Long Unearths Poems
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One man
Stands
Beneath his white helmet
And demands,
Silence.
Throughout Aleppo.
His stethoscope,
He attaches
To the dust
And listens
From his knees.
The man has
Ten fingers,
A dry brush
And a pair of pliers
To dig like an archeologist.
He does not have years,
But minutes
To search the ruins
For toes
That wiggle
Or mouths
That suckle
Or bleeding hearts
That still beat
Like tremors
In puddles of plaster.
When an apartment building
Of ten stories
Is bombed
By planes
Flown by strangers
And its hallways and closets
And bedrooms
And kitchens
And stairwells
Are pancaked
Into a single floor
Of wreckage
In seconds,
There can be tiny
Zigzagged
Crevices
With, but inches of space
And pockets of air
Left
Where
Former residents
May fill these places
With their slippery bodies
Poured like liquid
Into molds
That harden
While they wait
For a miraculous tap
From Above
Or Below
Or from the Sideways.
Sometimes,
The plaster and gravel
Molds
Blink
Back
With the brown eyes
Of a three year old
Or the trickle of blood
Can faintly be heard
Still flowing
Under
A mother’s skin
In
And through her veins.
To the rubble surgeon,
That is like seeing fireworks
Or hearing tubas,
So, he probes further.
Using his fingernails
Like scalpels,
He unearths
An elbow,
A shoulder,
A chest,
The belly,
Ankle bones
And then, the whole
Of the lightning-shaped body
Releases in one dusty swoop,
Scooped
Into both his hands
And raised above his head
As if on scales
And lifted to the emerald sky,
The weight of the world
Presented to the gods,
A broken body
And a scarred soul
But, yes,
Yes,
Pried
Alive
With the first cry of a second birth
From a saved person
Who’s
On
No one’s side
But for God's.
It's almost 1 a.m., and I, shipwrecked in insomnia,
lie with my eyes lost on the ceiling that silently tells its story,
listening to the monotonous murmur of a world that never stops,
even though within me, all the wheels have halted with a muffled grind, like a forgotten machine.
I've wandered here before, haven't I?
In this suspended space, in this hour of elongated shadows,
where time stretches thin, like an old spider web,
and my mind unearths every ghost hidden in the dark corners,
ghosts I thought long buried under layers of silence.
It's strange how the darkness, like a thief of souls, knows how to reveal—
things you didn't even know you still carried on your shoulders, like invisible burdens.
I wonder... why do I always return to the same turning point?
To missed chances, like trains that have left the station,
to unspoken words, like letters forgotten in a dusty drawer,
to people I loved too late, loving too much and too intensely.
All these sit beside me, like silent friends at a midnight table,
as if 1 a.m. were the meeting place for regrets and unfinished business.
I remember the promises whispered to myself,
to be better, to love more deeply, to find patience
and to forgive with an open heart, like a sky after a storm.
But now, they seem like fragments of falling stars,
half-formed ideas, remnants of a being I no longer recognize.
Did I truly want them? Or were they just words thrown to the wind,
spoken to fill the void of loneliness that surrounds me like a sea of silence?
In the deep night, where thoughts intertwine like rivers flowing quietly,
I lose myself in the reflection of what I never became,
each promise an echo reverberating in the quiet room of my weary soul,
where shadows intertwine with the desire to be,
where each ghost claims its place
in the unfinished story of my being.
As the sun surrenders to the moon
The world falls asleep too soon
And the mind whispers secrets to the soul
In silence, the soul begins its search.
First, it unearths the actions you regret
Moments declined, decisions accepted
It delves deep into your intentions
Those laid out, and those yet to take form.
In silence, the soul seeks lost opportunities
The failures born of choices mad
Chances offered, but left not taken
A silent reckoning in the quiet of night.
The soul never truly sleeps
It hunts for answers to the heart’s desires
Questions burn, yet go unanswered
All within the stillness of the soul’s silence.
Imagine me the creature in broad daylight
with green metallic crest
as I flaunt a copper plumage wild and free
whilst feathering my nest
native of the Himalayan range I scale
the sun drenched mountain peaks
the zoom and swoop spirit I encapsulate
when skimming gold vein creaks
I dwell on red oak conifers or alpine
meads bound by rock-strewn ware
pale blue eye patch forager whose curved bill dig
unearths a snow crust fare
coruscating migrant over altitudes
whose bone chill turf I fly
rooster among canopies I hatch my brood
with poignant shrubland cry.
I am a Bird - Personification
Tania Kitchin Sponsor
Date submitted 26th July 2020
You are the fire
I am the ice.
They say we don't match.
But we don't think twice.
It won't suffice,
To stop us touch.
Your enchanting pleas.
Won't let me be.
All on my own.
They invite me closer.
And I fall for.
I call toward thee.
My echo roars,
Unearths, explores,
Your whole new world.
Of ardent desires.
I frost thy blood
That runs through your veins.
I can't stop the fiery burning.
It does not quench me.
Makes me more thirsty…
I can't explain.
You burn my heart
With the fiery darts.
That tear apart
My mortal being.
They amiably hurt me.
Make me want more.
I break thy bones.
You scorch my skin.
I frost…
You melt…
I do not know what to expect next.
But a beautiful, pristine feeling,
Already is born.
Starts to have meaning,
We call it simply,
Love…
In local park you’ll see her foraging.
In every litter bin she digs deep down
To see what precious prize there hides away.
With ginger overcoat and auburn hair
She is the cunning urban fox at work,
Scattering and leaving rubbish here and there.
She has her large shopping trolley in tow
To collect and transport her daily takings.
All of that nasty plastic she rejects
And filthy dog pooh bags she flings afar.
But all those drinks cans have real value
As she can sell them for some ready cash.
Part eaten pizzas pieces she unearths
And provide her with a welcome working snack.
Recycling other’s trash is Sally’s game.
And lots of free pickings she takes each day.
It’s how she lives; she feels no shame.
In local park you’ll see her foraging.
Beyond is Jordan, past the great Red Sea,
a distance cov’ring awesome, frightful years.
Invisible her pathway heading home
while Eve awaits the target of her soul.
Through darksome deserts, wand'ring back again
she learns the whereabouts concerning God.
The Holy Spirit is her breath from God;
she praises Him for opening her sea,
for granting ears to hear Him once again.
He’s been her Shield throughout these many years
since Satan hurled his darts upon her soul.
With thanks to God, she’s on the road called home.
She’s found wherever God is, that is home
and stakes her trust in One eternal God.
Like Josh and Caleb, she’s a faithful soul
to celebrate as she outruns her sea.
Her kith and kin show doubt for countless years -
complaining, fearful, time and time again.
When greed and jealous spirits plague again,
she starts to question what she called her home.
Her feet have tread on alleyways for years.
The place prepared by her omniscient God
has boulevards of gold just past the sea
no sun is needed, Christ will light her soul.
No cause for censure, heaven fills her soul
down here on earth. She ponders once again
by trusting God to clear her way of sea
eternal life begins on her way home.
The Holy Spirit lives within as God
and fills her as His temple all her years.
She trusts Him for the distance and for years
and lives with hope down deep within her soul.
Christ is the link that joins her life to God,
creating in her heart the will to gain
sweet fellowship with Him who wants our home
to be with Him well past this earthly sea.
Through endless years here crossing o’er the sea
Eve bares her soul and finds the perfect home
Almighty God spread Eden's gates again.
November 18, 2014
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Contest: Show Me God
Impressions once taken-in
by eye and mind
cannot compete with an image
captured in, but now
beyond any time.
Pictures of friends and lovers
show death and life in the same face -
a reveled chimera.
The camera unearths
what then laid buried
within a latch-hook of vision.
The black arts are in the light,
the worm in the apple.
The reverse of the mirror
peels away masks, burns the negative,
edits and exposes what we did not see
through the peep-hole of a moment.
Without the worm,
without that shuttering witness
there would be no point
in looking through a light box
at all.
A brutal murder in portentous chill
A helpless life, under butcher's will
An ominous spade digs soil in till.
Buried in dark secret, an aghast kill.
Corpse stenched, languished still.
The cops nab smite, in strokes of grill..
Shoveled out of dirt, brown bags fill.
The body unearthed, with shovel skill.
Scraping in shudders, foreboded ill.
A chasm of bare bones, lie dead still
Exhumed out promises, none to fulfill.
Playing labyrinth of hell, media score bill.
Dreams of trepid soul, to ash burn until.
Shovel and rake, witness of blood spill
Underneath the field..beside a distant hill
A lonesome weeps, grave in teared frill.
Winter in cold-blood, killed spring of daffodil.
3rd March 2019
SCRAPING OF SHOVELS CONTEST
Sponsor John Lawless
Greyhound but a vague puzzle piece
Included in this English School.
The cynophilist unearths fur
On the edge of the frame, the hunt
For the breed, the breadth of the pet.
Lace shawl nets cornucopia —
The lady’s pink, white, red petals.
The anthophile’s bountiful vase.
Roses on table, floor, in hand,
Bud’s obscure in her brunette hair.
Moon brightness of the centerfold.
The poet details full length gown,
Square neckline, sash about her waist,
The opalescent pointy shoes,
Her brows, pert lips and curly locks.
The backdrop assimilates to floor.
Blossoming crystal vase sparkles.
Felicity of bride in June.
An English garden brought inside.
Greyhound in artist’s servitude.
9/24/2020
Poem based on English School
Portrait of a woman and her greyhound