Best Antiquity Poems
“Hoc est quod Isidorus”, she said,
As I ate Swiss cheese
Wrapped in a starch fold,
While blatantly returning a nod.
Never grace my table
With your impurity.
Is it finished?
Indeed!
Something supercilious waxes the eye,
and you beaming go.
I stay for the gladiator match.
But all around I see hordes.
She said there was a transcript in the mail.
But I laid down my life,
And the desert sands
Covered me like a stinging blanket.
Ode to the lost oblivion,
Sung well on a star-stretched night,
Hovering over my soul like a luna moth.
Isidore, never cover my pity.
(Isidore: “The last scholar of the ancient world”.)
Standing proud are the buildings they’ve erected
Bold and tall, contemporarily dressed
in concrete and metal attire
Architects of the future
laying down their visionary foundation in the present
Rising up from the ground
are their impure skyscraper dreams of global domination
A false resurrection,
that in due time will be torn down
Can’t you see it?
Look at the ancient Roman Coliseum,
a picture of antiquity
Showing us what the future of
modern conquerors will be
Broken down stones covered with weeds,
portal doors to the gladiator arena cast asunder
Ancient roars
no longer yielding
any amphitheater noise
All of their false high places
rent crumbling to the ground
Can’t you see it?
Look at the ancient Egyptian Pyramids,
a picture of antiquity
Showing us what the future of
modern conquistadors will be
Pharaonis schemes of world domination dreams,
chambers of a death tomb buried in dirt green
Ancient sepulchers
of twice wicked evil men,
who didn’t believe in God’s miracles
These be the pictures of antiquity,
showing us the flawed structures of inhumanity
These be the pictures of antiquity,
created by architects of a doomed history
Memories
Renewed by scene
A heart carved in sapling
Mighty red oak thirty foot high
Heirloom
Memories can be pronounced mem-o-ries or mem-ries
True, a Myth-and-a-half ever since dim Antiquity
“Breathes there the Man with Soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said
This is my own, my Native Land”
True, a myth-and-a-half ever since dim antiquity
Who breeds and holds the brood in binding sanctity
Isn’t s/he who sows and let grow blood ties in family
Don’t leaders all use the ruse of saluting country
La Patrie is never the suffering Peoples’ victory
They lay their lives down for their leaders’ greater glory
The plot of land’s where the Soul ignites anonymity
In the au-delà is not country mere pure vanity
Leaders lay wreathes at monuments for tv publicity
Upstarts win lone battle or two through freakish strategy
And let expanding borders be besieged by many enemy
Yet end-up somehow by losing the Imperial Army
Shouldn’t he who seeks to foist himself on a polity
Be required to pass the test of Ego-immunity
No vaccination nor re-inoculation would be free
From an overdose of megalomaniac frenzy
© T. Wignesan –Paris, April 9, 2021
A bit I have travelled, in the cities of this world
Each with a history – a tale that can be told
Through the lens of the roving tourist’s eye
Who often does, with some wonder, sigh
As an ancient tableau in a busy modern street
He does - camera-ready – with much awe greet
Or into a monument with a stellar, glorious past
He might saunter and wonder about the cast
Of characters who had with much energy wrought
The fame and fortune that has become the city’s lot
Or from the imposing zenith of its top-most spire
A city view, its history and legacy admire.
But no town has moved me to so much awe
Than, when from Waverley first I saw
The pomp and grandeur of Edinburgh city
A modern tribute to antiquity.
And though it has moved along with the times
Through its buildings and festivals, history chimes
For each brick and cobblestone is filled with the lore
Of a Gaelic people in the days of yore.
Not a castle, but a city straddling many a precipice
For the architect, it most definitely is sheer bliss
To career down streets that plunge like ravines
And gaze up at spires that greet the heavens
From the castle, the artist, photographer or poet
Can never cease to admire this most splendid set
The numerous shades of brown, black, green and blue
As he gazes down at an all-embracing tableau
Of craggy rock way beyond the deep-blue firth
And architecture of immense historic worth
And meadows with vast blankets of green
That add to the city’s aura, its majestic sheen
‘Tis little wonder then, that simple, mere mortals
Were by this city inspired to open the portals
Of ideas, dictums and ambitions in depth incredible
That they have, on history, made marks just as indelible
As the ones this “alternation in height and depth” has made
On every visitor who has, at least for a brilliant day stayed
And listened to piping bands tell many diverse stories
Of a city from which he will take away magnificent memories.
You become culpable.
You feel you are in a prison
of your own making.
Cursed familiarity is inescapable,
Capable of ennui only--
You rediscover yourself
around every corner:
an indelible image of
what you were minutes
ago, aging with the clock's
every tick, the merry music
of chimes, announcing
each solitary hour. And,
then, there are the ghosts,
shades of those who've
graduated, enshrined in
faux gold or silver,
framed there as no one
may keep their flesh
and blood when vibrant
with life. You live among
these images which people
your so-called life: the prize
for longevity, the Oscar
for hanging in until you,
yourself are caught in
glass, framed and blamed
for a long life.
In The Arms of Antiquity
At our age
people make faces
when we talk
of love making,
as if the thought
is too bizarre
to entertain.
Were it not
for people
our age
making love
there would be
no people
your age
to make love.
So we must leave,
seek comfort
in old and secret
places,
seek solace
in the arms
of antiquity’s
joy,
return to the
wonder, lust,
and jubilation
of love’s
most ancient
promise,
to be truly
everlasting,
to outlive
its need for
passion’s promise,
to walk
hand in hand
and make love
amid its
dreams.
John G. Lawless
10/24/2014
for Justin Bordner contest
Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place
Children like bright colours
And so kindergartens and nurseries
And so shopping items
And so youngsters
And so tourist centres
And so food and souvenirs
And so bright photos
Colours brighten up hearts
A sign of hope,happiness,confidence
Freshness and life
But too much artificial touch
Will lose the naturality of scenery
The classic beauty
A quiet elegance
The history of antiquity
An appreciation with time
Anyway natural beauty is invaluable
No imitations
No artificiality
Oh
How about stop painting one's heart
with
Colours of greed
Until the cap is won, effect of heat on reasoning remains unknown.
Until the palace is visited, that comfort creates discomfort is undiscovered.
Until power is tasted, that corruption is a genetic disorder remains a fallacy.
Dereliction, never a power disability, but a long inherited trait in ANTIQUITY
The Lion hectors the antelope
The Antelope terrorizes the grass
Strength uncommon to both BUT power.
Vulgarism and terrorism, power that corrupts the powered.
Corona virus, a legal tender to decipher corrupt human trait
The politician the national purse suppressed, the Grocer the destitute suppressed.
I feel like an antiquity
some relic from the past
crumbling at the edges
eroded over time
aging has arrived
There are fissures in my proud steel plated armor
once invincible
reality is bringing with it a heavy blow
it creeps upon you
like a stealth thief in the night
now you berate yourself
for being caught unaware
new words slip into your vocabulary
things like “possible stroke”
a litany of tests are conducted
let’s begin with a blood test
maybe a urine sample
we can schedule an MRI
is this a heart attack
there is a CAT or CT scan as it is known
what about the C word, cancer
let’s do an ultrasound
ff that doesn’t find it there is always
an endoscopy or colonoscopy complete with biopsy
the realization that life’s destiny is prevailing
is the end nigh
the relic you have become
looking at you in the mirror of life
Andreas Simic©
In my blistered ruined mind
I build odd gods, old!
They sit in irregular rows,
In a crooked cathedral ,
Like a pantheon of ornate oddities!
Each one dusty or lost, I have forgotten
Honesty…!
Cracked white china and blue filagree…
Each a stony façade,
Carved eyes hollow, staring!
Absolutely hollow and odd…
Staring like little divinities!
Sitting in irregular rows.
In a pantheon built of ancient asymmetry.
I have devised until my demise…
These are forgotten Ancient ones,
The little divinities of broken antiquity!
They sit together after supper, two forks, two plates -dishes cleared, put away. She, with her tiny spectacles perched a little crooked on her face - he, with his favorite pipe. Her withered hands lay peacefully in her lap…he reaches out, gently touching them - not speaking any words.
No words needed between the two of them-having been together for so many years. Memorable words, touching phrases spoken ore’ the years spent together as one. One heart - one mind. Not always a life of sunshine and roses, but devotions never ceased between these two old lovers, these two best friends.
They held on to one another through each new day, each new tomorrow - catching one another’s loving gaze, uttering a graceful word now and then. Wrinkled faces beautifully bestow them now - yet to him…she’s just as lovely as the day they wed -his lovely bride - his cherished, sweet wife of many years. A smile creeps across his lips in remembering their cherished wedding vows.
“Will you take this women to be your wife”? He did then, he still does now.
The words sweet and strong - like the fragrance of orchids… everlasting, forever long.
Oh farage do give it a rest..' at last things are more quiet
Yet you have to beat your chest.' How much did you cost?
Who has paid your price.? You turned your back and are
Part of the pack..While Tommy is stuck; in the jaws; of their
Vice..I ask you hold that thought for a moment..If its a
Thing you can do? Or lock yourself in a small toilet for just
A fortnight or two..Maybe by the time you come out? there
Will be peace 'at least in ukraine' and Britain will be spared
Your iniquity? That way all sides get much gain.'
time by it does slip,
and the grey gets a grip,
till we just seem to dawdle, not dance,
overcoat is worn out, old body don't prance,
an we live in the shadow of doubt,
tear ya arms off he said,
30 year old Fred,
so i went into a Magpie smother,
it's "war" thinking me,
Marquis of Queensbury,
right cross and he fell like the dead,
Beware of the old, get instead:)
the venom of antiquity...
re: Harry Horseman
" When the Light Leaves Me"
Don
If you google me johnsondon2 you will find 250 youtube poems,
and some of my writings on my dads war etc etc...i do jabber on a bit...
also you will get don johnson miami vice:)
The wind is come to sojourn once more
Delivering tidings from far away, yonder.
It expires its breath and wheezes veracity.
Eyes may not see but ears are alarmed
As the wind calls out its blustery voice
And those who listen will know it well.
The legend told is one of timeworn myth
But nought can change, save for illusions,
And he who walked before us also follows.
The wind is come to visit this day
To test our faith and inquest our soul
For the wind that comes to call, this day, knows all.
Alan S Jeeves