Best Primitive Poems
Roses are red
violets are blue
Your mouth is rubber
My feelings are glue
Why must you hate
I haven't a clue
Your narcissistic
Negative mind
Affects us too
Every time
Soon you'll find
Yourself alone
But before I go
I've got one more poem
Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But your words really f****** hurt
Deep rooted symbol in the Inuit culture, the inukshuk is rudimentary, primitive but effective communication. Through centuries, it is still a practical directional marker used as vital hunting and navigation aids, coordination points, indicators, and message centers.
remote voice
shattering the silence
of hesitation
Published in my photo/haibun anthologies ~PRIMITIVE~ 2019 and ~ANCESTRAL VOICES~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Simple, innocent and decent they were
Never timid for they were raw
Always observant
Always on their own and supportive when needed
Doing what they felt was right
No diversity in religion
No contradictory ideologies
No rigorous search for true love
For in their environment existed real and true love
Food they had in abundance
For agriculture was their lifestyle
Then there came globalization
Bringing with it modern evolution
Then there they are in confusion
I am of J, I am of M
Now the order of the day
Gradually their primitiveness is no longer primitive
They are no longer supportive
For competition is now the order of the day
Each man with his ambition and selfish interest
ABSOL
Bent down blue in prismatic fashion
refracted in reflection mirrored in sight
flames flicker and my mind twirls
round and round with an image seen
dancing with the flight of the flame
absorbed in defiance of the perceived sane
Primitive pictures bringing about motion
fauna at play in the peaceful meadow
the cobalt sea submerged out of focus
and imagination is left to wander about
dwelling through caves of thoughts hidden
a production of an indescribable landscape
Painting colours dipped religiously in red and white
conceive the inconceivable emerging from the light
My Primitive World
When people hear I live on an isle,
They ask me things that make me smile.
Like, “Do you gals still wear grass skirts,
And do you live in houses made of dirt?”
I tell them that I’m sitting here in my cave
Trying desperately myself, to behave.
I say I am wearing my skirt of grass
With my computer plugged into my a**!!
They seem to think that we are so primitive,
They wonder if our men are still very aggressive.
I tell them our men still hunt for the grub,
And then come home and beat us with their club.
It’s funny the things that some people believe,
And the way, certain things, they perceive.
Some seem to think we feed on one another,
I say, of course, I just ate my little brother!
Some even have the gall to think
That, to write, I still use a feather and ink.
They seem to forget I’m using a pc
Even as I sit here drinking my bush tea.
I tell them the only way they’d understand,
Is for them to visit my little island.
And living here is like being in paradise,
They simply have to see it thru natives’ eyes.
Primitive Humans
Living on what God provides
Going day by day
No choice, but to trust God.
And they enjoy miracles.
For the Tanka contest
Written March 22, 2012
I OPENED A DOOR
TO A PRIMITIVE WORLD,
AT THE VERY SAME TIME,
SOME KIND OF A BURROW
IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE,
SUCH A PLACE COULD EXIST.
THIS WAS THE FUTURE,
WITH A PRIMITIVE TWIST.
THEY'RE REALLY NOT PEOPLE,
BUT A LOT MORE LIKE SLAVES.
CONTROLLED AND CONDITIONED
BY FREQUENCY WAVES.
WITH NO SENSE OF LOGIC,
AND NO SENSE OF REASON.
THEY LIVE ON THE STREETS
REGARDLESS OF SEASON.
THEY MUMBLE AND GRUNT,
THEY'RE NOT UNDERSTOOD.
FROM MY POINT OF VIEW
THIS IS THEIR HOOD.
SKY SCRAPING BUILDINGS
ONE BLOCK AWAY.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN,
WAS LIKE NITE AND DAY.
WITH THE PALM OF THEIR HAND ,
THEY'RE OPENING DOORS.
THEY ENTER AN ERA,
WHERE THEY COMPETE TO DO CHORES.
IT REALLY MAKES SENSE,
WHY THEY WON'T SPEAK A WORD.
EVERY SOUND
AND THOUGHT CAN BE HEARD.
THEY SUBMIT TO THE MASTERS,
AND NEVER COMPLAIN.
DO WHAT THEY'RE TOLD
BY THE MENTALLY INSANE.
PHYSICALLY ABUSED,
MENTALLY AS WELL.
APPEARS TO ME
THEY'RE LIVING IN HELL.
WHEN LEAVING THE OFFICE
THEY TAKE THEIR PRESCRIPTION.
WHAT TAKES PLACE AT THE OFFICE
HAS RULES AND RESTRICTIONS.
THEY'LL RETURN TOMORROW,
AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG.
BETWEEN THE HOURS,
THEIR MINDS ARE GONE.
THEY'RE LIVING IN HELL
ON THE COLD STREETS.
JUST ONE BLOCK AWAY ,
THEY'RE FEELING HELLS HEAT.
TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS.
LIKE NITE AND DAY.
WHEN THE OFFICES CLOSE
THE STREET PEOPLE PLAY.
OUT OF THEIR MINDS.
OUT ON THE STREETS.
REACHING NEW HIGHS,
AND INCREDIBLE FEATS.
WHEN THE MEDS WEAR OFF
AND THEY'RE READY TO SLEEP.
THEY MAKE THEIR WAY BACK,
TO THEIR SPOT ON THE STREET.
THIS IS A WORLD
THAT YOU'LL NEVER FORGET.
A FEW PEOPLE LIVE
MOST LIVE TO REGRET.
Michael E. Harris
11192022
Prime-ary Standards.
Behind every actor.
Smiles in grief.
Like the fake styles this week.
In silence there's screams.
We're all lost.
In the onslaught
Of lost thoughts
way beyond god
and material fashion.
She is so primitive, someone whispered.
I smirked, knowing they meant me.
Odd for sure, another agreed. Someone who never met me.
But of course had heard the rumors.
I am primal, I told them, telepathically.
But they were too advanced to pick up on it.
Too far evolved from their aboriginal ancestors to understand.
I loved the knowledge that they would have to live many more lifetimes
to obtain the primitive they thought they recognized in me.
One ventured closer, and kept her eye on me.
She watched my every movement, so I because entertaining.
Picked things up and examined them, as if I knew what I was doing.
Then plunked them back with a sigh, breaking two of them.
Her best china apparently.
Does she not know the disvalue of material things?
“She is primitive,” she reported back to her little gang.
I did not apologize for the aftermath of the breakage.
That would have confused them even more.
I'm sorry did I wake you?
I tried to tip toe past your door.
Was it your conscience that woke you?
Or my tears dripping on the floor?
I know I muffled my sobbing..
My internal pain you can not hear.
So it must be that your guilt ridden..
From how you threatened me with fear.
Please stop, do not get up!
I just want to get some sleep!
Please just leave me alone..
I promise you won't hear a peep.
I promise tomorrow I'll leave..
You won't have to see me again.
I've no where else to go tonight..
But tomorrow I'm on the first train.
I leave you as a bad memory..
But the pain suffered has all been mine.
Stupid me keeping my mouth shut..
Just so you could gloat and Shine.
One day people will learn the truth..
Because leopards dont change their spots.
Sooner or later a victim will speak out..
And you will go down at all costs.
I just want to escape you..
I may be weak, I may be frail.
But I'll be there on the sidelines..
When your handcuffed and sent to jail.
A bloody mass
of mutilated souls
chaos born from our primal instincts
a ravaged mess
of broken spirits
eternally falling
into the darkness
Tuck me under the blundering sun
When I was the younger wondering one,
I could make liquid diamonds from dew
I could be fairly invisible too,
Spying on bugs while hiding from you
Back when the color green was still blue,
And every day was worth walking through
My view was not yet quite askew,
For every promise was tried and true
And every star, though old, brand new.
But alas! Only ideals were free
With insidious reasoning provided for me,
And drowning from sea to wretched sea
In the home of the slave built with debris,
Genetically designed to disagree
For I am aware! To a great degree.
Thus I’ve become old, soul jaded and cold
I played this hand till I was forced to fold,
And though I remain so uncontrolled
There’s nothing left but death to behold.
(19th century Tibetan Wangden rug)
Primal Properties
I look around at all the art I have collected
An assortment of inherited, home made and bought,
Ranging from African to Asian to Persian
With a smattering of European and American
In paintings and ceramics, carvings and weavings,
And the quality of primitive earthy energy
Is what strikes me most.
There is a refinement of technique in many
But it’s the primal essence
This technique is serviced to express,
The marriage of natural materials
And natural sensibilities
Through the transpersonal lens
Of a supernatural force
That defines it,
The definition being one of feeling/perception
More than verbalized thinking.
What is this irrepressible force
Our bodyminds create with these primal properties?
Life.
(11/18/24)
Hand sewn farm patch quilt
Primitive paintings
Sheep, pigs, cows, chickens
Snow falling outside
My kitchen decor
Peace in my heart
Comfort from home
Backs of my teeth
Soft, warm cat fur
Girls giggles
Time ticking
Heat humming
Apples
Laundry
Wine
I’ve watched those blokes on YouTube
Building using primitive skills and gathering food
I’ve come to the conclusion so readily
To survive after the apocalypse won’t be done so easily
For firstly you need a tropical jungle to find
And having bamboo available brings to mind
This can be used for all sorts of things
Irrigation, cooking and walls you’d wing
So for us sitting in the temperate zones
Would not survive as well alone
So if it looks like the world civilisation will end
I’ll hightail it to northern Queensland to rebuild and defend
© Paul Warren Poetry