Best Antiquities Poems
I am a hoarder of antiquities,
offering longevity to ephemera.
Obsessed with an insatiable
urge for accumulation
I fill every available nook
stacking layer upon layer
of emotional possessions… a
treasure chest of memorabilia!
Then, in wistful, solitary
moments of isolation,
I shall seek their reassurance.
Memories: a lifeline to sanity.
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Writing Challenge - December -
Any poem NA'd in November 2019
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
Placed 1st
Chosen POTD ~ 24th October 2019.
It pleasures me
That she reads me
Inside her serenity
Parked on our bench of antiquities
I, whom gazes over there at her,
Later in the dusk of candlelight
Shall remove her pink dress
Tiss then
I shall see she derives her pleasures
As I read her
Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.
On a night, dreadfully dark
A volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark
Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history
The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day
On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy
A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not lost, the day all died
In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since
The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth
Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.
The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes
Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished
About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.
Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.
The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.
A. Green
Magnetic attraction, enchanting dream of a lifetime -
majestic pyramid attracts my eye,
mystique draws me in
O, your architecture! Pavilions, colonnades; art enclosing art,
every square inch deliberately designed,
ceilings pour forth scintillating splendor
Antiquities from Rome, Egypt, the Orient:
trying to wrap my head around art
created in Mesopotamia 6,000 years ago
Dazed and captivated in your Greek sculpture hall:
Bronze beauty, marble magnificence,
Venus de Milo seduces still
What history you have archived on your walls and pedestals!
Charlemagne holding his scepter,
Louis XIV in regal resplendence
Oil on canvas communicates genuine genius
Rembrandt, Rubens, Raphael,
Vermeer, Van Dyck, Vigée-Lebrun
Mythology awakened to life in marble:
Hera, Hermaphrodite, Neptune, Nymph,
Psyche and Cupid
Even commoners respectfully regarded:
Messina's military man, Brueghel's beggars,
Michelangelo's dying slave
Centuries of religious faith expressed with grace and grandeur:
Moses in the bulrushes, Islamic ivory,
the penitent Magdalene, Virgin and child
Artistic vision reflects and redirects history:
Renaissance masters forecasting the future,
Monet's Impressionism a daring new style
Fifteen minutes till closing, where have the hours flown?
What of tapestries, textiles, drawings, decorative arts?
Alas, another day.
Highlight of the day, world's most famous painting:
mysterious Mona Lisa smile
thanks me for coming to visit
Louvre:
timeless testimony to artistic aesthetic
cathedral of contemplation
history of humanity
Written 15 Sep 2020
Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
Islam Burning
In deep purple flame
Stapled to the cross
While the peasants yell below
Demon demon demon
Black flags rise
Hearts fail to beat
Humanity has lost this score
The axe swings in the air
Freedom at last
From Islam’s beasts
My head tumbles into the dust
I am now an icon of the history I so loved
I am Khalid al-Asaad
Your humble servant of antiquity
Aug 19, 2015
In memory of Khalid al-Assad murdered by Islamic cowards.
Islamic State militants beheaded a renowned antiquities scholar in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and hung his mutilated body on a column in a main square of the historic site because he apparently refused to reveal where valuable artefacts had been moved for safekeeping.
According to Syrian state news agency Sana and the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, Asaad was beheaded in front of dozens of people on Tuesday in a square outside the town’s museum. His body was then taken to Palmyra’s archaeological site and hung from one of the Roman columns.
“Al-Asaad was a treasure for Syria and the world,” his son-in-law, Khalil Hariri, told the Associated Press. “Why did they kill him? Their systematic campaign seeks to take us back into pre-history. But they will not succeed.”
My Dream Vacation
To return once more to Italy where the forgotten places
still remain in harmony, echoing, antiquities graces.
A private car, traveling through Tuscany in the open air,
with the breeze blowing through my hair.
Where sprawling, fertile, grape vines and gnarled olive trees
grace the terraced mountain sides, their fragrance lingers in the breeze.
Ambling on foot, through Cypress groves, on padded paths of moss,
leading to a village square, where time has all been lost.
In the piazza with its’ cobbled stones, pausing, to hear the fountain sing,
Then stepping up to the carousel, to take my chance, to grab the golden ring.
Listen to the peal of church bells, ushering in mid-day,
climbing up the time worn stairs, to the Basilica to pray.
Kneeling at the altar, a Crucifix hangs, glazed in white
surrounded by Arch Angels, below an apse in gilded golden light.
The voices of ancient sages, whisper vows of silence, speak;
in cloistered columned courtyards, nature’s beauty that I seek.
Evening unfolds to a kaleidoscopic dome, filled with stars;
in a café, nestled in the hills, I begin my memoirs.
Date: March 5, 2022
For: My Dream Vacation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L. Milton Hankins
Placed 3rd in contest
Your honor I wish to state, with utmost rhapsody before the crescent azure, that my client is as white as a Lilly
was it fare that he died, a tender soul twenty one phases of the harvest moon
buried at the bloom of owls, bats to grace the occasion, ghosts to usher the procession, dogs to disguise as chief moaners
is it justified that the noble lad had to endure the disgrace of his anatomy, twenty strokes to the count to fulfill an accursed ritual
was it justified that my friend, left behind a park of wives sobbing behind the stench abounded streams, unleashing life to the ruins he called home
was my client an astrology to manipulate his destiny that drew him closer to the trigger, son of a gun he had no choice
did the cops drew in their hands, utmost monopoly on his life to pin him as easily as tapping a fly, the books of records think otherwise
am not a Marxist but truth be said that poverty and affluence unify in boxing duels, my friend was just but a soul, caught in the line of capitalism dynamism
was my friend born in the antiquities of an emperor, Shakespeare would tremble before the letters of his epitaph
was my client marooned in the lavishness of the middle class,Vincent van Gogh would dance before the master piece of his graven image
I don't believe in the tune of reincarnation but my client would obligingly accept, a second chance in whatever form, your grace shall offer
make him go back the statue of liberty, to enlighten mankind of the powers of democracy
allow him to return as the cutest kitten, to offer warmth to a broken heart
I have stated, I have mourned, not in desperation but in love, not to win but to exude the jury with truth, of the realities beyond these pearly gates, the day in life of a mere mortal,
my case rests,
Amphibian antiquities from the age of normalcy
Pathologically festive creatures of the night
Verdant phosphor moon frogs bark their insistent mating call
Adorned with talismans, chanting mantras of maroon heroism
Conflagration of croaking becomes ritualized war of tongues
Imaginary walls dissolve in a primitive hallucination
Reveling in the sour, smoky breath of temporary lobotomies
Delirious mating rituals driven by besotted blind instinct
Hopping from one log to another as they founder
In brackish muck, the shore hidden in the velvet mist
As thousands of concealed pupils hungrily constrict
Like squirrels bouncing blithely down the high voltage wire
Deaf to the jeers and taunts of the pavement below
Until light's fracture pursues them back to their lairs
Scurrying for the inky, viscous holes in the soft, cool bank
4/23/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
On the death bed for cessation, a platform free from brawl,
I perceive in peace my debilitating breath.
And give off a brief one as I hear my call,
The one from the train to the paradise.
My soul boards it on, waving a good-bye to my body and kins.
The journey commences, the patrons graciously welcome me with smiles.
I gladly accept the offered window seat to witness the realm free from sins,
Inhaling the pristine air of contentment.
Breaching the clouds, up above the sky we go,
The chirping of birds, the whistle of the engine a merry music to our ears.
The spruce of blossoms of all the shades that we know,
A pleasant company all along the path.
The track so well embellished with assorted vines.
The aroma of satiation by the sight of mighty green grooves,
The breathtaking millisecond vision sends shivers down our spines,
Of the fiery magnificent flight of the phoenix.
Revelation of the antiquities, is more a shocking miracle than delight.
The Unicorn's excursion although contradicts it being mystique.
Is crystal clear to our eyes, to our intellects with dynamic energy we are forced to fight.
Such is the greatness of the train journey.
The train ceases and the Train-master affirms the journey concludes at the moment.
My face dims down, I wish it would go on forever.
My most awaited end I've reached, but a great transition is encountered by my temperament.
Once, only for once again,
I want to travel in 'The train to the Paradise'.
Wandering on timeworn cobbled streets,
seeking the mysteries of medieval places
revered through the passing of time
and antiquities graces;
A labyrinth of undulating faded frescoed walls,
cloistered shrines with secrets to tell, sprawling palaces,
monuments in memoriam and the cathedrals
towering centurion bell;
Rugged mountains glazed in a crown of luminous snow
ascend over beaches, kissed by the sapphire sea that
ebbs and flows below.
Spiraling roadways lead to fortified cities,
emerging from phantom clouds, hovering over
orchards and groves, the fruits of the earth,
dangling from lofty boughs
January 7, 2017
Sweet Just the Way I Like It
you're a genius she moaned
there can only be so much money in circulation
he replied halfheartedly fingering her abacus
the moon arose sharp as a razor
and they set about creating a dynasty
a master race of thumb sucking idiots
that arose from the dead at midnight
with pretensions of divine right
she was a plump desert highway waitress
with a mile of sunny cleavage
a beckoning oasis of hope
to every butt sore trucker
he was a cadre from the Cro Magnon bloc
raised by the Sisters of Inchoate Ire
in a constant din of prayer
a model of pedagogical endurance
a time of war ravaged the land
the grip of the Dept. of Antiquities was strong
wizards made the oceans boil
mystics buskered the street corners
will work for the contemplation of food
a few actually knew something
but in practice were a bit too bent
by the wind blinded by repetition
to be true in the rigorous mortis sense
nothing to be done except perhaps
another detached from reality ******
now that the past was in hot pursuit
but the leibensborn are clever
and they were smuggled to safety
in boxes of radio parts
he picked up the Bardic Hour
on the Welsh Luftwaffe Network
she was wired to the 220 dryer circuit
and clicked through the channels
Gamble for Your Soul followed by
Ladies of Leisure followed by
Nearly Inaudible the game show
which asked the same question
if the picture is perfect is it changeable
this is how they ineluctably became
the enemy of both sides
the rim shots were deafening
but histrionics had worked in the past
you'd think we were defending against death
rather than a better data set
so it is with surface addiction
a searching modern art piece
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
I miss her, Mother Egypt
and those friends I left behind,
timeless history, marvels and mysteries
etched in stone by her own scribes.
Longing for the waters of the nourishing
River Nile and surrounding seas,
the laughter and smiles of everyone
who once loved and greeted me.
Near the shores of Alexandria,
Abu Qir and Fort Qaitbey,
Where Cleopatra's palace once stood
in somber ruins, she now lays.
Near Pompei's Pillar and Roman remains
of columns and fortress walls,
white marble statues and museums filled
with antiquities large and small.
The sights and sounds in every town
Of a marketplace lost in time,
Selling goods from almonds to wildwood
And candles to clocks that chime.
In the land of the Eye of Horus,
the son of Osiris the King,
and Isis, Queen Precursor
to Mary, Mother of God, Creator of everything.
Cradle of Christianity and home to
Pagan, Gnostic, Muslim, Jew, sanctuary
where the Holy Family fled from evil
to a warm and welcomed refuge.
Where the mighty Sphinx and Pyramids
stand silent, proud, and tall,
in the salutary sands of time
with eyes peering down upon us all.
Temples of Luxor, Abu Simbel
and Colossi of Memnon,
Valleys of the Kings, Queens and Hatshepsut
awakened, alive again each dawn.
Mummification, adulation
of life and death and stars,
Constellations, incantations
and the wonders of who we are.
Battle tested, rarely rested
waiting for the next invasion,
of Persians, Greeks, Romans and those who seek
your immeasurable treasures unabated.
The ebb and flow of come and go
throughout your long, hard years
of growing seasons, rhythms and reasons
to keep fighting back the tears.
Yet never waned while fighting flames
of one invasion to the next,
while still your people smile and sing
with a yoke upon their neck.
In a land that never loses the allure or
enigma of mankind's birth,
where magic and myth still hold their grip
on whatever we think life’s worth.
Mother Egypt, truth be told, I miss you more than all your gold
and antiquities that survive,
where I once sipped cappuccino
watching history passing by.
When I think on the hearts of men
And man’s worship of creation;
The glory of the immortal God
Exchanged for nature’s animation.
Such foolish hearts so darkened
In pretense of wisdom fair.
It surely amazes me how long
This type of worship God will bear.
From before the time of Tammuz
Reincarnation had its immortality.
Eagles, lions and man’s image
Have been worshipped in man’s creativity.
The God of all creation
Hasn’t taken a redeeming place,
But rather God’s creation—
Man still worships face to face.
Man is left without excuses
For God’s invisible qualities
Have been forever on display,
Amongst man’s pantheistic antiquities.
But is man now obedient?
Left his pantheism behind?
Never, no never—
For his disobedience remains blind
God created for man’s pleasure
And to sustain his soul,
But man heralded creation
As his worship goal.
Not heeding God’s judgment
Given over to lusts and impurity;
Foolish hearts remain darkened
By pantheism’s obscurity.
Copyright © 2009-2012 Maureen LeFanue
Magnolia-honey air, heavy with heat
Kudzu vines twining, knitting the city
Spanish moss masks the old hoyden,
and she manage to think herself pretty
Shutters, and fans lazily turning
keep the suffocating heat of afternoon at bay
Lanais and balconies, sanctuary given
Folks resting until it is cool enough to play
Languid lazy persistence of mosquitoes
Hands too enervated to swat them away
Down Bourbon a honky tonk is whispering
Birds and butterflies hide from the heat of day
Bawdy houses and mansions - quaint
Charm oozes from the Big Easy's pores
Secrets and antiquities languish behind
ancient shops with their secret doors
Now - a muddy ruin, wiped from the earth
No more Mardi Gras or ladies teas - or riots
Just a flow muddy rubble and water rising
Big Easy is dying as its chaos quiets
Can she rise again as the south did long ago?
Can she pick up her skirts refuse to fade?
A southern lady is a strong woman - defiant
Under her petticoats, Big Easy, quality-made!