Best Quarried Poems
The fallen sons slipped off Creation’s lens.
To taste the sting from our own tree and fruit.
Their giants quarried till no place to stand.
Before these day’s deceiving shades of gray,
The prophet’s shutters opened wide to write.
Foretold of hate in focus driving nails.
Our Pilate’s wash in Silver Halide’s bowl.
For only one Son’s blood can fill the baths,
His saving grace developing the soul.
And now reflecting every color’s hue,
Presented flawless under Father’s sight.
This world to turn and from you it will take.
Endure this to the end and ride the light.
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Beneath the graffiti littered by the years
and the fatigue signed by a thousand cares
Through the scratchings of so many tears
that were summoned or caught you unawares
Under the mottles by done days quarried
and the shadows writ by a jealous sun
where disappointments linger unburied
and age is making its relentless run
My tired eyes can still trace your first face
by the thievery of time irreducible
This morning I went for a country stroll
Saw greenery of summer at its best
But off road walking had taken its toll
So the next stop was an Inn for a rest .
Ploughman's I ordered with a pint of beer
I took a seat and watched folk come and go
The sounds of banter and talk I could hear
Background music playing easy and slow.
I finished lunch and left by the main door
A shame to leave such merriment behind
And tempted I was to just have one more
But the home journey I still had to find.
I looked at my map then got on my way
Making the most of this warm summer day.
Written 20th July 2019.
(A ploughman's lunch is an English cold meal of bread, cheese, onions and meat, usually accompanied by butter and pickles. As its name suggests, it is most commonly eaten at lunchtime, is particularly associated with pubs, and often accompanied with beer.)
(The Cotswolds is an area in south central and south west England comprising the Cotswold Hills, a range of rolling hills that rise from the meadows of the upper Thames to an escarpment, known as the Cotswold Edge, above the Severn Valley and Evesham Vale. The area is defined by the bedrock of Jurassic limestone that creates a type of grassland habitat rare in the UK and that is quarried for the golden-coloured Cotswold stone. It contains unique features derived from the use of this mineral; the predominantly rural landscape contains stone-built villages, historical towns and stately homes and gardens.
Source - Wikpedia.com
Quarried, and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf.
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Once more.
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe
Giants again shall walk this earth in
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
Once more.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8
Before the cedar learn'd the speech of steel,
Or heartwood yielded to the carpenter,
Its argent rings kept covenant with the weal
Of thawing springs and every pilgrim star.
No bough begrudged the tempest what it took;
Each wound became another living book.
Then came the hands that quarried trunk from loam.
One sought a boundary where lambs might rest;
One sought a crossing, calling strangers home
Across the torrent's vehement unrest.
The timber neither gloried nor complain'd:
It served the purpose into which 'twas grain'd.
Long years I honour'd bridges for their grace,
And deem'd all fences born of timid fear,
Till autumn, in a lichen-haunted place,
Unveil'd a quieter arithmetic there.
An ancient rail, half-vestured now in moss,
Kept not one flower, yet shelter'd all from loss.
Beyond the hill a broken arch was thrown,
Its patient span relinquish'd to the stream.
The river mourn'd no less, yet journey'd on;
It would not counterfeit a perish'd dream.
Some crossings, once unfaithful to their end,
Grow holier by refusing to pretend.
Then first I saw the oak had held no will
To part the meadow or unite the plain.
No fibre cherish'd malice, good, or ill;
No grain distinguish'd blessing, loss, or gain.
The tree gave only what its nature could;
The hand alone interpreted the wood.
I search'd my heart and found, with inward shame,
How many fences I had call'd a scar,
Though they preserv'd what tenderness became;
How many bridges bore me from my star.
For every road I should have left untrod
Had ask'd my feet to wander out of God.
There are estrangements mercy ought to heal—
Proud silences no sunrise should forgive.
There are departures only fire can seal,
Lest dying falsehood counterfeit the live.
Discernment is the rarer, sterner art:
To know which timber waits within the heart.
So now I bless neither the flame nor nail,
Nor praise the wall, nor crown the spanning frame;
I ask but this when love and judgement fail:
What keeps another soul more true to flame?
For wood remembers only how to give.
It is the hand that teaches it
whether to divide—
or let another live.
There is a body stronger than the flesh alone
it is the body of your love, that temple built of desire's stone
quarried from the chaos of your erotic emotions, shaped by destiny's moan,
where neurotic nerves, psychotic passions, fanatical faith and romantic rose chrome
are imported from the four corners of your heart, brought to the mount of your soul zone
upon here, obedience and freedom, submission and domination chalk and chisel to the bone,
the flame of Shekinah seduces spirit within and without your psychic cyclone
as age becomes an aggregate of obsession's ascensions and avalanches in cycles for you to atone,
Egyptian magicians and Phoenician mariners could only dream of your pulsing fortune,
what do magic rites and the mines of Ophir have to entice with compared to your throne
Hiram, the builder of holy royal bastions would seek the secrets of your star storm home -
J.A.B.
Copper blooms, titanium too below the iron of the sky
Rich fields of ore, quarried, lay everywhere without a quarrel
In conjunction with all things shiny on the land and rust of day
Mountains pinnacles are miles high
With gold draped cliffs of drifting yellow beads of brass
Green vegetation grows around them to quell their worries
Reaching to be free from electricity, thermal conductivity
Streams that run along the fields of metal valley mines
Gray with aluminum strands soft and solvent
Punctuate the landscape up above
Anodizing, analyzing, thinking they are zinc
So much of zinc below the solid surface riches
All this to be discerned by proper science expeditions
Metal machines gather what they need to feed their kind
Golden days, silver nights, tongues of tungsten
Wrap themselves around themselves for warmth
Metalloids are not yet born or forged
Malleable to shaping when they come
Some nonmetallic friends stop by to see the young
Marble and silicon are spies
Disclosed, exposed as such
Despised, disposed of for their corrosive side and lies
Platinum dressed in blue arrives
Stays to take a smoke or two
Smoldering in a blistering sun
Smelted, furn-aced for the future
To be tempered into something smooth
To contemplate the truth with other alloys
Query how all metals can be used
How Earth can hold itself together with the ores
Both in the ground and in the metal fields outside
To lay aside barren lands their souls in sun for warmth
Metal-tate a way to feel the force
They carry on and need no water
Of course rocks are most jagged and driest on mountain tops
They yield the finest metals, minerals at their pinnacles up there
And where suns furnace first glowed on
Touched the tip of Earth
Up there still, refines, defines the metal fields
9/22/14 Pinnacle - Poetry Contest
Atop old Penistone
From bumpy stony track to peak the summit
No ledges, drops from which to plummet
A quarried mound that boasts sweet heather
Loyal and strong despite the weather
The climb to top, a meagre stroll
But views abound, sights to extol
Bilberries aplenty on summer day
Rich pickings from a lush array
On one gray stone, a single rose is laid
where envied views boast hills of jade
In memory of a beloved view
Recalled by one faithful and true
Down slopy rubble on rugged track
A tarn exists amid the crags
A mirrored well by fallen sky
For calm reflection to stay awhile
And on to sepulchered random rock
Sculptured by time, turn back the clock
Grand memories of those since gone
Each tilted stone bears one loved name
Proud Penistone portal to the way
Not much to see, I hear you say
But look awhile on peaty ground
Penistone hill, not just a mound
A vantage point of contoured green
In memory of a beloved view
waterside vigil
buffalo nears water hole
lions crouch low nearby
three-pronged ambuscade
buffalo calf culled from herd
swift pincer attack
quarried prey springs forth
stressed calf serpentines about
lead lion cuts angle
driven toward snare
flanks assaulted from both sides
vise tightened prey clasped
The old ruin sat near the brow of the hill
it had been there for centuries forgotten
none now knew for what purpose it had been used
not even the elders who had many suggestions
A not unattractive looking building of stone
and that in it's self only added to the mystery
for these stones were not locally quarried
the nearest place being over 170 miles away
Yet here they had been dragged, then hewed
wrestling them into place quite some task
an imposing building nestled in the hillside
and the views surrounding it post card perfect
Inside was airy and light with most of the roof gone
a strange hearth in the corner of the main hall
large enough for a man to walk into upright
Bread ovens built into the walls and a sitting niche
This was all that was left apart from one roofed room
in here it was dry and warm even a single trundle bed
admittedly very rockety but still it was usable
I decided to camp out the following night, it would be fun
The following evening I climbed the hill as the sun set
tonight it would be a full moon, already the air chilling
I settled in with my few belongings and lit the fire
soon it was roaring, with crackles, hissing and spitting
It was a fine clear night and the heat wonderful
so I made up a bracken bed in front of the fire
I laid back enjoying the stars and a comet shooting past
lazily I slipped not realising into a strange sleep
I found the building restored though it's use still not clear
only a long table and chairs in here, beds in the rooms leading off
then a man came into view, he did not seem to notice me as he passed
he stirred the pot cooking on the fire and set the table
Soon more men came in and sat down to enjoy a hearty meal
I realised from their armour that these were soldiers
so the ram-shackled ruin had once been a lookout post
I woke in the morning well rested remembering my dream
As I walked back down the hill I looked back at it
drenched in sunshine it seemed to gleam a wisp of smoke
curling up from the chimney it looked as if once more alive
not an old forgotten ruin moulding slowly into the landscape
I used the word ram-shackled recently and it struck me as a good theme
for a poem so I wrote this.
I tried to tie, I said, I said,
some rocks to billowed clouds.
In this I was a fool, a chump!
For rocks, as is both well allowed
and widely wist,
pass always through these vapor stumps,
and gathered mists,
and won't be bound with lumps.
So all I’ve really done is stone the earth
with quarried things that loud ker-thump,
become the cause of people being
sore bereaved with grievous bumps.
Oh no! Look out! Please mind your head!
And look out poems!
Gazelles upon you tread.
OF THEE I WING
Certain people claim that I am free
Ain’t that a god damned gas?
I assure you that being as un-free as me
Is a predominate pain in the a*s
It ain’t right
Restricting my flight
And I’ll tell you who I hold responsible for having grounded my wings
I blame people like you
Who pluck my proudest and strongest feathers
One by one
So I may never again near the sun
Every feather gone with yet another lock and key
Yes, I blame you
For hindering me
You not only block my path
You block the sun
The orb this bird is never, once again to near
I fear
And the pertinent fact is predicated on a predictable preponderance of the evidence
And the fact is that I bother no one when I take to flight
Too long, for you, before the day was dissolved by night
As if waiting fifteen or twenty minutes will avoid some horrid accident of fate
So guard well that path of quarried slate
And make sure to lock that gate
Yeah yeah, I know all about it
I’m wrong in some capacity
Well you can talk ad infinitude
But I will always question your veracity
And remember, you can’t be decidedly deafened whenever a bluebird sings
And thank you very much for wounding my once wondrous wings!
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE..~free cee!~
Long travelled
am I,
amongst words
that have sailed
in and out of months
beyond the horizon
of years and age.
Set down
and scrolled out
in lexical identity
on parchment stane
quarried and carried
in the soft strom
of half light.
Earlier
I gave
a cursory nod
to the old man,
I had not considered then
that his solitary stature
would guide so many.
But his
aching, half arched frame
in washed out form,
guards entry
and signals the
traveller
of tides the
glimpse of long lost siblings.
And in your flatter
inflexion,
my attention drew,
to the obvious
island words,
that take shape
their derivative
prose.
Sung in angular
and Whale like form
their signature
icon denotes
my spiritual home.
And so,
the ellipsis
hidden from view
was always there,
its codified embodiement
still breathing amongst the living,
in you and I,
and all the seas
that ever were.
For time,
as with the bluntness
of Helgi’s flint like passion
…………the writing is on the wall
some people claim that i am free
now ain't that a god-damned gas
i assure you being as restricted as me
is a predominant pain in the ass
this isn't right
restricting my flight
And I'll tell you upon whom I place the blame for having grounded my wings
I hold accountable people like you who pluck my strongest and proudest feathers
one by one
so I may never again near the sun
every feather gone with another shackle and chain
but why, for what have you to gain?
yes
i blame you for hindering my plight,
because this just ain't right
you not only block my path
but you blind me to the brightness with your wrath
and so I fear
that orb is one this bird is never again to near
and the pertinent particulars are predicated on a predictable preponderane of the evidence
and the fact that I bother no one once I take flight
no, this just ain't right
alas, to me the time between the sun and moon is diminishing
as if, should I fly once more, it will cause some kind of astronmical catastrophe
without an apostrophe
while I await my fate
so guard well my path of quarried slate
and make certain to lock the gate
yeah yeah I know you think i'm errent in some capacity or other
and that hoard includes my mother
yet I still doubt your veracity
and am aware that you all think I'm wrong spelled out in neon lights at night
But remember, you can clip my wings
but you can't deafen your ears when this flightless bluebird of sorrow sings
(c) 2011.....Phreepoetry
shoot, you can talk ad infinitum
yet I will always suspect your veracity