My archives: A poem 

I swallow the breezes 

and hope, in memories, time freezes 

But it wafts in the air 

and dances in my hair 

Of my archives, I am a curator 

Of my ideas, I’m an orator 

They come from a dimension 

that rebels against convention  

I stand with the winds of change 

without guilt, remorse or shame 

Ideals are the gifts of experience 

embellished by the varnish of conscience 

I open the door to my backyard 

And the birds of childhood sing like bards 

They will stay with me every inch and yard 

And will be the Aces in my wisdom’s cards