"archaeological" poems
The Israelites (/ˈɪzriəlaɪts/; Hebrew: בני ישראל Bnei Yisra'el)
were a confederation of Iron Age
Semitic-speaking tribes of the ancient Near East
inhabiting parts of Canaan during the tribal & monarchic periods;
Modern archaeology has largely discarded
the historicity of the Jewish religious narrative;
re-framing it as constituting an inspired national myth:
The Israelites & their culture according to modern
archaeological accounts,
did not overtake the region by force,
instead branching out from the indigenous [Canaanite peoples
long inhabiting the Southern Levant, Syria,
ancient Israel, and the Trans-Jordan region]
through the development of a distinct _monolatristic_—
[_Monolatry_ (Greek: μόνος (monos) = single,
and λατρεία (latreia) = worship) is the belief
in the existence of many gods but with the
consistent worship of the one deity; the term
"monolatry" was perhaps first used
by Julius Wellhausen;
Modern scholars of Israel's religion have
become much more circumspect in how
they use the Old Testament; not least
because many have concluded the Bible
is not a reliable witness to the true religion
of ancient Israel and Judah; representing
the beliefs of only a small segment of the
ancient community _centered in Jerusalem_
& devoted to the exclusive worship
of the god "Yahweh": Monolatry is
distinct from monotheism,
which asserts the existence of only one god;
and henotheism, a religious system in which
the believer worships one god w/out denying
that others may worship different gods with
equal validity]; later cementing as a monotheistic religion
centered on Yahweh, one of the Ancient Canaanite deities;
the outgrowth of Yahweh-centric beliefs
along with a number of cult practices
gradually gave rise to a distinct Israelite
ethnic group setting them apart
from the other Canaanites
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
partially due to the weather,
state of the roads.
these are not just closed
due to snow, some
as cars slide, cause a commotion.
it is a steep hill, the crimea,
some call it a mountain
steeped in history.
plans change, while
the bus windows remain *****
sbm.
nails
#notes and jottings
Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)
see also
boot dump incomplete blog
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Gnostics hold that God made man,
but Lucifer created woman; telling
Knossos is the largest Bronze Age
archaeological site on Crete & is
considered Europe's oldest city; settled
as early as the Neolithic Age, the name
Knossos survives from ancient Greek
references to the major city of Crete;
Associated w/ people of unknown
ethnicity termed Minoans, Late Minoan
or Mycenaean Greeks, Knossos was
the capital of Minoan Crete;
Walking through its complex
multi-storied buildings, one can
comprehend why the palace at Knossos
was associated w/ the mythological
labyrinth, dwelling place of the Minotaur
all ideal forms are imperfect, except woman;
who in all her imperfections remains an ideal
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Can you feel it?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Divine and lovely fragment of God
Searching and sifting
Through the soil caking your feet
Your archaeological dig site
Resurrecting from your deep red earthiness
Sorting your finds
Cataloguing your treasures
Can you smell it?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Turning over and over each exhumed shard
I watch you squatted, frog like
Remembering ~ Releasing ~ Restoring
Becoming one with Ivory bone and awakening to the harmony of blood's song
Navigating with courage your shadow
I watch you bearing down
Giving birth to truth and beauty
Can you taste it on the wind?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Take caution, my friend, about joining any club that would extend the courtesy of membership, because
etchings upon our archaeological memory may reap undesirable pronouncements.
If your wings have not yet been clipped, then I implore you to turn the key that abides in the Iron Gate.
Liberty is truly to be found in banishment, and captivity embraces those who are presumed to be socially elite.
The Northern Command has our number written upon the electronic village of global deception, even though undertones are without doubt, seductive.
So, blow your whistles on this day of grey sky.
Your voice has now been heard.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
She tells me I taste like too many apologies
I remind her I am a notebook full
of archaeological love letters
There is not footnote to this story tale
there is the script and no sequel to follow
I am falling into the well of woe
searching for my fingers
in an effort to assemble them
contorting in such fashion
formatting this jest of speculation
into the peering ideology of self appreciation
She reminds me of the day
she smiled and felt it rattle my bones
I have not ceased to read dictionaries in a n effort
to find the right words to ***** on your shoes
to get you to smile my way once more
she is filling my glass with the words spewing from her lips
and I am drunk on her laughter
ringing in my ears like a telephone calls
from a gravesite
telling me
it’s time to come back
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Alone on the sands
--
(There is no MESSAGE here)
••
Alone
---
The ocean breeze
•
(There is no MESSAGE here)
••••
You cannot look into her eyes
••
Images of ancient fisherman crowd the shore
Of master painters from the Centuries
••
New York City boys!
Gallant in poverty!
••
(She)
There is no meaning here
••
Archaeological bones
Mitochondrial DNA
••
••
You try to listen for her but she leaves no message
(There is no MEANING here)
••
You think to love her but you are standing alone
Amongst the fisherman and the sacred painters
Who see who is here
••
She is not seen
••
••
To lose the lost is a terrible thing
•
That is the only MEASAGE here
for the gallant New York City boys
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Put your fingers into kalihi*,
Kalihta.
There is nothing there.
But it is so beautiful.
Your fingers – kalihi…
A fresco.
It remained of Κνωσσός**
in a boundless sea.
And my eyes.
*a kind of an oblong goblet of
Late Minoan epoch
** Knossos – a great archaeological site in Greece
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
Feelings died
in this archaeological site
discordant music stopped
In a vacant mind
I sit here alone
Dec 30, 2022
Dec 30, 2022 at 12:04 AM UTC
Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent
Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Who was he?
Was he a sinless man, perfectly divine,
with a human body, heart, soul, and mind?
Was he a son and brother, relative and friend,
who chose to live and die, to rise, and ascend?
Were miracles performed? Did he multiply fish and bread?
Could he really heal the sick? Did he really raise the dead?
Was he a teacher and preacher, or was it all pretend?
Was he really crowned with thorns, judged, and crucified before men?
Did he die for sin and suffer severe sufferings?
Was he a prophet, priest, and servant King of kings?
Did the earth quake, and temple tear, after his puncturing?
Was his glory reclaimed, and his honor received?
At the Father’s right, did he take a rightful seat?
Were his works redemptive, revered, and rendered complete?
Did the Twelve die in vain? Or did they precisely proclaim?
Do archaeological findings further support or negate the frame?
Was forgiveness his to give - or life - to those who believe?
Were the first-century claims true and correct, or falsely conceived?
Did early churches around the world conclude similar creeds?
Were plenty prophecies fulfilled, or were they too inadequate to concede?
Tablets, tombs, and temples found.
Inscribed stones, scrolls, and ancient ground.
Charts, maps, and timelines studied.
Cultures — clashed; religions — muddied.
Doctrines debated and theories changed.
Some-thousand-years have passed. Still, this question remains:
Who was he?
I’ll admit with all honesty, I know not all his ways.
I’ve questions unanswered; I’ve actions untamed.
I’ve a heart that knows failure, brokenness, aches, and pain.
I've a life that requires repentance; realignment everyday.
Yet, where my knowledge ends - thats where sincere faith overtakes.
I’ve a lot more to learn, yet, I've experienced a lot more grace.
How would you answer the question if you were asked this today?
Who was he? Who is he? What would you say?
Unapologetically and unashamed,
with confidence and boldness running through my veins,
in all fairness, humility, and meekness,
he is my strength, when I'm at my weakest.
My heart believes in full, and then sings my soul:
my Lord, my Rock, my Savior, my God.
Thank you, King Jesus.
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 10:23 AM UTC
Breathless are those archaeological excavations which once occurred within the geographical contours of Wisconsin.
Many times, we have questioned the whereabouts of your face amidst this crisis of disbelief. It’s like a cake which has been sprinkled with mid-Western naiveté.
Edward was once adorned in deviant beauty, where presumed innocence was held captive by strategic intellect which surpassed stereotypical assumptions.
How virile is your temperament, as it sails within the lower decks of a Spanish armada across strato-cumulus formations?
We have just commenced our finality, where words are unable to reflect utmost confusion within a paradoxical insight which transcends ontological awareness.
Forgive me, as I have swallowed a battalion of deviant souls, where netherworld lubricants simply whet my unfathomable appetite.
Death is our intimate and co-habiting stranger on the left-hand-side, don’t you think?
I have drawn my sword in anticipation.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
Fingers tracing my scars
Like celestial bodies in the sky
Every wound hides its story deep
Like eons etched in stone
An archaeological dig
As time deforms the tissue
Beneath, forgotten bones
Roads lead back into the past
A one-way ticket carrying you far away from home
Life leaves its mark
Though I heed its reverence each day
The world spins on
Our silent unspoken truth
Destined to be the scars
Just another rest stop along an eternal route
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 9:23 PM UTC
Present is a 'Gift' of Today
That's why its a Present!
Leaving the past & stop worrying of future,
Be in the 'Now' and
"I Am" will take care of the rest,
Be in the Present.
With the passing days getting mature and
Exploring by gaining wisdom,
Remember the universal wisdom always guides,
Exploring the self is the Best exploration I can say
Even better than mining or any archaeological excavation,
I say.
So celebration of each moment,
Will give you wings rather than
Sipping an energy drink(one of my favourites),
Claiming to give you wings.
Its the moment which gives you high,
Go with the flow &
I don't know why!!
Simply mesmerize, falling into depths
And keep on going deeper & deeper within,
That's also a way in which,
A business model canvases itself to BLOOM.
Getting little philosophical,
Just came into me today.
And I am originally yours,
Like these quotes.
Laughing at life's absurdities,
Exploring the silence leads to celebration.
Say to self 'I am Bliss',
See the wonders happenings,
The transformation,
Where law of attraction works.
Cheers to Life!!!!
- Aditya Karnik
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 1:04 AM UTC
discarded pieces
from days long past
crumpled memories
wallowing in
the absence of sunlight
a welcome respite
for spaces ,places and times
that dredge up
bittersweet ache
on the blinding blade
of a shovel
let them lie in peace
just a bit longer
and perhaps
the next excavation
will find me stronger.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
My room is a mess - it's an archaeological record of boredom.
Christmas, Christmas, come on Christmas.
It's 4 days 'til Christmas. Why don't I go to my room and do NOTHING??
The clock ticking sounds like a large horse clomping over cobble stones.
Last year there were wall-to-wall parties - so many that you had to carry a change of clothes with you.
In 2020 there's nothing to do - but I don't have to tell YOU (my reader). Except for the whole school thing. Nothing to do but study. I read, on that webber-net thing that 38% of students are failing.
Because of the pandemic - oh, not that virus monster - the boredom pandemic - the London-tower-lonely state of slow-motion distress that’s invisibly gripped us all.
Can we hold on people? The hard-won, delicious truth is that there’s hope. Vaccines - a bunch of 'em. Is it possible to let worries go this season and simply treasure our lives?
Just this month we have or had Hanukah, Kwanza, Festivus.
Hopefully, you made wild, monkey-love on December 14th - that was "International Monkey Day" - I couldn't join you - of course - but I'm just sayin. =]
Look it up - almost every day is some kind of celebration or invent your own - if Ice Cream Day, Lemon Cupcake Day, Go Caroling Day or Crossword Puzzle Day don't do it for ya.
The important gifts, this year, are fun, attention and love.
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 6:50 AM UTC
When we're gone, will we be remembered?
Our gravestones weathered away,
Our ashes spread in the wind.
Some of us will be the unknown body in the archaeological museum,
Others will have rotted completely away.
All that's left of us will be our descendants,
And even they will forget.
So how will we ensure we're remembered?
Can we, will we, leave a mark?
Will we stand up for what is right,
What is fair, not what is easy?
Will we make our voices be heard,
Or will we let them be drowned out by greed and animosity?
If we stand up, make our voices heard,
Imagine what we could do!
We'd be unstoppable,
Remembered as the people who made true equality happen!
Leave a legacy to be proud of,
We'd be remembered long after we're dead.
The only way to be remembered is to make them remember,
So lets do something memorable while we still have the chance!
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Wisdom of an Aged Ally
Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ****** as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
In my desk drawer
are broken things,
bits of what were,
hopes of what could be.
It’s a journal without words
where a red paper clip
holds nothing together,
and a tape measure
never reached the length
of a bookshelf.
Tucked in a corner
is a faded love letter from my husband,
a few words about roses, and
how beautiful I was at seventeen.
Sticky notes lay scattered
in confetti colors of green,
pink, yellow, and blue
waiting for ink instead
of just taking up space.
I should clean it out…
send most of it to a waste basket,
but not every treasure box holds gold.
Mine is a cluttered drawer
filled with broken things, the
archaeological site of a dreamer
with a catalogue of stories to tell.
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 5:38 PM UTC
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.'
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
When reading Wm. Burroughs i fall virtually invisible while moonbeams and razor blades take a fresh scalp, mine. Tearing loose from his torn pages and the cracked book spine of this person, i still hear words echoing, "Ahh, the dice cannot read their own spots"
----------------
“Erosion”, forget-me-not…“Erosion”,
When i **** UP,
It’s a true 10 on a 10 scale.
Maybe even a…Last gasp?!?
My inner voice spoke softly ‘bout loud issues
"Stay an inch or two outta kicking distance”…
And “take note of the sanity lost.”
Gah, yes, i know. It’s time to go down in the basement of my mind. It is damp and musty, poorly lit, a very low ceiling and in places very dark. It is an underground space and what you see is very much like what you’d see when a large rock is lifted up off a damp floor – ugly basement-like Things that are scurrying ‘bout. Hey jus’ maybe this is my Naked Luncheonette imagination working overtime and thinking, “Hmm, whatever” – Bottom-line; this is the place i wanna be at...
Said the ugly basement-like Thing…
”THE CRAP YOU ARE ABOUT TO STEP INTO AT THE NAKED LUNCHEONETTE IS DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE POETS WHO…UNDERSTAND ME AND MISUNDERSTAND ME AS WELL AS, TO ALL THE ‘HEELS’, WHO WOULD JUST LOVE TO STAND ON ME”
STEP HERE ——> AND THEN THERE..
With skin in the game @ THE NAKED LUNCHEONETTE
i’m poking ‘round in the archaeological digs
of a used and improbably mind.
Reaching out, grabbing small handfuls of "what was once"...
Fumbling among the skipped parts
& then finding that my tongue
is the enemy, of my well executed smarts…?
----------------
i throw the dice, built from the bones (i cling onto ‘em like a life raft) of my once-upon-a-time friends.
All are gone, all but one.
The one on each die that tumbles away from me
i keep on lookin' away when i stare down at ‘em… screaming SNAKE EYES in frustration
i know not to mess with the snake eyes when flesh circulates as payment.
----------------
“Echo, tears, embodiment” says the angel as i fall upon my knees
by 'ooznozz"
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
*indeed my misery is counter-,
an archaeological intuitiveness.*
you read a story about ****
you read a story about Apollo 17...
you read a story about the first
female commander at Sandhurst....
you read about Czech orphanages' abuse...
you read, and you read,
what a strange anaesthetic you experience...
in your seclusion, you are indeed
a cosmonaut by then...
drinking and reading this **** is like injecting ******
you begin to shut down,
to learn to become numb.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
Today I leave nothing to the imagination
In a historically accurate setting.
I, your narrator to navigate through
Corridors of a physical mindscape
(no escape)
Decorated with impressions and caricatures.
Follow my voice,
I invite and incite all Memories:
A curation of characters and sentimentalities.
Taxidermy preserved to its last breath.
Exhibitionist curiosity.
I must be an architect
to reconstruct a desolated house.
"Welcome home," to my
Recollection residence.
Archaeological labor too, to unearth
Buried civilities and forgotten feuds.
To stand in the ashes of
A prison of twelve winters
On summits is a struggle
To surmount shades and shadows.
Pouncing, pulse,
I suture each slash with sleep.
But here you are,
pilgrim of an echo,
breathing life,
you have struck a chord
—And a dissonance that
thrusts me into the future—
that rings through my forlorn past.
This time, in that foreign country,
a new page slowly, slowly turns.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC