Long Excavation Poems
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Everybody was horrified of Paul's scruffy looks
with dirt and mud smeared all over his wrinkled face,
and his long nose with dark spots on its tip;
and a grave digger matched that image,
but he was the nicest person on planet earth:
hard-working, estimable, amicable and honest.
After the day's work was done, Paul stared
at the empty lots and whispered to himself,
" Soon I'll be in one of them...I feel it coming! "
One unlucky afternoon he was standing
on the edge of a newly dug-up grave and accidently
slipped and fell into the twenty-feet excavation;
no screams for help were heard...he was dead!
That same afternoon, there was a burial
and as the corpse's coffin was lowered into the grave,
Father Michael spotted a body lying on the bottom of it,
and it resembled that of Paul....suddenly police
were notified and minutes later a fire truck arrived
to the dreary scene. Then two young firefighters
lowered themselves into the pitch-dark grave by holding
onto sturdy ropes, and without much effort,
they pulled his bruised and broken body:
he was pronounced dead at two-thirty.
Paul had a near-death experience, one of the most
incredible ones: he visited heaven, the place of bliss!
And as he climbed the gold stairway, he heard many voices
of those he knew in the previous life...they chanted glorifying God,
who was seated on an ivory throne surrounded by Archangels,
Saints and the Prophets whom he remembered from his Bible readings.
Time mends the broken heart; a timeless feat.
Time drys the eyes that once, could only weep.
Life’s highs and lows; a harmonizing beat.
A soulful hymn; time’s echo buried deep.
The truth of time; lies within a moment.
By eternity; will Death be survived?
Death kindly stops for all; life’s atonement.
If death may die, will all lost have arrived?
Decide what’s worthy; hold it in regard.
Live every moment like it’s a lifetime.
Pass on a legacy none would discard.
Forge memories to test the test of time.
Not a moment to waste; don’t hesitate!
Dig deep into your core; self-excavate!
Even if there is a vast distance in this world between our physical bodies, can a thin point connect your heart and my soul?
When sleepless nights built a thousand mirages within me, even in that silent darkness, my heart sang along to the cuckoo's morning song.
The trembling sound of a choked throat became a poem of love. Your memories, which awakened every word in it, gave light to the wicks of my life.
The embers it scattered fell and burned my chest. That heat rose as the vapor of my soul, the soul-cloud grew heavy, and then it rained from my eyes. Would those droplets be able to wet your withered soul? Will my flower of desire, with its hundred petals gathered together, bloom, or will it wither as a vain dream?
As the veil of time fell, hiding the heartbeats that silence had concealed and which the eyes had spoken of many times, the ears heard only a goodbye as your gentle word.
The ocean waves that flow caressing the shore now and then retreat, only to return and crash again, just to wet the sand's chest.
It pinned the soul, which tried to move away many times, back into the firm, painful hands, using your eyes as the sharp tips of arrows.
As I wove words together with the thread of the heart using your smiling, letter-like pearls, it adorned my mind like a garland of poetry that outshines the gem of tender love.
In the sky of my soul, which hides its sorrow, a silver line is drawn with the white ink of the past over the crown of the dark cloud.
As the brain is torn by the excavation of oblivion and the tear-stream of blood drip down, your separation is the savagery of time that continues to tear the veins with its pain.
At first sight
there was a hole
a pile of dirt,
freshly dug,
an excavation.
The earth was warm
it smelled of fresh-dug earth,
wisps of steam rose
gently wafting up in
spirals in the mist.
Then there was a moan,
from a body covered in dirt,
naked but clothed
in gossamer shroud of steam.
Moments ago that body
lay buried alive
deep in the earth,
unconscious but alive,
breathing dirt and muck.
Buried alive,
they thought he was dead
as he feigned death
held is breath,
let limbs fall limp
eyes, fixated in a stare
his pain silenced with fear.
Bashed and robbed
striped naked
kicked and punched
then dragged to hole
excavated in haste
with bare hands
to hide the evidence
they dumped him in.
He felt the earth
cascade around his limbs
in his eyes and ears
around his head and body
'till all was dark
within the filled-in hole
and silent.
He counted to one hundred,
then moved an arm
to break through the earth
making a cup of air
around his mouth to breathe.
Then slowly, he swung
his legs and arms up
to push the earth aside
like a baby turtle
hatch-ling on the beach,
until with one last push
and shove, he crawled out,
free and self-exhumed
from the excavation.
19 June 2021
For the 'This or That, Vol 4' Contest - An Excavation
Edward Ibeh
Excavations expose stunning skulls of history,
Where-around emblazoned scripts cultures and creatures;
Minds of human beings and their mass mystery,
The whole lot that surrounds them with all true features...
Be it Rosetta stone or Ashurbanipal's,
Troy or king Tut's tomb; Machu Picchu or Pompeii;
Be Akrotiri Tehra or the Dead Sea Scrolls,
Olduvai Gorge, or structures stunningly cozy...
I have been wondering at unearthing premiere,
Of the terracotta army of China's first king,
Unearthed by the farmers on a mystical sphere,
Where they witnessed the painstakingly created wing...
The clay warriors with chariots and horses,
Acrobats, musicians, artisans, and craftsmen;
Buried as the emperor's crisis armed forces,
Defend him in his afterlife from every pain...
Are these artifacts blended with enormous love,
Of the citizens to their beloved king great?
Or a branch of paraphernalia does state shove,
To preserve the power of the king and elate…?
Excavations, within, are essential as well,
To ascertain every strength and frailty hidden;
To learn lessons from failures and past flaws to quell,
Every darkness dwelling in the realm, forbidden...
Let's dig! Deep! Not content with the periphery!
Expose the minds! Hearts! Bring out the innermost soul!
Hair split the history's marvelous mystery!
Test the artistry, sandstone, proficiency whole!
Think of the human hands that create every art,
Cumulating courage; working relentlessly;
Hungry, thirsty, empty-handed, love-filled at heart;
Partaking in the endless plan of God restlessly...
12 July 2021
This or That, Vol 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
They excavated him, her youngest son,
who passed away too soon at age nineteen,
to join her second son, who had just died
at fifty-five- to the new hollowed plot.
There, side-by-side- together, brothers slept
neath velvet grass, under a graceful tree,
where she would leave her flowers and her tears;
a mother's love for them would always be.
No way would she have come to realize-
three years from when she joined her precious sons-
another excavation would take place-
where she would rest with them eternally.
One plot, three graves- a mother and two sons-
a final excavation- filled with love.
July 1, 2021
Contest: This Or That, Vol 4
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Unrhymed Sonnet
(true story)
In sleepy
synaptic
catacombs
theorems dream beneath calcified floors
neurons stretch filaments of light
paleontologists of lost certainty
tracing the memory of what
once
coruscated
alive
each recovered syllable rises in luminosity
trailing sediment from older visions
when knowing shifted
steering truth by
extinguished
stars
their light arriving as memory does
late and changed
waves breaking against my palms
sometimes a word returns
with
a
quiver
a neuron long faded suddenly firing
unmasking me
language has a pulse too
memory susurrates in its syllables
tissue pressed beneath the skin
a word returns and with it
a face
already
fading
In dementia's neural ossuaries
they slowly resurface
refracted through time's
fossilized
strata
what returns exceeds what departed
yet what returns also slices us
so softly
with its incompleteness
a small lance lodged behind
ribs and bone
each restoration births knowing
part excavation part genesis
claimed by no century
reshaping me in return
moth-wings brushing my cheek
We become the archaeology of ourselves
hands cupping reverberations
charting the contours of our hearts
hearing again in the filamented dark
the pulse of neurons stretching
filaments of light
spelling the names
we thought
we'd lost
In the corridors
of my mind and endless passages
I hold the scars that are the road map to my soul
and where words thrown at me and used as weapons
dwell in the cracks.
Fear and sorrow are like chains holding me prisoner
and I must exhume them from the darkness
disinter and expose them
from vast deep voids where they hide
in the fissures.
And the drum of time is beating and I must pierce
through the hollow shadows to dredge up
this cancer twining !
The path is endless
as I dig and chip at the darkness
leaving no door and no emptiness unchecked
as I follow all the contrived tunnels and atriums
as time is ticking.
The forest of my life is at stake and my sky is gray
but this is an excavation unfathomable
oh, through chambers silent
no matter how difficult and weary
I will crawl seeking.
This fear and sorrow is holding me back from being me
so, I will leave no rock unturned
for I must unearth ...
the darkness dwelling within me !
______________
June 21, 2021
Poetry/Verse/An Excavation
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1365-926-21
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, This or That, Vol. 4
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 07/27/2021
First Place
Children as young as three years old,
Killed for not doing as they’re told,
Forced to forget their culture bold,
What a tragedy to unfold!
Two hundred fifteen, that ain’t less,
Young innocents abused, suppressed,
How can humans be so heartless?
It breaks my heart, I must confess,
Wonder, how they would have pleaded?
Their cries for mercy unheeded
Residential schools, not needed,
Were soon closed, but lives conceded,
In the name of education,
A way of ‘assimilation’,
Native kids faced termination,
What a gruesome excavation!
07.01.2021
{On 28 May, 2021, the bodies of 215 children were discovered in a burial site at the grounds of the Kamloops Indian Residential School using new, ground-penetrating technology. The deaths are believed to be undocumented. The school, which was closed in the late 1970s, is located in Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc First Nation. First Nations refer to a section of indigenous inhabitants of Canada, along with Inuits and Métis people.
Between 1831 and 1996, Canada’s residential school system forcibly separated more than 1.5 lakh First Nations children from their families in order to assimilate them into the Euro-Canadian and Christian ways of living. They were forbidden to acknowledge their indigenous heritage and culture or to speak their own languages.
According to an information resource set up by the University of British Columbia, children were subjected to physical, sexual, emotional, and psychological abuse.
In 2008, then Prime Minister Stephen Harper publicly issued an apology, on behalf of the Government of Canada, to all indigenous people acknowledging the country’s role in the residential school system.}
For Edward Ibeh's "This or That, Vol 4" contest
A SCRAPING OF SHOVELS--
A duel of occupations;
Farming or construction;
2 metal clad tools of uncovering';
Clang N clang, touch rub N bang;
Scape-scape, dig-dig on dirt, sand, gravel and rocks;
A scraping of shovels;
Excavation in construction;
Mechanization via steam shovels;
And later hydraulic equipment;
Hand shoveling dirt onto metal covers;
A scraping of shovels;
Connection tween shoulder blades and digging blades;
That the words also means spatula and spade;
Touch me, touch me metal or bones rocks and gravel;
Rubbing together like a scraping of shovels;
Spades lack triangular points;
But are fairly narrow rub and touch;
Dirt and metal, sand rock and gravel;
"spade" and "scoop” a doop dig a hole;
Coal shovel scooping a scraping of shovels
A snow shovel shoveling snow, a scraping of shovels;
A wide aluminum blade that is attachment;
With a short hardwood handle with "D" top;
A shovel called a barn or grain shovel;
Used for grain" spade" and "scoop” grab and hold;
Rubbing together like a scraping of shovels;
3/3/19
A SCRAPING OF SHOVELS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by:John lawless