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Zywa Mar 2019
I walk twenty steps, five feet
down into the darkness
of buried secrets
on the outskirts of the oasis

I walk twenty steps, five feet
in the excavation
next to the shallow ditch
that was once a pond

discovered from the sky
vaguely ticked off in the sand
by odd gauge values
of the substrate

I walk back into the light
where a man sits
on the roots of an old tree
looking at me

compelling he beckons me
pointing to his water bottle
and I realize
that he knows the answers

to the questions I shall ask
when he is no longer there
annh Mar 2019
Flavia swore as the heavy earthenware pitcher slipped from her hands and crashed onto the uneven flagstones. As she knelt in the puddle of tepid water and started gathering in the pieces, she heard the rapidly approaching footfall of an armed legionary.

‘Leave that now, there’s no time. We ride for York immediately.’
‘But mea domina...’
‘The Wall is breached. Hurry, puella, or she'll start without you!’

Flavia picked up her sodden skirts and ran.

                                                           ­  §

I held my breath as the last piece of the Corbridge ewer slid smoothly into place and wondered at the exquisitely crafted motif which encircled the body of this ancient vessel. A procession? A cavalcade? Curious, if not for the men-at-arms, I would have thought it a pageant. And there in a covered wagon a noble woman looking back at a young girl standing on the steps of a villa holding her hem in her hands.
A piece of slightly supernatural ‘drabble’ for a Sunday morning! :)
annh Mar 2019
whispers of architecture
footprints in the dust
I WAS HERE
7-5-3
Joseph C Ogbonna May 2018
I am here on an archaeological quest,
to satisfy many a curious mind's request
for knowledge on antiques and artifacts
of Egypt's long extinct historical facts,
in treasured sands buried, like gold mines earnestly
sought for in stories shrouded in mythology.
With a large contingent just as curious as I,
hardly daunted by curses, but with shoulders high,
We went to the field, the sun baking us chaps
to a baker's delight. With our rumpled maps,
we searched every clue, and were bitten perhaps
by a million flies. Getting relief from sunless skies
in times of fair weather, whilst hoping something lies
in the depths of the hot sands for our very eyes
to see. With my tools by hard work and search worn out,
I brushed to full view, the tomb, brilliantly carved out
of young blue blooded Tut, regally laid to rest.
To my wearied colleagues I spoke in real earnest:
'To exhume the past, we are here at last.'
This poem is the revised edition of an earlier poem I had written. It is based on the discovery of the tomb of Pharaoh Tutankhamun in 1922 by the archaeologist, Howard Carter.
When archaeologists pull
something out of the dirt,
they call it a discovery.

I imagine them years from
now, "discovering"
skyscrapers and microwaves
and styrofoam cups. I can see
them with my broken body.

There's something different
about these bones,
they say,
something heavy.

There is a message in here
somewhere. There is a riddle
that still twists my hands up.

They said there was a place
inside me where the music
had gone wrong.

I said, There is no such thing
as wrong music.


I've been at myself with a pick
axe for a long time, trying to
discover something new and
groundbreaking underneath.

*just sediment
JGuberman Sep 2016
for RFG


You told me of your love for London
and I, of mine for Jerusalem.
And we speak of our second homes
and our first loves,
and how those memories
should be left for the archaeologists,
and how we must for the time being
carefully avoid the subject
each of the other
like diplomats
in London or Jerusalem
busily seeking
positive signs,
in one and the other
or those things
we love elsewhere
and wish we could have
here at home.
Robert C Howard Oct 2015
Three parts treasure hunter
to two parts scientist,
the archaeologist
with picks and brushes
sifts through shards and ruins,
echoes of ancestral time,
burning for answers:

How on earth did we manage
to carve out shelters from the crust
tilting the scales
of survival in our favor?

A cliff house here, a cathedral there
a village by the river
chronicling our escape from
the shadows of pre-recorded time.

We wonder where they all went
and why they vanished, but the real question
that haunts our paleolithic selves,
is who are we and where are we going?

*October 30, 2015
Pleased consider checking out my book,  Unity Tree - available from Amazon.com in both book and Kindle formats.
Ancient leviathan,
City in sands
Razed in a roar.
Now silence stands

Taller than your
Pillars did before
As the world looks on
It can’t but abhor

Let sleep find your
Great arches now
Though brought down
They did not bow

For their shadows
Outstretch the hand of man
And the rote of
All religion’s plans.

They did not destroy!
They have not won!
And in undoing
Become
undone.
Poem written for national poetry day in the UK, I am an archaeologist, I studied Aegean archaeology, and covered the levant extensively, It pains me that ISIL are destroying these relics... so I wrote about it.
Robert C Howard Sep 2015
In a Green Friar car park
a professor turns the key -
his engine shudders - falls mute.

Leaning classword into the wind,
his footfalls cover the echoes
of the lethal chaos beneath his feet -
masking the curses of proud Richard
struggling to keep his saddle.

Then, in a whirlwind of swords,
the final Rose of Lancaster
falls in slow motion
to the Leichester earth -
merging with the primal dust.

The professor's archaeologists
have arrived for the dig
and Richard's bones begin to stir.
I had taken this poem done for complete modeling and here it is again.
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