Long Archaeological Poems
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EVOLUTION OR FIRM RESOLUTION
If anyone happens to mention evolution,
It could never ever be to the exclusion,
Of any faith worldwide, only to the inclusion
For all of us are steadfast in our resolution!
All of us believe in God, Maker of heaven and earth,
So let them bring on evolution, nothing to fear,
For this has happened over millions of years.
We have our faith which stands strong and true,
So let me tell you what I read and which is today present!
Johannesburg, Sterkfontein, some prehistoric few
Fossils discovered in the Cradle of Humankind,
Have become controversial, and Mrs. Ples? This find
In 1936 by Doctor Robert Broom went viral,
The whole world shocked, as the news did spiral!
Breaking news, the first ape looking human being,
Tourists from around the world have come and seen
Her skeleton, replicated but original in a secret vault,
Who, What led the archaeologists to dig up Mrs. Ples,
Carbon tests proved she was about 3 million years old,
For archaeologist this was more than finding gold!
Are science and religion beginning to talk,
About the most controversial historical fork?
Its sound very scary,
And of course we are wary,
So visit the internet and read about the cradle of humankind,
You will read of
Archaeological findings of millions of years ago,
It is important for us to know, so we can refute
It, or accept this finding
This has been shown by archaeologists to be binding.
First and foremost comes our faith,
Have no fear,
Perhaps just of interest to simply hear
Come and visit the Sterkfontein caves
Just outside Johannesburg!
Did God sanction this find or not,
Which perhaps binds the knot?
I’m not enforcing or insisting walking down this path,
For I am God fearing, but as long as my eyes can see
Which was God’s gift to me,
And as long my ears can hear, I cannot deny,
I have heard of and read this article
Otherwise, I would be telling a lie!
My room is a mess - it's an archaeological record of boredom.
Christmas, Christmas, come on Christmas.
It's 4 days 'til Christmas. Why don't I go to my room and do NOTHING??
The clock ticking sounds like a large horse clomping over cobble stones.
Last year there were wall-to-wall parties - so many that you had to carry a change of clothes with you.
In 2020 there's nothing to do - but I don't have to tell YOU (my reader). Except for the whole school thing. Nothing to do but study. I read, on that webber-net thing that 38% of students are failing.
Because of the pandemic - oh, not that virus monster - the boredom pandemic - the London-tower-lonely state of slow-motion distress that’s invisibly gripped us all.
Can we hold on people? The hard-won, delicious truth is that there’s hope. Vaccines - a bunch of 'em. Is it possible to let worries go this season and simply treasure our lives?
Just this month we have or had Hanukah, Kwanza, Festivus.
Hopefully, you made wild, monkey-love on December 14th - that was "International Monkey Day" - I couldn't join you - of course - but I'm just sayin. =]
Look it up - almost every day is some kind of celebration or invent your own - if Ice Cream Day, Lemon Cupcake Day, Go Caroling Day or Crossword Puzzle Day don't do it for ya.
The important gifts, this year, are fun, attention and love.
Afternoon duty session
After a hearty lunch
Only luck avoided
A nearly disastrous crunch.
For a split second the Controller
Let his attention waver and slide,
Which, for a brief instant, caused
Parallel dimensions to collide.
Dinosaurs appeared on
Many a sleeping city street
Causing that alarm and confusion
When ancient and modern meet.
Things that should have happened
Didn’t, or happened slightly late,
Leaving, for a little while, both worlds
In an intermixed confused state.
The Controller quickly corrected,
Things quickly settled down,
Leaving minimal damage
In the odd modern town.
New species instantly created
Were just as quickly gone
As the dimensions re-split
And normality moved on
In one world’s future
Hybrid remains would be found
Causing archaeological confusion
And many theories to abound.
And in the ancient world you
Could read the shock and surprise
That was for while was reflected
In many a dinosaur’s eyes.
The controller sighed with relief
The incident had made him think
And in contrition he’d resolved
To stop that extra lunchtime drink.
In the Controllers rest room
He was greeted with a sigh,
Many a colleagues thinking
There, but for fortune, go you or I.
It is a field composed of four times more stones than grass
with a spectacular traditional residency, making its habitat almost homogenous
is this global historic street light, shinning with well spread beams.
Through its inventions of western theories of tragedy and comedy,
major mathematical principles, histiography and western literature,
political science, the Olympics and western philosophy.
All well capped by the majestic influence from its creation of democracy.
Setting up as passengers of a flight travel to the past,
the suppressed heavily added to the density of its people.
Waving with an open hand and fingers well extended
hits the mind with similar intensity to telling an irish “smell ya ma”.
The puff of breath through pursed lips and the shade of blue
stand in mythical beliefs of protection against evil.
The unbelievable stamina of the Hoplite soldiers
all sum up the beautiful historic landmark of a nation
once defined by thousands of different quarreling colonies.
The leading producer of sea sponges
with its ships more than twice as much as its continental fleets
and a global accolade of accumulating archaeological Museums.
Despite being heavily wounded by financial meltdown;
and still drinking from the deadly taste of its black soup
its highlighted prominence in history, mathematics and philosophy
together with the cultural swag of its first world features
attract yearly interested sight-seekers much more than its inhabitants
which is an enough statement, to the testament of its global charm.
I am here on an archaeological quest,
to satisfy many a curious mind's request
for knowledge on antiques and artifacts
of Egypt's long extinct historical facts,
in treasured sands buried, like gold mines earnestly
sought for in stories shrouded in mythology.
With a large contingent just as curious as I,
hardly daunted by curses, but with shoulders high,
we went to the field, the sun baking us chaps
to a baker's delight. With our rumpled maps,
we searched every clue, and were bitten perhaps
by a million flies. Getting relief from sunless skies
in times of fair weather, whilst hoping something lies
in the depths of the hot sands for our very eyes
to see. With my tools by hard work and search worn out,
I brushed to full view, the tomb, brilliantly carved out
of young blue blooded Tut, regally laid to rest.
To my wearied colleagues, I spoke in real earnest:
'To exhume the past, we are here at last.'
Form:
9.
like the light
like the dark
yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road
taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals
it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness
he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin
if you are sorry be water for three days now
through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies
the blue cough is not from the sky
it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out
10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind
and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently
i make the crystal of her hair soft
i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed
the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton
can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk
i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks
11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories
this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root
yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps
the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided
towards the ganga
towards the padma
the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight
those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers
within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces
you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire
An ocean's depth lies between The Georgia Guidestones
and England's Salisbury Plains, where Stonehenge stands.
Though they appear on different continents, they share
mysterious secrets that have never quite been explained.
Were they erected as a cryptic message for all of mankind,
or esoteric giants raised on earth, new or eons of years ago?
Commissioned by modern man or the hierarchy of occult?
Vertical, they stand, monoliths in fields of space and time,
Silent are the henges, forged in history, draped in moss
circular in shape, one age old set encircling the other.
Praised as an archaeological wonder, aligning with the sun,
a healing place or time's gateway used by priest and Druids?
The Georgian stones appear to me as a set of double doors,
Inscribed on their surfaces are lines of grave warning and laws.
heralding "truth, beauty and love, passion faith and tradition."
One distinct language, and a guide limiting world population.
Perhaps Stonehenge is just a monument to the dead, but that's
not the simple minded perception that rolls around in my head.
I believe there's something more significant to the ancient stones
that we can only conceive if the Druids want it made known.
November 27, 2021
Georgehenge Stone Cold Minds Reflect Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick
Wake me up, when I’m dead,
I want to see New York again
And climb into the Empire State Building,
I want to see the Metropolitan Museum again
See again his archaeological museum.
Wake me up, when I’m dead,
I want to see the big whales again
On the long island road,
I want to see the yellow squirrels again
On the lawns of Central Park,
Wake me up, please, when I’m dead,
Iwant to talk about New York, at school
With the young girls of Saint Joseph,
With Marie, Gaëlle and Aurelia,
With Jennifer, Melanie and Julie,
Wake me up, when I’m dead,
I want to sleep again on 14th street,
Speaking American, with strangers,
Buy a big cheeseburger on 42nd Street,
Read again, Anne Sexton and Ted Kooser, poets of character,
See my name displayed on Times Square. *
* I am just joking
Réveillez-moi, quand je serai mort,
Je veux revoir New York
Et monter dans l’empire State Building,
Je veux revoir le Metropolitan Museum
Et son musée d’archéologie.
Réveillez-moi, quand je serai mort,
Je veux revoir les grandes baleines
Sur la route de long Island,
Je veux revoir les jaunes écureuils
Sur les pelouses de Central Park,
Réveillez-moi, quand je serai mort,
Je veux parler de New York,
Avec les filles de Saint Joseph,
Avec Marie Gaëlle et Aurélie,
Avec Jennifer, Mélanie et Julie,
Réveillez-moi, quand je serai mort,
Je veux dormir dans la quatorzième rue,
Parler américain, avec des inconnus,
Acheter un cheeseburger sur la 42ème rue,
Relire Anne Sexton et Ted Kooser, poètes de caractère,
Voir mon nom s’afficher sur Times Square.
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.”
I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.