"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.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
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
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
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-
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
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
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 1:20 AM UTC
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.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
_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_
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 3:44 PM UTC
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
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
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.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
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.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
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.
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 8:36 PM UTC
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.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
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!
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
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.
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 9:56 PM UTC
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.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
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.
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.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 1:54 AM UTC
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.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
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.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
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.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
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.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
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.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
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
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
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
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 6:06 AM UTC