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maria Aug 2020
my day
a museum
of disappointments
and I'm
the biggest tragedy
in the shelves
lately struggling with insecurities in a wolrd full of disappointments

Yours, marie
written on August 29, 2020
© ,Maria
Aneesh H Aug 2020
Memories of a railroad era, bygone,
Nearly seven score years ago
Stories carried on the wheels,
With the coal and grain to go

A saga of the rail,
Now and again told
The charm of this tale,
Never growing old

Of modernity and mystery,
A kaleidoscopic visage:
An ensemble of hope and history,
A treasured, eclectic heritage

The railfan’s fervor: in full galore
In silent splendor, the glories of yore
In this humble house, come awake
A radiant reminiscence evokes!
Recently, a Railway Heritage Museum was opened at Hubballi, Karnataka: the HeadQuarters of South Western Railway. Hubballi or Hubli is a twincity of Dharwad, the erstwhile HeadQuarters Office of Southern Mahratta Railway, which was a private Railway Company founded in 1880s during British Colonial Rule.
I wrote a poem for the Museum, which is framed as a permanent exhibit on the Museum Wall!
Kalyx Jul 2020
In every art and artifacts,
I'll still find that is pleasing to my eyes,
Like seeing lychee that makes want to crave,
Craving for resentment in someone's eyes,
Turns out I was seeing myself in solitude,

This time, it was no ordinary day,
I think of every word I have to say,
But I had none to lay,
Instead of laying in those eyes,
Thinking myself what I bargained,
To be the highest bidder.

Meaning to say, I wasn't looking at any art,
I saw something that pleased my eyes,
In a quiet place that made it felt like home,
Glass panes are all I can see but a single sight to see.

A sight that I won't lose till its wings spread
A statue that I'm willing to mold by a thread
Humanity restored in my eyes.
By a single whip of your coiffed hair

Like the morning brew that struck me
By the color of your hair, that is full of bliss
Nevertheless, I'll still get lost in those eyes
Making every gaze in my mind
A dream that i made, to get lost by the so-called life
Moments that i'll spend, for me to keep it from being tainted
Savoring every beauty till i faint.
blushing prince May 2020
you took me to the natural history museum
the one next to the flower garden
you didn't hold my hand
or you might have
my hair locked in an abrasive ponytail pulling at my ears everytime
the ceilings were like giants
making me feel meek and important
in a forgetful way
the way you don't think about the leaves coming back
in early March
one day they're just there and you're opening the windows again
the way you're meant to
you walked the spotless corridors and I trailed behind
always fearing the immense T-Rex at the front of the room
that followed you with its' eyes
one blink and the head could swivel
the knees would buckle and the colossus
could devour you in a dignified gulp
ending at the bottom of a salacious belly
full of tender body parts and terrifying things
like men pretending to be gods
trapped at the bottom of a well
no invention of fire could extinguish that darkness
reaching into my pocket for binoculars
when I finally look up you're gone past the ancient artifacts
there's a grin and a woman attached to it
and I can see that you're nervous because your feet are dancing back and forth
from their heels to their toes
and the laughter echoes through all the rooms
poignant and full
each room has a theme and I swim from
one diorama to the next alone
I can feel myself melting
with history sticking to my clothes like gum
cotton candy falling into a puddle
gone before you can even taste it
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
the surprisingly sweetest clementine

amidst the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy

the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good

she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?

smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
providing
for all her needs,
known and unknown

even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine

she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:

I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
now,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,


unknown
a  true story.

P.S. he hates carrying anything
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2019
Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.

Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,

Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.

Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.

A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.

It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.

Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.

In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.

The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.

The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.

Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,

The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
Nicole Aug 2019
you were my museum curator
and he was my kingdom builder
never run back to what broke you
but why does my heart
choose to love
that museum curator
who left me scarred?
fray narte Aug 2019
She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.
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