Long Archeologist Poems
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If Peter Piper picked a pack of pickled peppers, would you care?
Would the peck be put in a glass jar? What if he dropped a hair in there?
And, if Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet digging
and found the jar that Piper had hidden in the muck,
along side the skull of Cro-Magnon man?
“Ahhh, NO we’ve found the hip girdle and he’s a she!”
Well, ole Pipper’s pecker would have gone to the pie in the sky
and Miss Muffet’s tuffet would have gone to compost;
So, how would the archeologist know for sure? "
Why the HIP, you hafta have hips, miles and miles and mile of hips…
Baby you can be a hero of course just put that ‘orse behind the cart!”
Heart, well it’s left the building too. “Geeezzz it was just a pump
whatcha want from a pump?” Thump, thump, from the bump, bump,
then ya hump, hump, and my goodness, we’re back to Peter Piper and his pecker?
“NO, no, his peck of pickles and Muffet’s missin’ tuffet?
Well, I say the stars, yes the stars, show the way,
the celestial meaning of the id, the I, the you, the ego too,
and love “Ahhhhhh love the excuse for it all!”
The pickles, the muffins, the tuffet, the bumping the humpin’
The free for all of we!
One man
Stands
Beneath his white helmet
And demands,
Silence.
Throughout Aleppo.
His stethoscope,
He attaches
To the dust
And listens
From his knees.
The man has
Ten fingers,
A dry brush
And a pair of pliers
To dig like an archeologist.
He does not have years,
But minutes
To search the ruins
For toes
That wiggle
Or mouths
That suckle
Or bleeding hearts
That still beat
Like tremors
In puddles of plaster.
When an apartment building
Of ten stories
Is bombed
By planes
Flown by strangers
And its hallways and closets
And bedrooms
And kitchens
And stairwells
Are pancaked
Into a single floor
Of wreckage
In seconds,
There can be tiny
Zigzagged
Crevices
With, but inches of space
And pockets of air
Left
Where
Former residents
May fill these places
With their slippery bodies
Poured like liquid
Into molds
That harden
While they wait
For a miraculous tap
From Above
Or Below
Or from the Sideways.
Sometimes,
The plaster and gravel
Molds
Blink
Back
With the brown eyes
Of a three year old
Or the trickle of blood
Can faintly be heard
Still flowing
Under
A mother’s skin
In
And through her veins.
To the rubble surgeon,
That is like seeing fireworks
Or hearing tubas,
So, he probes further.
Using his fingernails
Like scalpels,
He unearths
An elbow,
A shoulder,
A chest,
The belly,
Ankle bones
And then, the whole
Of the lightning-shaped body
Releases in one dusty swoop,
Scooped
Into both his hands
And raised above his head
As if on scales
And lifted to the emerald sky,
The weight of the world
Presented to the gods,
A broken body
And a scarred soul
But, yes,
Yes,
Pried
Alive
With the first cry of a second birth
From a saved person
Who’s
On
No one’s side
But for God's.
Santa clause get me hope for xmas, since its hard for my mind and heart to hope again. Magicians perform me tricks to overcome ths dissapointment and shock, I jst can't bear no more. Scientist discover in me once again, trust and strength to live with this world horrors.
In me, I know not how to react to this devastation, human in collision, both young and old's life in shambles. There's no level or meassurements to curb this might of distress and dispair, its just spilled waters and milk everywhere, hopeless!
In which part of this Earth can I locate reset button, are there any archeologist to help me trace biblical authors's graves and tombs? maybe through them my grievences will reach to God
#Poetic_Ink
Then:
naïve, sheltered, shy
what i thought
i wanted to be -
an archeologist, Barbizon model (no proclivity),
a writer, a psychologist, a mom, a wife
Now:
brazen, talkative, traveller, open
what i am -
a Christian, a writer (a poet), a model
citizen, prone to psychoanalyse, a mom, grandma,
a wife
Then:
at 5, under the knife, tonsils removed, ice
cream treat; cut my foot in a bike spoke, no dinner
Now:
Wheeled through airport, whisked to urgent care,
ambulance ride to hospital, anxiety led to prayer, peace
as piece of me removed (gallbladder)
Then: single, not wise, average, well-endowed
Now: married a long long time, know things (experience),
endowment’s gone south
Then:
envision wearing a billowy white shirt, sitting in front of window
facing the sea, writing poetry, ink dry
Now:
Anytime, anywhere, wearing anything or nothing at all,
ink wet as muse sees fit
Then:
face to face friends, cord attached to wall, cell of my own
making
Now:
poetry friends all over the world, poetry transports with
my fingertips
Then:
Mom, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Grandparents
Now:
Deficit of loved ones. Looking
to the future in bright new faces
Then: reaching inward, wanting love Now: reaching out, loving
Going further: reaching ever upward, in word and deed
I am entitled
to die, once,
and see my Lord and God
12/30/2022
Then and Now
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
The pyramids are the triangular prims of the Egyptian desert,
monumental in height, and unsurpassable in endurance...
works of the hands of the whip-lashed Hebrew slaves;
no grief-striken faces were ever carved into them,
but those voices still recede into their lamentation's songs.
From each angle they seem equal in length,
narrower at the top and wider on the bottom,
and hotter than the dry sand dunes that thirst for rain;
and the Valley of the Kings, which perpetuates death's bliss,
still intrigues any archeologist who wanders in their labyrinth.
And delving deeper into our imagination, they are massive tombs in which the servants
gave the deceased Pharaoh a superb make-over, putting rouge on his lips and cheeks;
adorning him with an arkh necklace, and a scarab amulet with bright colors,
and these triangle-shaped pyramids are more solid than the boulders of a canyon,
and have never been shaken by an earthquake or devastated by a flood..
From the seat of a small airplane, they take the unmistakable shape
of cones with the evidence of continual corrosion caused by whipping winds;
this is the home of spiders that eternally crawl into the sandy storms;
every pyramid displays an intricate design, alluding to a more advanced species,
which for some unexplainable reason fled from danger with the swiftest rhythm.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I stand aloof of time trying to shape a new path for the next journey to start. I wasn’t sure where to begin so I detach myself from everything and my spirit start to sing a woeful hymn.
It wasn’t composed of words; there wasn’t any structure, just the rhythm was playing in my head, the caterpillar was rolling all over the bed.
I walked towards “paradise” screaming on the floor and I went in search of it knocking on every door. It wasn’t made up of giant steps but it had unified depth and was reasonable enough to lift me out of the dark, and drive the sorrows away but nothing was there to keep the burden away.
I had to venture up the hill to relinquish the burden above my head and commemorate the wisdom of the dead but something was there for me to see that was washed out of the sea; it was the epitaph of a derailed dream inscribed on stone of a guy that could not return home.
He ran a regiment for many years and builds a castle on the hill but he could not keep still. He establishes hundreds of businesses all over the town and so his profit began to grow and he decides to end the show.
He had everything he wanted, he built rockets and missiles and earthly paradise made of inhumane sacrifice but something was still missing he had just lost the love of his life. She broke off the engagement to find a better path to heaven.
They had spent little time together and use to hang out by the river but they were just not right for each other, the archeologist and the politician have nothing in common so they went their separate ways, and the last I heard of him was that he passed away.
I stand aloof of time reminiscing an age-old dream that came alive on the big screen. I dreamt about it, but I wasn’t aware of it until someone told me about it, the set is getting bigger and my mind is getting sharper and the space around me is getting wider.
I took a walk into the woods looking for a new path but my mind kept wandering in the dark, but I keep moving to find tiny sparks of hope for a reason to stay alive.
It‘s the dream that is still alive that gives me the courage to abide and so I keep searching for the path that will pull me out of the dark.
There are times in life that make you think,
Then there are others that make you drink.
As a man I experienced both at an early age
Here's the tale, so I'll set the stage.
An Archeologist was what I wanted to be,
Only to have it turn into an embarassing moment for me.
The King Tut exhibit had come to town,
Some friends asked if I would like to go down.
Being single, I didn't want to be a "5th Wheel",
They said, "No problem...another girl would agree with the deal."
So we planned the Museum trip with great care,
Me most of all, as this new girl would soon be there.
I was anticipating having a great time,
With these friends and one they made sound so sublime.
They picked me up that morning in their car,
The drive to this gal's house was not that far.
At the appointed time we pulled up front of her house,
I don't remember, but I must have been as jittery as a mouse.
Then out she came, this beautiful, freckled, red head,
At that moment my thoughts raced and heart sped.
It was a cool day so the windows were down,
When suddenly my joy of meeting her caused a frown.
When she saw me in the back of the car as she peered in,
She said one thing..."I'm not goin' ".
She turned on her heal with no reason for the spurn,
Ran back to her house and never even turned.
I was as crushed as I could be,
But it was the best thing that could have happened to me.
Because the gal that set up the date,
Eventually became my true soulmate.
Star-Gate is illusive, as Genesis is evasive
EL-OH-AOW-ARE-U, can this be true...
"first human words"
In Earth's beginning, we begat to know, *WHOM*
was this keeper of our Star-Gate...
who then is WHOM? perhaps this answer lies
deep within a Tomb...
Einstein only lost his scientific atmospheric papers, this
has pushed us far apart, it would appear, while
(This is True}
Ivis Cartisha Archeologist provides a New Start
his trained-eye is caught by another tablet of
Hieroglyphics,*OUR FIRST WORDS* from our Heart
man uttered... Ra-M-ss also Th-Uth-M-s!
(This first word is Ramss, his beloved King)
Metaphor:
Through our Star-Gate blacken hue, our Black
moon... blocks your View...
your science takes you past our Sun, this is...
not Bright my Son's...
Star-Gate may be found off their opposite direction
that dark-side of your Sphere, it has no reflection
We are *WHOM* you seek, from your start, Why...
look in sun 'Bright space' when you depart...
pointing you over here WOW through...
Our metaphorical Star-Gate, Rates!.
A time to rake; to search embers,
for fingerprints and the scorched optics
of the scattered and blind.
After the violence, fagots, and reeds
are heaped up into pyres,
but first the sorting,
the probing for trinkets of flesh.
A silver crucifix, smutter tarnished,
lays blackened by the avid impetus
of quick flames, it is held up,
by a tattered man of woe,
he calls out:
"I found something!"
Death's archeologist huddle,
wipe this soot-seared relic
with sweat
laced with new revealed
sorrows.
The recently threshed look upward,
not down. dull eyed, they peer
as though through the bottom of a fishbowl
at the red and bloated
afloat beneath an unblinking sky.
These smithereens of mortality
slowly bob in the ether,
they wait for the hands
of a meek fisherman to haul them in,
to take them away.
A time to rake; to search embers,
to pore over resurrected,
fire-damaged relics.
On an ancient shore
driftwood, fagots, and reeds
are heaped up onto a pyre of time.
After the fire there is a sorting.
a probing for talismans and trinkets.
Before the flames, flesh had hidden them,
in its open wounds.
An iron crucifix; smutter tarnished,
lays blackened by the quick flames.
It is held up to the sun,
by a tattered man of woe.
Death’s archeologist
wipes this soot-seared icon,
with a sweat-stained rag.
Other artifacts are long drowned,
they wait for the hands
of fishermen to haul them in,
to return them
to a modern-day Nazareth,
there, Islamic street traders
still sell religious curios
for Israeli shekels.