Hello Poetry
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"archive" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
I got some things I want to confess From an awkward nerd to a beautiful countess You're more confusing than the Higg's Boson I understand more the positrons and electrons You're more complex than a polysaccharide "Understanding You" is no book my archive Why can't our relationship be a mutualism Rather than the one sided commensalism Could we be close like the tibia and fibula? So close like the aorta and vena cavas? To be close, I could only hope Like uranium 237 and uranium 238, inseparable isotopes Whenever I see you, I get the "kilig" affixes Like the sour taste of citru sinensis I can't get enough of your wonderful smile It's like the taste of pentahydroxyhexanal You might think I'm in delirium But my thoughts are in equilibrium You're the only girl inside my cranium And this love for you is more precious than titanium
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May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
The Nerdiest Confession
I sat along this opened window, wishing to escape your empty home. Yet, you will never archive my peace, You're clogging up my bones. Sadly in your breath stung darkness, I knew this house was my prison, when this home stayed dark as night, after the sun had risen. You ignored my pleas for leaving, and left a window open. I'll escape as I've pled before, if only I could focus. Yet you knew what I could do, as you stared into my past. You closed the window with a smirk, and said you felt a draft-
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Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Draft
Drifting in the shade of Hello Poetry's long lost grave In archive (a kingdom's history) the past that has been made Stepping on the bleached out bones The pale parade of long dead dreams Crunching fragments of sentenced themes burning books , poems stuffed inside the reams Epitaphs to their honor 2010 comments to poets Vickey , Fix , and O'Connor Poems to praise lost in time I hold in hand the words that bind Great poems whose eyes were never shed In a broken aspiration now lay dead Cruch , crunch , the landscape littered in 2012 Oh what sacred feelings not forthwith Here ! lay my poems to rest here In 2014 my poems of yesteryear
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Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 1:20 AM UTC
Boneyard of Broken Dreams
The trouble with writing a relationship through technology is that the bygones are never gone. Why do I pour a drink in your absence and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks like *********** lips parted, heart racing? I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart being doggedly masticated in the maw of another I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't, wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me for my identity. My mug shot, beside hers. After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now? I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that. Everything I wish I had been and said. The pages left blank, I should've painted red. In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy. At the time, you know, it was like falling upon The Secret Garden unbefouled by poison nor passion to inhale the heady scent of white rose and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage. The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine. I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology. We courted on Facebook and Gmail, it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances. Now my mate belongs where I do. Loving, tenderly, wisely true. I cannot start loading the page for the future so much as delete our archive, a prelude to love written in diminished chords, sung by the jilted and ghosts.
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Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Inbox Archive
_Circles_—round a trip, going all around the plains of plain thinking, A blank mind; empty paper, ****** canvas, As of the first I'll write: a masterpiece to create. A shaking pen, a hold of my thoughts and emotions. Dreams so unreal; feels so prohibited to a natural thought. So I write them out in words. Read through it, subtract, dissect, read through it again; alter, adjust, As many times, till I'm content with the piece. But I'm never content; until the next piece, the next piece, and next pieces after that. Battling thoughts on whether to share or archive for a later story. Post for likes, comments, to please an ego—post for dispraise, inklings, to better self, and writing capabilities. _For all-inclusive_
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Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 3:44 PM UTC
Writing process
You never fail to mystify me Love out of reach A devastating fallacy I wish you the very best But only feel sorry partially There’s a smile on your face again No use for thinking so logically A hidden curriculum so easy to mask I’d love to know you but hate to ask You are all I dream about -And there you were- A love aptitude that’s entirely illiterate Your pearly smile stays stretched continuously illuminate Save the feelings for the archive So foreign and entirely glamorized They fail to represent what reality is waiting impatiently Your looks are intense They compliment your insanity But in the mean time I’m failing miserably I can’t even look you in the eye I’m too shy
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Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Consequential Strangers
I am the dark, I am the sea, I sit in silence, Through the cinematic breeze. Visions of the aesthetic, The mentalism of fear, A lovely lullaby, The nyctophobia gear. I am an art piece, Painted in black, grey and white, Kept in the archive of the dismissive, On spacious 104-8C.
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
An Introspection
It’s never easy starting midstream, when your joints squeak like old vinyl. Worse to end just as you begin, editing hope into bullet points, buffing your portfolio like a coffin lid. You kneel to metadata while the holy algorithm decides if you're human enough to be blessed. Better to read old Nabokov, nap in your robe (the good one with pockets), wait for the mail like it’s 1998 when catalogs still mattered. Let purpose dissolve, like the vitamin you dropped in the sink. You failed to fail, which sounds noble but feels more like accidentally surviving. So drift toward the grocery by the newsstand, nod to the pretty barista with the knife-edge bangs, pretend the papayas mean something. You’re the median of middle-aged. Your knees, both traitors. Your dreams, reruns. These lines limp like your fifth attempt to rebrand the layoff as a sabbatical. "Don’t derail, just project your better self on a screen." Crop the hair, dim the lighting, hide the existential dread behind a well-placed emoji. Let rhyme stutter like a pull-string toy, half-broken, slightly too cheerful. Feet unsure, eyes fogged (by pollen, by memory, by news). There’s no noir here, no brooding detective, no dame worth lighting a cigarette for. Just this: the echo of effort, forms half-filled, where even your name looks uncertain. So let’s call it. Let’s bury the draft, archive the ambition, delete the app. End where we never really began.
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Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
The Algorithm Will See You Now
I'm sorting pictures in the archive box. Shelved for that day that I kept putting off. The job's to cull and have less stuff to store, but spiders lurk and snakes are sliding out. The photo shouts in raw dismemberment. A howling wind, the prowl of packs of wolves. I stare at trembling splinters held so close. Her daytime Self looks like a sweet old dame. I hear again the creak as floorboards pause; my breath is held lest I miss steps that halt, outside my door in seconds held at bay. I see the handle    slowly...       lower..          down. Her strides are swift and next, her perfume's here. With broken breath, she yields to clawing drives and throws my bedclothes off like spider webs. My youth she steals as night groans on and on. For merchants took her bloom on stormy sea. I clutch my knife and picture stabbing her; But I've no strength to do the deed - I'm five. Her mouth is pushed on lips zipped up and cold. The bed is torn in tangled bits of knots. My legs are jammed together- ripped apart. My pillow's wet as aunty takes her cut.
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Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 8:36 PM UTC
Travesty in the Night
There's a secret chamber, indestructible matter. Matter can exist in no more stable state than this small chamber is in. The chamber occupies very little space in the center of the earth. The chamber contains two dimensional information. This information describes everything that ever happened on earth for the archives. The octopuses recorded everything. They perceived everything. If an octopus managed to wrap it's tentacles around your head, you'd understand. It would tell you that everything has been worth it. You'd understand that you must live beautifully for the sake of the swirling two-dimensional archive at the center of the earth.
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Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
Octopus Manifesto 3 (in the center of the earth)
SweetPea! she put my poem "The Rain Unseen" (which was posted a long time ago) on a few of the collection sites she went back into my archives to find it! it happens to be one of my favorite poems! there are many people who do this. SweetPea just gave me an inspiration what if we did this: rather than ♥ing a recent poem go back into a poet's ARCHIVE and look for a worthy buried treasure? (a good poem which never trended) like, and REPOST and put on the appropriate collections I had a wonderful response because a lovely poet reposted a write I'm very proud of Thanks to all who have done this for me in the past also YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL!
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Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
thank you
I want to touch your base, I want to touch base. Now we're gonna circle back To our circle **** Feel the warmth of my regards Deep in your archive folders. Savour the tingling of my best wishes, Between your table of contents. I want to touch your base, I want to touch base.
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Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 9:56 PM UTC
FWD: RE: RE: RE: ATTN
Dying is like sleeping, with no more dreams to rush inside and shake you up, night after night. And all those memories you stored in archive shelves of blood and bone will be by then forever lost.
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Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
Dying is like sleeping
I’m no longer under her spell,
 I see her for what she likely really is.
 A simple and boring creature,
 Just another stain on the world.
 Bound to be one more dying shadow.
 A memory dead and tucked away within the dusty, disorganised, shelves of my library, archive of mind. Between the bay laurel plant and the star of the sea.. Even if she ate organic and drank of my flesh and seed, like a goddess for a moment. N.H.
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Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
*****
I now present to you the talk of the town Mr Page He looks are deceptive; please don't be fooled by his age He lives alone in a house near to his office in front of a park He has far too many enemies for he is a loan shark Before I tell you more let me put a disclaimer Now days anyone can sue you, even a lamer So if there is any resemblance with anyone dead or alive It’s a mere coincidence, have checked all archive Mr Page as you read this, is now in a court Facing a trial bravely and holding on to his fort Lawyer asked him if he would promise not to lie Mr Page told, truth it shall be, till he would die Not only was he a loan shark whose guts every one hated He spoke in rhymes, even when he debated All he did was to threaten people all the time He made them sound ridiculous adding punches and rhymes When the lawyer asked, 'Mr Page can you show us how you rhyme.' He replied, ' No sir this is neither the place nor the time.' 'Besides I am not carrying any dictionary or copy of rhyme zone' 'Watch what you say Mr Page' said the lawyer, 'I don’t like your tone'. 'Order order', said the judge, 'I don’t want any rhyming in my court.' 'I can see my lawyers have started rhyming too', he added with a snort 'Do you see Mr page what a bad precedence you have set'? 'Why my lord how could I corrupt the court, ' said Mr Page, ' we have just met' 'There you go, rhyming again even when I told not to' 'Sir why are you so against rhyming I have absolutely no clue' 'Mr Page, please stop.' 'Sorry sir I will try to drop.' 'Mr Page I warn you.' 'I am trying, I am trying, and it’s hard! Phew' 'A phew! Did you have to add that'? 'Sir please, it’s all part of a chat' 'Mr Page you are not helping' 'Please my lord, stop yelping' 'What! How dare you! Handcuff him and put him in jail, No books, No net, No friends and No bail.' So you see this how Mr Page landed up in prison And for what, rhyming, which was certainly no treason Funny laws, funny punishments, this certainly was a funny case But the people were happy as long as they didn’t see Mr Page's face.
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Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 1:54 AM UTC
Mr.Page
I now present to you the talk of the town Mr Page He looks are deceptive; please don't be fooled by his age He lives alone in a house near to his office in front of a park He has far too many enemies for he is a loan shark Before I tell you more let me put a disclaimer Now days anyone can sue you, even a lamer So if there is any resemblance with anyone dead or alive It’s a mere coincidence, have checked all archive Mr Page as you read this, is now in a court Facing a trial bravely and holding on to his fort Lawyer asked him if he would promise not to lie Mr Page told, truth it shall be, till he would die Not only was he a loan shark whose guts every one hated He spoke in rhymes, even when he debated All he did was to threaten people all the time He made them sound ridiculous adding punches and rhymes When the lawyer asked, 'Mr Page can you show us how you rhyme.' He replied, ' No sir this is neither the place nor the time.' 'Besides I am not carrying any dictionary or copy of rhyme zone' 'Watch what you say Mr Page' said the lawyer, 'I don’t like your tone'. 'Order order', said the judge, 'I don’t want any rhyming in my court.' 'I can see my lawyers have started rhyming too', he added with a snort 'Do you see Mr page what a bad precedence you have set'? 'Why my lord how could I corrupt the court, ' said Mr Page, ' we have just met' 'There you go, rhyming again even when I told not to' 'Sir why are you so against rhyming I have absolutely no clue' 'Mr Page, please stop.' 'Sorry sir I will try to drop.' 'Mr Page I warn you.' 'I am trying, I am trying, and it’s hard! Phew' 'A phew! Did you have to add that'? 'Sir please, it’s all part of a chat' 'Mr Page you are not helping' 'Please my lord, stop yelping' 'What! How dare you! Handcuff him and put him in jail, No books, No net, No friends and No bail.' So you see this how Mr Page landed up in prison And for what, rhyming, which was certainly no treason Funny laws, funny punishments, this certainly was a funny case But the people were happy as long as they didn’t see Mr Page's face.
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40
thirty years is too thick a cobweb says the Shepherd at the Bourne though I know you're looking for her youth and you aren't alone how old was she? twenty? red bindi and sari on head newly wed ravishingly pretty but no negatives I'm afraid a few come up these creaking stairs love's martyrs long survive hold fore me their hearts bare count on my archive like you they seek that fateful face where time stands evergreen lost path invites one more retrace a rewind to youthful skin I tell them time's too thick a cobweb with you I too grieve sorry sir I have no negative nothing's left to retrieve.
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Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Cobweb
On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation.  I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State.  When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida. God Bless America, God Bless Us All.
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Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
July 4th, 1976
My father. Old sailor. Old farmer. Old carpenter. Old interpreter. Old archive of facts And history. He knows Our ancestory by heart down To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years Old today. Bought me my first pen, My first book, taught me English From the age of five. Told me I Had the gift of language and Expression. And that I was A stronger boy than any Anyone had ever seen By the time I began   To learn English. I owe him credit For every word I have written. Weak now With age and Bad lungs, I still See him as a giant Handling a chainsaw, Smelling of forestry and Gasoline and winter, smiling At me with eyes deep blue from Seeing more ocean and sky than I Ever will know with my own. His name to me is pappa. After a few pints of his homemade Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like Old friends, remembering how The roles were different back Then. I am glad I stopped by For a cuppa on this day. He Would never ask me to. Happy Birthday, pappa. I'd cut a decade from my lifetime To add a single year To yours.
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May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
For my Father, P.G.H.
Crater deep dimples filling hearts with mirthful spinning pinwheels. The sun rays illuminating the iris full of expectations, stories, lustrous joy, life. The energy shared in space made weak knees crumble. Silhouette causing brainwaves running rampant. The architecture of your shape is staggering. Staggered right through thoughts. Elated fingertips never found a better home. Hair blessing the wind with its presence. Giving flow to nature around. Flow through my life. The orbit already taken place. As simple as the circle I see in your glance. Smile again. Memorizing forms, unique, pictures, keeping them stored in a treasure chest behind my bones. Completed. Play your algebra once more. Lets get acquainted. Equal to the wonders of our body. Like the landmarks spread upon your skin like a treasure map. Let me discover you. The entrapment you caused upon my ability to speak is stammering. When did Things become so simple. Beauty slammed through ideas of broken bodies. It's an archive. Your body. Sun kissed and blessed by the noon. The way you illuminate under the vast open everything. I find my eyes fixed upon yours. Lost in the translation of their movements. Closing my eyes to imagine the holographic wonders taking place behind your reality. The turbulence in your chest is ever clear. Beauty isn't a word that I can make sense of. Not when I am presented with you.
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Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Ecstasy
ebbing tides muted shadows sketched in sand a sculpted archive of footprints and wind crashing ocean’s hypnotic slow motion rolling onto the beach rushing white froth washing forth and back renewing the smoothness with salty scrubbing bubbles the setting full moon shines bright projecting her power’s peak reflecting horizontal streaks of crackling blue electricity rippling and running riding atop the cresting waves pounding surf as conduit completing the circuit on shore empowering the Ancients' resurrection in the rising midnight mists mirage-like vaporous images charge clearly visible beneath her sweeping silvery veil buckskin **** cloths, eagle claws and feathers indigenous people stepping rhythmically in a circle feint sounds of chanting and a drum-like heart beat a dance for the ages seeking favor and protection rituals and ceremonies keeping the wolves at bay celebrating the crows’ return or a bountiful harvest as they have for millennia when the moon falls over earth’s edge the dancers dissipate retreating like sand ***** awaiting the next full moon.
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Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
MOONDANCERS
Here to wake up Standing ground Militaries lost and found Destroying greenhouse gasses: The round archive of saving Moving toward negative cost Clean energy boundless Morality's ascent soundless When true sustenance is found Aliens: our next hound
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May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
Ascent
Human in thinking, doing and being absorb, resist and learn explore, try and teach tolerate, effect and apt dream, play and appreciate choose, empathise and endure protect diversity, past and future destroy, interfere and absolve observe, savour and respect relaxing, changing and evolving feel, laugh and cry theorise, invent and engineer aspire, educate and archive navigate, articulate and embody socialise, protest and survive be mortal, resilient and dependable shape, fill and transform lead, serve and follow make life worth living Love to be a human
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Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 6:06 AM UTC
Human, North of the 60th Parallel (Poem two)