Long Artefacts Poems
Long Artefacts Poems. Below are the most popular long Artefacts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artefacts poems by poem length and keyword.
Caves are dark, dank, sinister havens for rising damp
Mere cavities in the ground, veiled from light of day
Yet caves are heralded, admired and cherished
For a swarm of reasons, just mind the bats
Caves are drop inns
Hikers and natives welcome finding a cave
They provide shelter from wind and rain
A great place to stay the night, light a fire
To enjoy the cosy charm of safe seclusion
Caves are art galleries
The walls are dotted with new and ancient graffiti
Hand-prints, paintings, scribbles and scenes
Made by artists with no where else to hang their stuff
Revealed by flickering flames and dim filtered beams of light
Caves are museums and dumps
Visitors leave their junk in caves
Animals topple in and get trapped
Caves are a great place for animals to die
These dumps are bliss to archaeologists
Who drool over skeletons, artefacts and such old-time junk
Caves are cathedrals and awe-catches
Endless aeons of dirty drips yield fabulous
On floor and ceiling displays of
Glistening stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous space, silence and eerie dankness
Makes visitors gasp with adoration and awe
Highlighted by the uniqueness, isolation and remoteness of caves
So duck-in to a cave when you pass one by
and you'll discover the ins and outs of caves
Caves are awesome and strangely welcoming
Despite their darkness, dampness and malevolence
ANTIQITIES
transform
the
space
responding
to
mysterious
imagination
&
cultural
treasures
in
dispersed
artefacts
inscribed
example
or written
text
gleaned
or shaped
by mystery
of the
once
discarded
elusive
significance
gone
sustainable
organic
lyrical
shades of
yesteryear
works in progress
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
I am reminded as I look to this bell
with Penola inscribed upon it in brass
of heritage to which it testifies well.
Sixteen men borne over the ocean to vast
wide wastes of white wilderness, there to explore
Antarctic channels, glaciers and savage coasts.
There among penguins and seals were many more
fauna, and features to chart in icy blasts
from sledges pulled by dogs over frozen ground.
Journals and artefacts have yet more to tell
of explorers by a common purpose bound,
held safe in that schooner, their home with its bell.
Grandsons are lifted to ring it yet again,
re-sounding remote ventures of these great men.
'Tis said that man comes alone
And will die alone
Whoever hands out a hand to him
Along the way
Remains none other than a friend in need!
Pray, a hand held out of selfishness
Becomes a hand to trample unto
To crush, to intimidate
To break, to pretend that it's none other
Than a hand worth less than a clod!
Why, is it not, in the very end,
The essence of life?
Living alone only to adorn our paths
With temporary held out hands,
By making of them artefacts worth showcasing
Keeping them as trophies on our shelves
Or, on the walls of our Facebook
Till, as Fate wills, each one does meet
With their turn of the wind!
After all, every parcel of life revolves in solo
And each one holds out their hands so as
To get there where they have to
Ants, even if available by the millions
Are helpless without the other
Wolves, though predatorial
Are easily vanquished if preying in solo
Orcas for the other, end up stranded
When they swim alone
The only one to bear with herself
Remains our Mother, Earth!
Earth yes, Earth is the only one to shoulder life
She absorbs the negativity of her children
She puts up with their tantrums
With their arrogance, with their evil nature
With their daring mistakes, with their blindness
With their sins, why, even with their tampers
Upon her sovereignty!
Pray, though a child of the Earth,
I remain, like the rest of them all,
My hands, I do hold them out,
As if, I were lost in a whirlpooling sea
Surrounded by mad men,
Mad men, seeing not the madness
That surrounds them
Seeing, solely, the pleasures and the pains
They derive from it!
I hold out my hand and grapple on
To those I need, to stay afloat
In the churning sea, to breathe
To smile, to pretend that I am at peace
With the Fate imposed upon me by the skies
And when the skies do beckon
I do react, accordingly
Even if, in the very end,
The skies' will has me wishing
I could take back my hand and perish
Alone
In this whirlpooling sea of madness!
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.”
She sat in silence, whittling wood,
Creating magic with her hands,
Here she couldn't be misunderstood,
Carving charming pieces on stands,
Fulfilling customer demands;
She carved serenely, working hard,
Chipping away those needless bits,
Making art out of something marred,
This showcased her finesse and wits,
She loved her work, wouldn’t call it quits;
With this job, she couldn’t make ends meet,
But she rose to the occasion,
Pouring her heart into each feat
With skill and perfect equation,
She persevered with persuasion;
She had the courage to dream on,
Toiling with the sweat of her brow,
Soon she saw the glow of the dawn,
Her artefacts are famous now,
Her diligence paid off and how!
10th March 2022
For Emile Pinet's "Quintain (English)" poetry contest
Rhymes checked with www.rhymezone.com
Broken hearts turn into crimson roses
Meant to be held as prized artefacts
Even if they shall never mend
For hearts are as brittle as window panes
And none has ever been able to glue
A broken pane back together
Yet,
Broken hearts also turn into flying spirits
And allow themselves to be blown
Across the lands and over the oceans
If they allow not the closed minded ones
To keep them as captive roses in well secured
Gardens or in colourful vases!
But it happens that broken hearts
Meet with the one powerful enough
To create, in their midst,
Acceptance and thereby setting the ground
For healing to happen!
These blessed ones tend those hearts
As fervently as the devoted would pray everyday
Or as determinedly as lovers would fight for their beloveds!
Broken hearts then turn into magical elements
Being that which others want them to be:
Either a rainbow for some,
Or a unicorn for others,
Regardless,
As long as they would ignite sparkles
In the eyes of those who would cross their paths,
For,
Their motto would solely be:
To hold out a healing hand!
the rusty tap captures this scene,
the brown murky residue bulging in saturation.
the emerald coloured Victorian paint peeling like an rotten corpse,
leaving the imagination in an bewildering photographic shock.
Tiny puddles are scattered like rabbit holes,
they gently ripple with each drop of rain that falls from it's dilapidated exterior
Skeletons of iron-cast machinery, lay as artefacts of hazardous condemnation.
This hollow lung, laid dormant yet still breathing, desperately
in need of repairing or deleting.
The vegetation entwined itself within the rusted iron beams in a subtle suffocation, programmed in a arrogant nature.
The wind rattles through this building as those currents embrace this peculiar structural arrangement, dancing around this monument of time, this museum of solemn captivation.
The lonely ominous building sits in an bold servitude to a dead era,
and seldom seen it quietly assumes it's place
‘Sankofa’ In 'Safranbolu'
This bird from Ghana’s legends flies forward looking backward
In the Twi language twinned with indigenous souls and wisdom
the feathered friend suggests to go back and get it and I suppose
some fly backwards while looking ahead but then life is not only
Chronos but 'Kairos' with the meter entwined and composed
At this precise moment not alone in this moving instant it waves
and oscillates conjoining what was and will be when the present
is the past in a flash and one cannot step into the same river again
yet the future is shaped by the past the here and now a 'Kairometer'
transcending artefacts and boundaries into ‘truths’ and reality
The bird flies and time flows back and beyond near and far
further on wings and pinions with roots at heart
In ‘Safranbolu’ the ancient Ottoman town on the Black Sea Coast
and thus close to Ghana in real time place and connection
the old man had been tending the clock in the tower both man and
the turret free standing and wise still present and one
‘Seventy years’ as he explained pendulum hands and the wheels
What memories pride mechanics precision preserved aspiration and
dignity flying into the face of the clock and the distortions of time
Mustafa had climbed those steps so often had rung the bell
oiled the time keeper had not forgotten a day of his duties
had become one with the time piece and stood still many times
in awe of monument and pacing the sleepy old town yet
he flew forward so peacefully looking back in retrospect and respect
He has watched birds history duration impermanence imprinting the
meaning of a life worthy of living in honour of what is the present
20th November in all past and future revisited
We are but fleeting shadows
On the impersonal sea of time
Footprints washed away in its sands
Such traces that we do leave
Are found in fading memories
And crumbling artefacts.
There are those who aspire
To be written into the pages of history
For cultural immortality
Yet we are no more than specks of dust
In a swirling boundless universe
Minuscule megalomaniacs
With a magnificent obsession
Clinging to a belief in life without end
To give meaning to our existence
That final sleep,portrayed as our dream world,
is oblivion, pure and simple
The ultimate annihilation
Remember man that thou art dust
And into dust thou shalt return.