Long Excavating Poems
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I'm a simple guy,
I like video games, music and succeeding without trying,
So when a man comes up to me and tell me he can save my life,
Who am I to turn down a free book from a generous passerby,
Strange how after hundreds of Reddit articles I find these red words the most astounding,
Each verse saturated with a truth beyond my understanding,
I embraced the scripture in my new-found belief,
Ditching skeptics and scientific contention for a biblical motif,
So with my newfangled faith I embarked on a holy endeavor,
To sift through a lifetime of personal uncertainty to uncover the answer,
I found myself under bottomless pizza boxes,
Buying time stocks from the evolutionary clock,
Discovering purpose through glimmering game discs,
Fashioning polygonal personalities into personable obelisks,
Uncovering the depths of my psyche excavating mountains of dirty laundry,
Rinse on, dry off, purging both physical filth and emotional quandaries,
Sharing walkways with speeding cars enslaved to a monetary duty I can't shirk
A journey of a thousand steps every pilgrimage to work,
My blood a bubbling brew of ambition and potential,
Yet required to surpass insurmountable credentials,
Ignoring the marked symbols in newspapers they seek to brand on my forehead,
Subjective opinions of civility and idealism dropped on me like warheads,
Cryptic predictions of personality and fate,
You think I need a dice roll to determine if I'm straight?
Countless evaluations to rationalize the psyche and soul combined,
What makes their opinion more viable than mine?
I'm taking buoyant steps upon the swamp to reach my destination,
Swapping carnality for divinity to achieve the ultimate self-preservation,
Cremating my mortality I seek to ascend,
Past primitive understanding of a purpose I cannot comprehend,
This road we walk is coated with trip-wire and paved with scorching coals,
Watch out for those flaming hours in your 5-day forecast so find the nearest foxhole,
The burden on our shoulders has already been lifted so there's no reason for us to be aching,
We're on the path to eternal salvation why aren't we skipping?
So why don't you tag along with me on this self-realization odyssey,
I can't promise explosions or tentacle-headed aliens but I know it'll at least be interesting,
Just you, yourself, me and I,
The most dynamic duo to ever breach the sky.
So many volcanoes,
spawn of Kraken’s seed,
boiling, roiling, seething, bubbling
inside thin walls traveling
on a neural microcosm
of flesh transcending nothingness.
Who made you what your are?
Did you not reach your goal?
Did you not become the “yourself” you like?
Do you only live a cyber life?
Painting your life, your brain, your body, in pseudo humanism?
No wonder you frustrate easily.
No wonder you don’t know the real you.
No wonder the fishing for compliments on demand like a movie.
You made you whom you are.
Only you can change whom you are.
Openly sly cutting sweetness in public eye
cutting, personal innuendo excavating thrill.
Laying your arrogance at the feet of the public’s scrutiny
while the real you in domineering reverie lays fire and brimstone
stinging the soul of trust behind the veil of friendship.
No wonder, one is warped!
No wonder, one knows not how to feel!
No wonder, one does not feel love,
but has mixed emotion!
Not recognizing lust from love.
Not knowing when hate invades happiness.
To be humane is to trust
until you find reason not to.
To be humane is to have faith that
the trust will be returned in kind.
To be humane is to live face to face.
You learn to love face to face.
And when you are alone.... memories.
No matter the “whatever” of the baby or the mother,
the baby comes into the world with no hate, no lust.
It comes into the world physically and emotionally attached,
but more strongly emotionally.
If it is loved and nourished in relationship, love will grow.
Love will never die even long after the mother is gone.
Some parents treat their children as rental cars
and then wonder why they never come back home.
Some treat their spouse as nothing and cry when they part.
Yet some are too busy LOVING to hate.
Quarrel, yes! Disagree, yes!, At times HATE, yes!
Some times passion, some lust, but at ALL times LOVE!
True emotion never comes by correspondence course.
It comes face to face, sooner or later
weak or strong, but lasting even
when hidden away
in the pulsing
miracle we call
our heart.
© Aug 25 2010 For Farah's "Word Hurl" contest
THE CRADLE OF MANKIND.
The archaeologists of this era
Were about to excitedly find
The Cradle of Mankind
Where the origins of humankind
Had been found, the news was about
To be revealed to the whole world
And so the ears of our globe were glued
To their radios in 1947, they heard,
About this mammoth remarkable finding
Painstakingly excavated , it’s evidence binding.
Mrs Ples’s skull was found,
And with carbon dating,
Archaeologists were rewarded
Most certainly worth waiting!
Estimated to be 2.3 million years’ old.
Mrs Ples (as the archaeologists named her)
All this time had been hidden
For many a year
But there is still more to hear!
It is said that she is the missing link,
We may each think what we want to think!
Archaeologists were about to discover
Other unbelievable phenomena,
Which supported the belief of evolution,
And steered many into total confusion!
God is omnipresent, and
The Alpha and Omega, He has been
Looking down on earth for millenniums
From the beginning of time,
He is omniscient, He believes in me,
And I in Him, He is the Divine!
The Sterkfontein caves are now famous,
Planet Earth was listening, this story was big!
In 1998 archaeologists discover
Yet another important find,
This boggled the mind!
They laboriously dug in this one excavation
Over twenty years, Layer upon layer of ground
And thus Little Foot was found!
He, some say it’s a she, was gently assembled,
And lies in a Pretoria museum,
Together with Mrs Ples,
Archaeologists still dig,
They insist, that there are still hidden treasures
And take great measures,
To work carefully and diligently
Excitedly say there is much more to find
Underneath and beyond the Sterkfontein caves,
Patiently, waiting to uncover
Yet another, one of a kind!
I believe with soul, heart and being
In The Almighty, maybe He even lent the
Archaeologists a helping hand, we cannot
Ignore these finds, they are not fantasy but real
Furthermore we were given the gift of logic,
And ultimately the archaeologists will kneel,
And praise and thank God Almighty!
Contrary faces, a ramshackle masquerade.
Strengths stance unwavering in face, though weakness taunts,
gaining momentum to take its place.
"Fear nothing but fear it's self" the age old adage turns battle cry for the seat of life.
Roots digging deeper through sinking soil, as foliage trembles and falls
to sediment vanishing.
Excavating fortitudes treasure chest.
A variable whose values are solutions of a cantankerous equation.
Stubborn blindness finds it's voice,
defying the obvious with a song of a soldier marching to momentums tune.
I will overcome this too!
Hope... my unequivocal tool.
Putting on the cloak of courage, masked in warriors paint.
Face to the wind, feet planted on the edge of an unknown.
Leaping into the land of no promises.
Strength repudiating the weaker course
Contrary faces, a ramshackle masquerade.
Accusation poised on the wind, what if, what about when... ?
Suddenly, a stump balanced on frail prosthesis.
Panic steals the lungs before breath can form; drips of perspiration follow the path of memories lines across weathered cheeks.
When ripened groves of wisdom remember battles won. Once again...
Contrary faces, a ramshackle masquerade.
Which face will know the victory in the challenges that
L
i
t
t
e
r
My way.
Perhaps some cobblestone shade of grey
will someday shade this contrary face,
In this ramshackle masquerade.
Form:
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
Thank you, for excavating from dead tongue
Under midden of lies
The archive of our own history
The outlines of identity
So we under obscurity white sheet
Could find resurrection of self
In another voice oppressed
But unconceding of its comeliness.
Before I grew old I was only school
Afraid to be nobody unless I conformed
To class, and status and creed.
I could not see then how I consented
To condone the designation of a weed.
Before I was old
I did not even know weeds were revolutionaries
Resisting the pharmacopia of gods
And heal me in the old ways again.
Let this vernacular, this dialect
From in between the interspaces of existence
Reworking the problem of my preservation,
Let it flowers like weed
Gushing from unexpected places after rain.
Thanking you for understanding how to spade
With it the introspection of itself
Match with veins, leaves and flowers
The pattern of remain alive.
The tongue is archive of the soul, and language
The repository of all the culture holds.
Sure, folk songs are sweets, but our stories are more
Than words. Babel has no meaning
If it confused only words to flock in nearer trees.
Something deeper there was lost
Perhaps the lens by which we tell who we are
The frightening part of God,
The vision that must be consumed in hell
The staircase that if we trod
Would tear the scream of worlds from us
Making a new dilemma out of dust.
I sing not for Babel heights but the rights
To flock the founding tree of truth.
Thank you, for permitting me to speak again
To taste the lilt and roll of visceral sounds
Wearing glottis masks and labial screens
Spreading the germ of belief
And the sanctity of self in an ubiquitous air.
Folk people, balmyard man, healer
Kuminah giver, obeah veteran
Abeng blower, anancy teller, long spoon cook
Your anthropology will be the first page
Of my exumed biography, my life given back
Like raft to me. I am going to dig the moon.
From blood to Thought
With every loving beat, of my swollen heart
– upon these crimson vessels, giving life to –
ride millions of thoughts, thoughts of you
riding on the zenith, the crest of every wave
flowing, turbulently down these shrinking, hardened,
aged, bluish tunnels of hope’s dreams,
dreams that reach into energy fields,
electrifying dormant synapses into glowing rainbows
of conflicting forces that wage never ending battles,
battles of whether or not there can be, will be,
could ever be that preverbal pot of gold,
the gold that can only exist- be found within
and within a pure, undefiled, undesecrated,
unbroken heart, not the heart that beats
to the tunes of that drum pounding out
ice castles, stone cold walls, the iron used in
erecting cages, the beat of shovels excavating
a trench in mother earth face, for that moat
- all these have I seen, have I felt, I have experienced -
that locks in your beauty, keeps out the light, the fires
that could, would want to evaporate, turn to dust, dry up,
remove the veils that guard, that hide, that protect
that beautiful, imprisoned light, that light that hides
behind masks, masks that hide in order to attract’
that seem to attract like kind – birds of a feather –
mirrors, mirrors, the twins - not the one’s that reflect
images of truth denied the conscious self while in sleep
dreaming the dreams of ?, that lay beyond today’s reality
of unrealistic expectations, of unnecessary fears,
fears justified by life’s journey throughout all your years
hidden behind beautiful, dry, hardened eyes without tears
for what has been freely, lovingly given
- rejected, for hopes and a desire to touch that illusive,
delusional White Knight ( Mr. Right to come into ) –
to fill your life, your sight with visions that just might
be able to satisfy, the unsatisfiable in you.
B. J. “A” 2
August 22nd 2008
My heart grieves for past warmth, rocking guilt back and forth
Like a cradled infant, deceased, and torn
I wailed inside and expressed what the babies could not,
Pierced so purposefully. . . their blood drizzled lightly upon the streets
Two gray kittens, side by side
One face molded into the warm body of the other
Lethal legacy
Unjust proclamation- a threat to heart sensation
This vessel of mine sunk long ago… and now,
With emotions compacted and learned, I merely nod
Before my eyes had laid upon such tragedy,
I had been suffering a loss I can no longer withhold,
And as it was so near, I see his death over and over, so clear
My best friend, lying still- half in filth, half in glory
My cries of grief, overtones to his excavating spirit
You do not belong here any longer, sweet black angel
Your soft, dreamy eyes, your lovable ears,
Replaced by unappreciated jeers
I hear them in the night as it had happened
Oblivious me, in deep sleep
Dreaming up hopes later shattered
My tears fell upon his black fur,
His keen green eyes now dead and lifeless
Feel the burn, yes feel the burn of loss, I heard him whisper
Because in this very moment, you are changing!!!
How I both cherish and hate this alteration!
How it has transformed a hopeful soul into saturated slivers of sadness
Repressing anger and fear to ensure good became of his innocence
Now it has led me to these two outcasts,
Caught by others in their cold dimensions
As much as I wish someone to suffer for their absence,
Alone, I agonize, again
Crying internally for the persecutors
This world both baffles me and excites me. Today, this world has brought me to my knees in sorrow and humility.
~Dedicated to Spy, my beloved black cat , and to the sweet stray kittens of no name found 2 days later...~
May 2013 - October 18 RIP
Country Inc.
We're not as backward as you may think
we're citizens of The Country Inc.
the mission statement, our purpose stated
is not that we're all made equated -
It's more that this quarter's statement's due
filch off the many, to pocket the few
The ad campaign's already produced
lie lines written and on the loose
You fool ninety percent all the damn time
and they don't believe that it's a crime
How cool is that!, how cool you ask?
is a topped-up Ponsi so hard to grasp?
Our constitution's shape, a pyramid
reminding the point is unwarranted
The pointed top, they say is sharp,
sharpest guys in the room they'll say
Keep excavating the base's strength
and it'll invert over the other way
Toys are things and people are people
who has the most of each, says a lot
about what a person values as equal
what's yours is mine, no matter what's got
if it ain't now, we'll make it legal
wink 'n' whisper 'n' don't get caught
bye-bye freedoms bought by our by-laws
in micro-pica font for fine-printed clause
corporations are people and people The Country
we all know, that it's all for the money
and money after all is what we're here for
scraping and clawing in this capital war
so damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead
fodder citizens and soldiers so easily bled
of riches hard-earned, their hard-work toiled
for the few, the chosen, their soft hands unspoiled
not calloused yet callous in daily demeanor
easy to take the whole Country to the cleaners
I'll swear to you that economy is paramount
stuffed into clandestine offshore accounts
but business is business no need for rancor
vocationing as a Wall Street investment banker
and take what's there pinched by legality
incorporated into our capitalism's reality
© Goode Guy 2013-05-21
Past psychological development
describes zigzagging mama's yoyo
casually, aye publicize, (asper
mein kampf) personal woe
unpleasant memories indelibly
etched, jagged, scar outlined like ticktacktoe
solitary games invariable resultant
draw between every “x” and each "o"
metaphorical of course for this poetic,
formerly non opportunistic
generic Joe Schmoe,
hoof hound cathartic airing emotionally
rocky terrain, whereby floe
tips of icebergs with poetry I tool
examining, excavating, extracting, et cetera hoe
ping to discover ring visa vis,
why this ordinary fella did not want to grow
up, when on the throes of puberty lugging
"FAKE" nostalgic memories in tow
markedly heavy impossible to shrug
Atlas off (as if yoked with an albatross) also
weighted with Taj Mahal size fountainhead
gushing with emotional phlegm like no
buddies business shockingly deadly toxic
sputum nearly killed me, the only bro
their too hoo (owl right) untwisted sisters
one older, the other younger dough
ting on this then suicidal, impassive, and
ambivalent depressively sullen self burrow
wing boy within my own wormhole unresponsive
to overtures of sincere love - self castrated
particularly social maturation grew
ming this present day subdued chap
still smarting from ravages of anorexia
nervosa, particularly wrought hardy brew
of schizoid personality disorder self
deprivation excruciating frame of mind
as I mercilessly flayed and never grew
to experience ordinary relationships,
hence though married with grown daughters,
nonetheless...pay penance forever rue
man hating price hermetically
sealed wharf from humans,... thus you
cannot reach me, - now adieu!