Long Paleolithic Poems
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Before the primate known as “man” became loquacious,
With all his fishnet shenanigans, skylarking monkey shines,
And thermo-nuclear weapons,
There was a time when words among men
Had not yet become discrete utterances
Encoded with agreed upon meanings.
It was a time when disputes were rarely settled
Through diplomatic concordance.
During that long stretch of pre-history,
Our ancestors’ best efforts at verbal communication
Consisted of assorted grunts, howls, squeals, screams, cries,
And presumably laughter.
Conflict negotiation in Paleolithic times
Might have involved all these primitive sound bites,
But would most likely conclude with blood being spilled.
The development of verbal language among humans
Would require the evolution, over many generations,
of various specific anatomical adaptations.
The mechanisms that enable us to fill our lungs with air
And expel it in a gymnastic manner up our throats,
Around our tongues, through our teeth, and past our lips,
Allow us to produce all the recognizable vocalizations
That comprise all the languages of the world
With all their vocabularies and grammars.
For most of pre-history the genus Homo
Merely grunted, howled, squealed, screamed, cried,
And occasionally, it might be hoped, laughed.
The development of verbal language among humans
Would lead to the invention of promises, oaths, and vows,
But also lies, deception, and inhuman oppression.
In the end, we are all just talking monkeys.
Talking monkeys that still grunt, howl, squeal, scream, cry,
And sometimes laugh, whether it’s appropriate or not.
Talking monkeys armed with thermo nuclear weapons.
Human history may be heading to an inevitable conclusion;
Talking monkeys will never be anything other than talking monkeys.
Just see
How fearlessly
Sunshine is seated
On the gravestone
And the caring breeze
Whispering to the loneliness
So absolute
Beneath the tombstone
A paleolithic stone
A meaningless silence
Guarding utterly alone
The desiccating non-existence
Here lies she
Neither sad nor happy
Decaying gingerly
Enriching the earth
Are all doors locked
The moment we breathe our last
Then why the philosophers and scientists say
Energy is neither created nor destroyed
Happy earth
Taking her in with mirth
Smilingly giving birth to
Green pink and yellow
Coz her face chiselled
Poetry in her dimples
Aggression in her pimples
She made the flowers bloom
Where there was just thorn
Dried hay on broken bricks
Rude words from unwashed mouth
All stared with amazement
Yes when she had her words and breath
Flow of life like a brook
Never dreamt of lying buried
Knew her life in wavelets only
In her looks
A cup of morning tea
A mug of evening coffee
Fountain pen and notebook
One who gave so much
To life and society
Will stop stay put and still
Useless skeletons?
In death too
To herself she is true
Providing nourishment to soil
Making room for red and violets
I look in wonder
You are still writing poetry
In these flowers of skeletons
Colours of desiccation
I am sure next spring
Here in this green cover
A Cypress will grow and spread
A recognition of yours rieker deeds
Now the afternoon is still here
Moments are tender and pale
Shadows are coming and going
Stillness of accumulated past
Intense is darkness
Beyond death of life
Like when a love
Suddenly ceased to exist
As I remember your face
I earn freedom from this cold ice
Your warm cheek and palm
Are still a vibrant support
In death you lie down here
Stay reassured
In life you are in our thoughts
Whenever a candle goes out
Whenever we run out of candles
We look for you at our centre
You never disappoint us
Ever lighting us a candle
This way death awakes in life
Cypress grows on lonely graveyard
This way shadows of deer and cheetahs
Rise in life to engage our eyes
_____________________________________
September 15 , 2017
Poems that paint a picture 2 Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
The moment I am out of the box
Foxes and hyenas surround me
Needy greedy aggressive seekers
Those who even a second before
Lay hidden in hibernation
In the tightly closed boxes of steel
On the verge of elimination
Thanks to the cultural policing
Now pouncing for dark and dense satisfaction
In a paleolithic plunder
Quenching reddening hunger
In the black and brown forest
Of unchained unrest
In pursuance of almost unconquerable
And incorruptible pleasure principle
Of animal happiness
Night and day
Sense buds making hay
Out of the aesthetic box
Wreaking senseless havoc
Our rose and rhododendrons in decay
Our seagulls
In infirmary and hospitals
Out of the box
The Spanish bull and ox
Flummox our poems
Into the imagery of
Ingrained instancy
For our tumultuous ascendancy
On the pinnacle
Of crimson churning
And the giant jingling
Tapering off to
The momentary Nirvana
Of the
Intense distraction
That arose out of the box
A moment later
In an inertia again
Of the restless vein
For the overwhelming rain
Into deep brain
Teeming with craving lanes and bye lanes
In the dim light delight
Out of box
The red fox
No mailbox
No riverine knocks
The box is very important
For our civilization
Into the flowers
Of sunny sublimation
_______________________________________________
18/01/2017
For the contest, How Long Can A Poetry Go,
Sponsor, Jamie Pan
Note: As the metaphors in the poem is too obvious to need explanation, no writer’s
Statement is added here, as asked for by the sponsor except saying that it deals with the psychological process of the dominance of pleasure principles at the cost of reality principles as elucidated by Sigmund Freud.
A Verse of Longing for God
*************Sally Young Eslinger (C) 2020
I doubt I shall ever fully hear
The psalm my soul longs to write,
For it dwells in the source
Of its intended...
Singing between my heartbeats
In the Paleolithic hum of my ancient,
Ancient ancestors painting their first marks
Of self-expression, seeing stars glint
In the black eyes of bears...Oh!
But can I recall their distant canticles
And paint them anew along walls,
Retracing to the day of our creation?
To see the leaves of Eden rustling
In God’s breathing...
Alleluia. Alleluia!
*****. ********. ******. *******. ******
(C) sally Young eslinger 2020
In the quiet whispers of the night,
I hear the impending dawn chuckle
a shadow verse
of glimpse of soon-coming,
like a white horse, hero of a romance looming.
Blue sides echo with turn,
a long standing joy taking burn.
But down in the water below,
Leviathan stealths, deep and low,
in demi-urge- surging,- mingling with
the flowing pangea of dreams,
a birth pang showing.
mirrored creation phi relativity.
As I listen to the water's song,
On nights where reflection reflects strong,
It seeps into my being, magnetically long
Becoming part of my very throes in ideallic throngs.
The quietness creeps into every nook,
worn sense lingers in each shadowed look-
looking back.
A heavy burden I must brook,
cup it into my hand at my appearance took.
Yet in the midst of all the pangs,
pancreatic paleolithic lithographic phi heart strings.
Smoking jackets - storybook glistening spines,
nightcapped bungalows of review and time.
Love still shines through- in endless flame,
in projector rewind of black and white
memories seeking colors divine.
Life, though fleeting, is not in vain,
though it endlessly tortures me,
it also brings lights and
thunder and quenching rains.
What truly matters, that is what will be,
bee to remain for my queen.
Through avenues of the dead intertwined with mine?
In this life, my purpose I find-
sticks and stones, haphazard bones of
nothing but stark reality, alone.
That is, what we will sea.
The Deep,
of matters keeped.
My thoughts of rose- picked by hues of meter
by my sense of prose in
magic's clothe s.
Or is it salt-peter.
"Departure"
In the majestic curves of galactic arms
we choose to dissolve all war and hate
we venture forth fast away from primeval captivity
into the unknown welcoming cardiomegaly of It
what waits like Kaa wrapped around our scorched fate
beckoning our inner worlds like glowing orbs
we are swallowed into the burning crystal ball
Its starry gates open like god-like jaws
evolving like Paleolithic tadpoles old stone age
lacking tales to execrate all the obdurate
their time will come when all is far too late
and their karma is to remain to do it all again
fortune’s for the brave
freedom's for the few
we choose It like The Chosen do
to turn our backs on all that human hate
we raise our minds
we raise our eyes
our heart's electric
sending morse code messages
we begin to watch
the open skies of Blue
for forgotten arrivals
seen through moving clouds obscured
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Like nations many, at Central South Asian seam,
With its roots in the Paleolithic time stream;
Home of cultures, habitats, and martial movements,
Lounge of Arab, Muslim, British, Greek amusements...
Empires many, like spiders, yearned to spin in; Failed!
On this graveyard of states, like cruise of pride, it sailed;
Through tempests, there were Taliban-tornados too,
Like bones in flesh, these turned, Afghan's unending woe...
Hospice of faiths like Zoroastrianism grew,
Great Islam, yet, like an umpire, sharp whistles blew;
Resurgences, like monsoon rains, showered and tried,
Goondaism, like winter-sun, its nature did hide...
Like vampires, bloodthirsty; powers ever to gain,
Inflicting Afghanistan, never-ending pain;
Traps of Taliban, hidden, grew long hate-stretching,
Provinces fell free in their hands fast, fear-fetching...
Afghan, like day's dew, turns the Islam Emirates,
Ethics... morals, like thieves or thugs, exit the gates;
Intruder hounds enjoy the game like wild hunting,
Citizens, emptied, exist like footballs, punting...
Curses of drought, flood, pandemic, and betrayals,
Innocents, like born debtors, suffer defrayals.
Let's not blame God or heaven or kismet or fate,
The cause of human fall is the human hate-skate.
Power-mongers, like leeches, suck blood and strive, thrive,
Powerless, like wrecked vessels, will ever survive?
Afghan, to the world nations, is a large lesson:
Tyranny, like Taliban, is troublous treason!
28 August 2021
Afghanistan Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Soot on LA highway signs. Billboard of you,
a real estate agent. All endeavor slides
toward inertia, extinction, forgetfulness.
It’s very tropical. Vegetation invades
the house unless constant inputs of joy
apply. The scientist in you feels the
great ape in you. The great ape feels
death growing wide. What about work?
I devote my present to my future existence.
In what way, in what sense
does one continue to resist. As
a dessicated cell, a mole of elements,
an ancient’s aura, a daguerreotype-like
shadow on a sidewalk, persistent headache,
paleolithic herbivore, potential energy, will.
Some wake up and pray, say thanks for
another day. Others curse their luck, stale breath,
the very thought of the rosy dawn makes them ill.
Lonely as leaf fall.
Nature knows no pity or self-pity
according to antiquity, the roof soot of the city.
I admire fire, tools and ore. Agriculture.
Cities, empire. Trading and taking (war).
Numbers, counting, writing. Libraries, discoveries, zero.
And the single-minded universe
that’s only a paper moon
without your love.
HEAVEN THROUGH THE EYES
Won't you tell me places called heaven on earth?
for so long, so long, I tried to search and search
Come east. Come west. North to south, I all reach.
my quest began since day of my birth. . .
It's pre-historic paleolithic age, this beautiful place
Karnataka's architecture amidst it's greenery.
Heaven through my eyes seeing such scenery
to walk it's ground my thoughts gently grace.
Meandering many miles from a dripping spring,
the Fraser River in it's glory catches my eye,
heaven through my eyes as I stand nearby
to hear it's lapping waters as it sings.
This magnificent fissure, one of earth's abyss,
the Grand Canyon on the Colorado Plateau.
Heaven through my eyes, in erosion flow
resided the ancient Pueblo whom lived in bliss.
Supple strong arms cradle me from harm
Salty tears they slowly fall, to flood
cracking gradually sadness that long clog
Heaven reveal to my eyes your charm
behold thee not by a necklace of glitter
but a love so peaceful and oh so tender
that 'til this life is through I'll remember
no longer do I want ever be shut!
as all these infuse in me reasons to smile
and again take a look at yellow horizons
with it's curly shaped clouds white and some blue
Heaven is revealed to my eyes by the presence of you!
Evergreen leaves so lush cluster among trees
Daisies, magnolias, orchids they paint a beauty
Ocean blue touch the sea's face of purity
Heaven through my eyes displayed for free!
Beyond this life, beyond this whole wide world--
do you believe a place called heaven up there?
If you do, won't you tell me a clue to exactly know where
and what to do for so long, so long there I like to curl?
©J. A. Fraser and O. E. Guillermo
01:00 pm, December 26, 2014