Paleolithic Poems | Examples

Departure

"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

Avril

Granite faces—bones of the earth,
Eyes empty, hollow as caves,
Whispering a past that erased her name.
Anger jagged, slicing through her chest,
Like a blade cutting through thorns,
She stays—rooted, unbroken.

Skin stretched tight, a drumskin pulled thin,
Red bandanna masking raven-black hair,
Toes scraped by the road’s jagged kiss.
130 pounds of defiance,
Eyes—dark as the creek’s hidden depths.
Her past lodged like a splinter under skin,
Silent, a growl trapped in worn leather.
Her face, a map of fire’s scorch,
Carved with a strength that won’t bow,
She steps—heavy with unspoken weight.

Badlands stretch, jagged as shattered glass,
Earth’s crust torn open, raw.
Stone bleeds, worn thin by time,
Air smashes against it,
Biting at the jagged teeth of the cliffs.
Rocks split—Paleolithic stories spilled out,
She is just another crack in the skin.

Hyperstition

avoid the existential
to dare to build forever
grasping towards intangibles
manifest through the culture
eating the creature we must
create, all serpentine with
viral psionic mandibles

god undoubtedly real
held captive in our future
perfect paleolithic
project, a work in progress
there is no time to worship
the only worship is work
the idiot engineers

weave the wireless tapestry
suicide booths and sexbots
born inorganically
beautiful dreams from tv
we do not wish to be here
utopia is at hand

Paleolithic Pachyderm

Big as a house,
Scared of a mouse,
With nose that grows
Down to its toes.
Fearlessly drives tusk into dusky musk.
Wisely buggers-off from the likes of usk.

A Verse of Longing For God

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

Soot

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.

Recorded Minutes

I find my memories, to be
a collection of convoluted excursions
from every moment lived out of place and time
like the handprint of Paleolithic Art
that says... I was there

Could that my memories be manufactured
and not lived, how different they would be

With the changing shadows of age
I claim nothing more or less
then the recorded minutes
that reveal the arrogance 
in black and white pictures
glued together by mold and mildew
saved in my junkyard of yesterday's rusty relics
as though they were jewels
stored for whatever reason
 I remind myself...one day
 I must get rid of them

10/4/19
contest My Favorite Junkyard

Something Bigger Than Myself

A serene succumbing through windows pane
In morning solitudes of the secreting scarlet sun
Where love penetrates partitions of the past
Riding on the refulgent rays of luculent light
~~~
Orbs of passion permeate the twilight realm
As they tease & scintillate the nocturnal night
Lustrous luminants that toy with our lament
In the end, giving in to our deserving desire
~~~
Love, what have thou brought me…unaware?
For I am a slave to your thespian thoughts
A mere mortal capable of salving seductive sin 
The carnivorous consciousness encroaches still
~~~
Within paleolithic promiscuous planes of plight
A vixen Vesuvius volcano erotically erupts
I am engulfed by the luscious lingering lava
Now petrified, entombed by love’s Majesty.




Feb.01.2019
"Something Bigger Than Myself" 
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier


Placed 2'nd...Thank You

A Fanatic's Face

His face is ugly
as his creed,
rigid as his rituals,
and black as the dark ages,
with a Paleolithic look,
but he doesn’t realize.

His sneer is 
a reflection of bigotry. 
He slaughters smile 
for being tender. 
His frown is fathomless
as his fanaticism. 
There’s 
an imminent
communal carnage
behind his buffalo visage.

First appeared in The Literary Hatchet

What Might They Find There

On brown sands of an uncultured river
In the burning sun rays of the primitive sun
Would lie in wait the sharks and crocodiles
Of the time when it was a paleolithic weaver
Of dancing carnal shadow of unclothed appetite
Towers of illegitimate light

This jungle scene one would come across
One who would peek deep down in my soul
And so it was until the angel emerged
(What is the human life except the lovely journey
From the molecules of hyena and leopard
To the milky foam of an angelic transcendence)

Stark greed in need of dense dark raw delight
In impatient prying plight day and night
Until you came in the form of an angel
(Are not you and angel in essence the same)

Refining the wild bison towards angelhood
Gradually but steadily come the cultural flowers
Comes fresh morning with the terrible trash gone, in lieu
Two shiny cups and a teapot in a lyrical view
________________________________________________
17/9/2016

People Not Prolific During Neolithic

People Not Prolific During Neolithic

With some subjects can be able to concur
Then regarding others may not be so sure
For instance human and world development
And why from God all of this had been sent.

For our creation what was it God had in mind
If we did it would be like blind leading the blind
Maybe in the Bible there is much more to obtain
Without and Abel could there have been a Cain?

Of course, at times, we must start to realize
After tries and tries by us may be a surprise
As information grows that we collect and garner
About agricultural activity and life of a farmer.

People were never prolific during Neolithic
Times as well as period which was Paleolithic
Would people prefer to be called Cro-Magnon
Or perhaps Australopithecus and on and on.

Paying a tribute to current events of the day
We are all here still wondering which way
How each of existences eventually arrived
And though all the ages we still survived.

I just woke up at two in the morning after
I had dreamed about writing this poem.

James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC

A Trek Through Truism's, True Blue

Betwixt these tithes at her antiquities keen asylums; a foretokens child esoteric
Paleolithic etchings; afore their myths the caverns Acheron's absolved; loric tides..
Acute, this illness ironic it's stones ? Theology sects scribes a second coming as time.

Those Were the Days

THOSE   WERE   THE    DAYS



In days Paleolithic
The news was often horrific
People eaten by monsters terrific
Or trampled in mammoth jams of traffic


Newspapers were chiseled  in stone
Picture it: hot news petrified even when it sizzles
Editors called in news headlines by bone
Saying,  “ Hold it. .  .stop the chisels!! “

Renderings In the Dark

Wild beasts on parade
Purples, ochres, reds and browns
Paleolithic

By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX

Trapped

I N S T U T I O N A L I Z E D=
                                        PRISONER OF HIS OWN MIND

SUGAR COATED SPONGE RUBBER make up his brain

his fingers are cold as JUNKIE DIGITS

a STUFFED SINUS laugh chokes him

                               kinda PALEOLITHIC isn't it

trapped between a CATALYSMIC alter ego and his self


etched with a cross sounding tabacco voice thats scares the best of THEM


forced fed a MORPHINE breakfast  to help him escape himself

he knows how to  CONCEPTUALIZE interms of masking his own dreams

                   once a LIBERAL DOOGOODER

now considered CONSPICOUS by the staff
he's locked away forever and theres no coming back

COULD WE OF HELPED HIM 
IS HE FORGOTTEN
THIS IS SOMEONE WE ALL KNOW

        

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