Best Excavate Poems
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
I fear not the unknown
but what I cannot unleash and interpret
stifled emotions blur my vision
leaving my looking glass self – unclear
my insides are in disarray, like
shredded confetti propelling in the wind
scattered pieces lose their bearing
leaving my looking glass self - astray
bewilderment surrounds me now, while
revisiting an exhausted road
heavy footprints convey a story
leaving my looking glass self - questioning
life’s sophistication is a struggle, akin to a rubix cube
to succeed with no difficulty - cheat
moulding fate to the desired outcome
leaving my looking glass self - discreditable
I excavate buried courage, and
confront the image gazing back at me
suffering has been endured, however
the reflection stands upright and determined
despite life’s battle, survival has conquered
leaving my looking glass self – intact
written by Diana-Marie Bombardieri
January 11, 2012
Originally written in 1998
In my quest to escape monotony at work I stumbled upon this poetry site
Little did I know I would excavate a gem with a zest for life
She is also a lullaby songstress; in between my spelling and grammar blunders,
We’re a recipe for madness: crazy blogs, even stranger emails, our laughter and tears
I unearthed Nikko aka Missy, "the spelling queen" my friend with a gracious soul!
#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
I went to have soup at a table atop a mountain, when who should I meet there?
A very pretty, sassy, missy; she did a 3/4 turn--CrAsH! (2 cabs, fender bender)!
Her laughter and madness, just totally contagious...even strangers want to kiss her!
Through her wonderful words, each petal revealed a bit more sparkle, a stunning gleam
I was so right! Wilma, "the crazy one", she's my true gem of a friend, a vivacious soul!
For Tracie's Grab a Mate & Collaborate poem :D
-- Wilma Neels & nikko palmario :D
Loads of fun, thanks Missy for embracing my madness :D
290820111855
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?"
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land.
Who tries to grow out of this cold.
Unfolding wings from nothing,
nurtured with meager protection,
nourished with watery milk.
Whose fingers try to burrow
the dry clay, the impenetrable rock.
Who wants to excavate what turned
to stone?
In preservation conservation hides,
in self protection arms as withered
branches wrap around what turned
to stone, knowing that deep inside
one little ember glows, still glows.
There one small drop of water
remains, once a pool in polished
rounded slab of stone, rubble,
remaining consciousness
This is what grows,
this is one seed of hope, one
tiny root, one drop of water, one
cinder of warmth, one knowing once
belonged to a field of glacier. While
only cold remains in once warm
heart that blindly searches,
searches.
***
March 25, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
At the flower market
I found spice, holy water,
cobblestoned obsidian dreams,
but no flowers.
The blustery Tuscany day
showed me its underlying graffiti,
incantations of poetica esoterica,
and yet another way
to excavate the mystery.
Nostalgic Roman nights,
Spanish palabras, Sicilian incantations,
idyllic panoramas; promises
enough to purchase the moon.
Such a foolish sacrifice to
fresco up for portfolios in
sanctuaries precious
and profane.
Sue found an impossible task,
To ‘excavate’ wearing her mask,
Now Sue cannot linger,
With her little finger,
To abstain has been a big ask
Since childhood Sue’s ‘explored ‘her nose,
Her secret’s one nobody knows,
Sue’s now stopped the picking,
The licking and flicking,
It’s down to covid I suppose.
10/31/21
In the Great War’s aftermath a handful survived,
though seven billion had perished.
Time to excavate a country’s history arrived
and much speculation had been nourished.
Survivors sought signs of the culture that had flourished.
Word-of-mouth history never explained
how the world’s once-great civilization fell,
or why such a small number remained.
Unearthing the White House proceeded well,
yet beneath it excavators found a mysterious cell.
This large, steel chamber was marked by the word “Banished,”
and as inquisitive searchers opened the vault,
curiosity promptly vanished.
Musty relics they examined without halt,
finally realizing what had been at fault.
Every document inscribed with “in God we trust”
and all references to a Creator
lay buried beneath dust.
Men lacking faith had believed there was no One greater;
hubris had been their annihilator.
English Quintain
May 19, 2018
Contest: ”In 100 Years”
It's a lingering mystery
What people are going through.
Everyday, we meet wounded, fragile souls
Who conceal sadness with smiles.
They've wrapped barricades around their glass hearts,
Stamped with a "No Tresspass" sign.
If we're patient enough,
They'll let us through with time.
With gentle hearts
And mindful eyes,
We watch out, reach out
And touch these broken and wounded folks.
We let them know they're not invisible,
That we see them, and hear them;
We show them that we care.
Just one big hug is enough
To lift their despondent spirits
And usher in bright rays of sunshine
Into their gloomy existence.
We meet so many
With bleeding wounds we'll never see
Without delving much deeper.
There's nothing wrong with asking
"Are you okay?"...
To excavate deeply buried catharsis,
To release withheld floodgates of pain.
With gentle hearts
And mindful eyes,
We take care of ourselves
And one another.
hear me out on this
I invented the "just understand"
when the feeling of sadness
gets way out of hand
a way to unravel
truth at its core
not focus on an event
or excavate more
for sometimes I was hurt
didn't know how to respond
the 'why' is quite complex
something that went way beyond
not a heartache
or frustration
but deeply felt pain
extrapolated past this
and to that again
a deep well of fear
and self-contained hate
that I didn't want to explain
define or dictate
so here is the answer
the "just understand"
as simple as quietness
and a gently held hand
reassurance I'm known
and can rest easy now
no duty required
I can unfurrow my brow
no overthinking
or exhausting explanation
simply cradled with care on titration
I won't explain more
as it defeats my invention
but rest by me
and you'll feel the removal of tension
calming of nerves
as we exist side by side
no unnecessary words
just allowing energies to collide
it's not on prescription
unfortunately still rare
most of the ingredients elusive
but now I know they are there
I know emotional pain
isn't an eternal state
that being "just understood"
is something we can co-create
In my quest to escape monotony at work I stumbled upon this poetry site
Little did I know I would excavate a gem with a zest for life
She is also a lullaby songstress; in between my spelling and grammar blunders,
We’re a recipe for madness:crazy blogs, even stranger emails, our laughter and tears
I unearthed Nikko aka Missy, "the spelling queen" my friend with a gracious soul!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I went to have soup at a table atop a mountain, when who should I meet there?
A very pretty, sassy, missy; she did a 3/4 turn--CrAsH! (2 cabs, fender bender)!
Her laughter and madness, just totally contagious...even strangers want to kiss her!
Through her wonderful words, each petal revealed a bit more sparkle, a stunning gleam
I was so right! Wilma, "the crazy one", she's my true gem of a friend, a vivacious soul!
**
This was fun, a collab with the crazy Missy :D!
-- Wilma Neels & nikko palmario :D
For Tracie's Grab a Mate & Collaborate poem :D
We are all born imperfect
But yet
pure in heart and mind
Diamonds that shine and sparkle
That lose their lustre with the ravages of time
Life can be cruel and we soon get covered in layers of mud
We wear a mask to the world
That says I'm ok
But hides the real person
Both the bad and the good.
Sometimes we have to excavate the layers
That made us who we are
To find ourselves
And once again
Sparkle like a diamond
And twinkle like a star..
Peter Dome.copyright 2014. July.
LUST IS AS ILL-CONSIDERED A WEED
AS EVER STOLE SCENT
Rejected in the main as superstition -
A gadfly, I’m alone upon the weed:
A hot cinquefoil brooding on position,
Declared intent of being in need of screed -
Now the subject of each idle bee
Gorged already, needing a restful stop
What if his gyrations bring to me
No true syncopation of a honeyed hop?
Beauty – not recognised as such – I wonder
Why man and woman excavate a flower garden
Tear my fertility, so they may squander
Wild possibility, and the earth around me harden.
Can the joy I have before I’m torn asunder
Be worth it when they never ask my pardon?
(C) Rosemarie Rowley
Life is much bigger than I imagined it could be,
There is more beyond the horizon of Hope through my Faith.
I am Uniquely made as seen by the different shades of me
With the out -bursting of colors depicting a side that some
May never know - happy and gay, rejoicing, celebrating, funny,
hilarious, witty, caring, loving, appreciative, satisfied.
Strong of character but often self-willed, and usually turn the "other
Cheek" too.
Reminiscing on good things in bygone days and share
Experiences, direct and indirect which propels the renewal of thoughts
of what could still be done,
By using learned knowledge and skills in other ways, I
Create, evolve, develop and initiate whatever God directs me to do.
I cannot imagine how vast a prospect God's Purpose is for me,
But I do remember that Life is much bigger than I imagine it could be!
So, I regurgitate past achievements to Capture the color and mix,
To be a fit in Society's go-getting World!
Emulating the Lord when He asked: "Who do men say that I am"?
I use the gift of penmanship to excavate what got hidden inside of me.
I endeavor to search deep within and skillfully share in philosophy,
Humanity, nature, emphatic for emotional and physical pain.
Look deep into my soul and glimpse what God sees
Simplicity does not mean "Walk All Over Me."
My pen gliding over the page as I write, can tell from images
"Painted" the true quality of me.
It establishes a "blueprint" like in the DNA when mRnA transforms
And transcribes " messages". So like the pens of Poets I opt to portray
The best of me, striving for that Perfect point to be
Released through the "window" of expertise that God loaned me.
God too is engaged in poetry as some Psalms of David show.
Like Reverse Mortgages He loans gifts and talents by beginning from the
first to the last. Thus, his subjects display talents with youth and taper
off with age.
Even switching from skill to skill, the "blueprint" is the same DNA.
What I develop, evolve or initiate, the background is the same!
Opening my eyes after a night long rest
I cuddled in my soft cushiony bed
And looked outside my sunny arched windows.
The glorious king was lazily greeting
My cottage garden laden with white garden chairs
Around the green lawn glistening with the night's dew.
My heart warmed and a smile curled up my lips
To see my burgundy and yellow allamandas
Rioting my curved casements.
After devotedly worshipping their sun's majesty
They embrace the fresh monsoon breeze
To gently swing to its tune.
My blooming buttercups wait rapturously
For me to potter around and rest
Beneath their intoxicating fragrant bowers.
Then full throated they blow
Scrolling open their gold and purple trumpets
Towards the glowing eastern horizon.
The frail winged butterflies
And the feathery curved billed sunbirds
Welcome their invitation to excavate
Their juice filled syrupy tunnels
Prepared overnight for their little creamy bellies,
Thus keeping the trumpeters continuously obliged.
I lay out my table with my pearly lace tablecloth
Pull my white garden chair to watch
Blissfully the honeysuckles joining the guests
As they pop in and out their beaks sipping their nectar
While I sip my aromatic coffee from freshly ground beans,
Life meant no past, no future, just the present to behold.
December 22, 2015
Contest: Theme # 2 Flowers
Sponsor : Skat A
A locomotive crying out
As it hurtles down life’s tracks--
Sounds like soul to me;
Or the wind whispering
On every blade of grass
Dipping toes in every pond;
Or the diamond that we keep
In caves too dark and deep
For any intruder to excavate;
Or the sermons of the Reverend Al Green;
Or the Force that guides and heals;
Or the reason for existence…
The soul, that which outlasts all else,
Sounds like the sweetest steam engine
In a myriad web of rails.