; my back pressed against the willow as I wait for dawn. The beautiful winter night that was has just turned dark and sinister.

Every slight sound makes me jump. All sounds are unidentifiable to me now; I can no longer tell the trees rubbing up against each other from a monster traipsing through the woods. The hairs on the back of my neck are now standing right on end.  The crying in the dark has sounded again, and I sit here and wait unmoving for the horror to end.

“Dawn will soon come,” I keep telling myself over and over like a prayer against the sound pounding upon my ears. I do not know what is out in the winter darkness that keeps crying. I can clearly see the road outlined in the moonlight from my camp, yet I still can not fathom what is making that sound, or where it is coming from.

I can feel my gut cramp and the bark of the willow being pressed into my spine as the sound repeats itself once again. The sweat of fear is chilling me as it runs down my back and soaks my shirt. This is what all men of the Island fear: the returning of the Saxons. I don’t want to die young. I know all about the glories of battle and the face of war. I’ve seen it too many times in my short life, and lived through it to die of fear on a winter’s night huddled here in the dark, listening with all my might to a howling sound that won’t leave my ears.
Story Adaptation from  Archibald Lampman's poem "Midnight"
Aubry Barron Aug 2016
Does the earth gravitate?
Does not all matter, aching
affect all matter?
there's no chance at all:
we are trapped by a singular fate.

But id be in suspense for on such
a pretense
you wouldn't be you
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain

They either ******* or killed us.

Ignore all possible concepts and possibilities
Prey that our eventful alien over lords
are not Archibald-based,

Muscles better, nerves more;
forever making poetry in the lap of death, humanity..

i hate you.
Mitch Prax Aug 2019
we found each other
by the Archibald Fountain-
what a day that was

6:59 PM
4/8/19
Nigdaw Nov 2019
I have finally found you
In St. Enodoc Church;
Home is where your heart rests
Not your place of birth.
Summoned by the three o’clock bell
A pilgrim across the eleventh fairway,
Towards a crooked spire that protrudes
Like a drowning swimmer,
Signalling to be rescued from the dunes.


As I enter through the gate
Your headstone greets me with a shout;
A marvel of the stonemason’s art
Explosive script from marbles cold darkness,
Radiates your humour and warmth.
I am not humbled, sad nor afraid
This place is fitting to rest your phrase;
Looking down at where you lie
I try to imagine that lived-in face.


Archibald lies at your head
Old and trusted, faithful ted;
So much heard, but nothing said
All through the years of pressured steps,
To follow where your father led;
But you had other plans and instead
Were drawn to words with rhythmic thread,
That made you Poet Lauriat, a knight
Who finally has found some peace.
My tribute to one of my favourite poets.
Stephen Moore Oct 2019
A chilled tired man,

Cheated of warmth,
Hungering comfort.

Darker and heavier skies bleed the city of light,
The first specks of rain hit the tired, sun fried, foot worn pavements
And I feel summer sink into my socked ankles.

Archibald Brown, man around town, locks up his sunshade,
The wind lifts rotting fence panels like discarded betting slips
And I smell winter rising in my rattling chest.

Rain on the window, like Mercury drops on a mirror,
Through clouded milk bottle glasses I peer at grey sky and flat green trees,
And I sense Summers end.

Crying now,
Longing for Spring.
Ryan O'Leary May 2019
Archibald came out with
dreadlocks which were
quickly abbreviated before
the press got wind of it.
There was a dolls house down my lane ,,
where dolls were mended and restored  just the same ,
as when I looked in wonder through a door ,
with all the other children who had gone before .

Now my broken Belinda had many faults ,
she didn’t scream ,
and she didn’t shout ,
and when I wound her up ,
She didn’t move ,
or play hopscotch with my other toys .
She just sat at the end of my room looking quite upset ,
and sometimes very annoyed .

But dr Archibald was very kind ,

he restored  my doll at no expense .
He wound her up ,
and she began to speak out loud ,
to play hopscotch with the bears and the other crowd ,
who couldn’t talk ,
Or move ,
or shout .

And poor Belinda soon was all alone ,
with no one to talk to ,
She sat by herself at the foot of the stairs ,
where all the other toys poked and stared .

Untill one day a charming ted ,
with buttons as bright as his shiny new vest ,
Who was charmed by her “ I’m Belinda ha ha ha “ s
and they sped away in his flashy new car ,
around and around my bedroom they went .
Untill one day they were sent underneath the stairs ,
into a room I never went .
Alone in th3 darkness ,
they are to this day ,
dreaming of the days ,
when they both sped away .

— The End —