Long Excavating Poems
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Ensure you allude to all that has been recorded.
Every creature that has lived inside the rocks.
A long-forgotten former planet has appeared.
Awareness arises as we break the padlocks.
Electric fan blades are humming in a hot place.
When you're alone, and there's no oxygen.
Loneliness looms overall aped a pitiful prince.
Bedlam rises when commotion inside deepens.
Reveal if that's innocuous, or it may injure people.
Are words yet another excavation experience?
Is it feasible to resurrect a moribund principle?
Did you find it bothersome or maybe mysterious?
There is a hole where the hamster once paddled.
Since the snake hissed at it but didn't even eat it
As the animal lays on the floor, its insides splayed.
Earth has morphed into the fabric under the seat.
Besides birds, giant excavators lay on their palms.
Underneath, you may view mind-boggling and tangled traffic.
Yet, excavating a gigantic hole in the center of homes.
Let Earth deal with melting lakes or roving nomadic.
From the tenth balcony, the building site is visible.
A goliath, dead pit discharges light, fire, and vitality.
Quietness loaded up with facts yelled in din risible.
Coated with glass, gaze at a flying towel on a gallery.
Written: June 19, 2021
This or That, Vol 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Happiness is easily found in a multitude of the sweetest components
Grateful for you, often swept from the feats, of our hours, sharring meaningful moments
Your citrines comprised burning bright; scorching everywhere
As an orbited sphere; willed they are a perfect solar flare
Climbing a summit inside my thoughts; that is all you
Beside me, you wrap me up while we both enjoy the view
One could mine for eternity; excavating nothing valued; seeking a gem worthy of a crown
But, I would stop digging at the surface of the earth; if it matched your eyes, superfluous shade of brown
My pinky nails, so piercing, so oval
No toothpick, no Q-tip, can hope to rival
Into tight crevices they sublimely scratch
Excavating pearls of luminescent ear wax
Which into a sticky roll I'll mash
Thin upon my finger, a tiny moustache
As I smooth and polish the grainy texture
Its peachy pink streaks paint a calmer picture
For times of madness, for days lovesick
I'll allow a delectable, salty lick
So warm on my skin, so soft to mold
My measure of mercy, my tender threshold
My own body's fatty gel soothes the burn
When harsh words condemn, when sharp looks spurn
Judged by most as primitive crudity
To me, it's simply the essence of beauty.
10/29/18
for Jesse Rowe's 'Overlooked Beauty' contest
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I find them~
in the cracks of asphalt
in streets and parking lots.
They are copper pilgrims,
their heads bowed down,
waiting for my hand.
Some are slick with rain,
others dull as old bones,
but each one carries
the weight of a wish
someone forgot to make.
I gather them like
tiny suns, warm
from the sidewalk’s breath,
until my pockets sag
with the gravity
of abandoned luck.
I pry one from the teeth of a gutter~
Lincoln’s face half-eaten
by time.
Still,
I take it home,
lay it on the windowsill
where the light
could baptize it anew.
What is a coin
but a story paused mid-sentence?
I am the archaeologist
of small fortunes,
excavating where
no one else looks.
Someday, I will leave them
in places where hands
might need them more~
tucked under bus seats,
balanced on ledges,
for the next believer
to pocket a tiny prayer.
The sun-soaked meandering valley of my lucent life
Drained by the cadence of elated stream swirling
Around the cluster of glimmering gold nuggets
Carved out of life’s valued golden moments.
With the sailing sediments of euphoria dislodged
The sparkling pieces roll on the turbulent time
In the torrent of the cloud-burst falling sky
Flow to the flood plain of obscurity far.
In search of transported treasure trove eroded
Buried beneath the strata of stagnant time past
I wade through the marsh of submerged existence
Excavating the layers of memory in tranquil twilight.
In the light of the setting sun fading so fast
Each time the surged tide of turmoil ebbs out
I exhume the gems of memory from sands of time
Retrieve the gilded instants I had once lived to adore.
___________
June 30, 2021
Title Chosen : An Excavation
Contest : This Or That, Vol. 4
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
We inhabit this enchanting palace
Phenomenons beyond belief
Indescribable beauty, inexplicable mysteries
But with love and hate and grief
Often it can be entrancing
A gullible child's fairy tale
Silk woven cocoon from a caterpillar's loom
Or a dreamer with wind in their sail
There are times it will be enthralling
Like watching a high wire act
A purging volcano, devastating tornado
Or excavating antique artifacts
But some things are sadly appalling
Such as hunger and greed and waste
Injustices galore , we selfishly ignore
Just remember there's only one race.
original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
My cell phone rings, and my watch display shows that it’s my mother calling.
I press the connect button on my steering wheel and immediately my Mums weak Scottish lilted voice fills the cabin of my car.
Such sweet music emanating from my speakers, better than any song.
I instantly smile and shout: “Hello, can you hear me, ok? You’re on speaker.”
God, I love this woman, just to hear her voice is a joy. We chat amiably as I make my way along the highway to home. To my home, her’s is two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three miles away; yet there she is clear as day chatting to me as if she were sitting beside me in the car.
I think of Marconi, Bell, Tesla, and the innumerable others.
The factory workers in China who assembled my phone, and those in Korea who manufactured the car I drive.
The miners working in harsh dangerous conditions excavating the rare earth minerals required for the batteries that bring all this technology to life. Then, of course, I cannot forget the telecommunications workers who built and service the networks the call travels along, and even the agent who sold me the phone.
It makes my head spin when I contemplate the complexities involved, the inspiration and innovation required from people all over the world to make this not, so minor miracle take place. Something I have come to take so for granted yet am so eternally grateful for. The miles seem so much less and are infinitely more tolerable thanks to them.
I sit and chat in my driveway unwilling to let on that I’m home, so our call won’t come to an end just yet, savouring the moment we have together.
You, always searching.
Searching through the remains of dusty city archives
That led you wandering, through rows of granite headstones
Where lifeless identities lay.
Searching through the remains of dusty city archives
The melancholy, haunting, ghostly, faded images
Where lifeless identities lay;
Excavating crumbled lives, stuffed in moldy folders.
What is the future without a past?
Silently, harboring loss and abandonment;
In the shadows you clung to glimpses of hope,
With dreams of your mother's opened arms.
Silently, harboring loss and abandonment;
Relentlessly you continued your vigil, to search
With dreams of your mother's opened arms.
When science revealed our past,we embraced the future.
Gaping open raw war exhales vapors
In the frigid gray stillness excavating
My souls for the unseen harvest
Reflected in the leaves desiccating
Through walls of fogs pale faces stare
And disappear like a random shiver
Like a slick violin string vibrating sad
-ness like a portent of a sickness open
-ing shaking thoughts of unknown frontiers
Full of four-dimensional forests and coasts
Where skeletons recite rhapsodies ravenously
Waving flags of unjust defunct empires wildly
In the encrusted fear demons lend severed gospels
Like laughing children without love keeping records
Of my actions and their forgotten complexions
Waning in the humid cold touch of misgivings
But the voice warbles without ceasing warnings
Releasing doves bleeding as they fall asleep
Descending into a valley where darkness shines
Limbs of unrequited hope desperately lunge
For the throat emanating light salvation
Indiscriminately reaping and sowing dreams
Seeming real as wounds which never heal
As flies hatch treasonous larva in the gash
And a new century is born and scorned
Now and forever have arrived starved
Demanding blood on the altar of profusion
Crying in concrete homes hallowing illusion
Until the last angel breaks illumination...