"archaeologist" poems
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
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
She likes an archaeologist
cos he does it in the dirt
and the older she gets
the more he likes to flirt
She likes the way he smells
in a faded work shirt
hard and lean
but not mean
just a little bit assertive
He still let's her roll
her own cigarettes
and handles her gently
like a gold statuette
while they dance
with the shadows
down low
you know.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
I am ready
to ring your rib
around my wrist
in triumph—
the faintest of relics
enliven me. My lips
still layered
as in the night you lost them.
I hope to hammer
your heart
& stuff its soil
in the sutures
of your skull;
I want to call that
the shadow to
kintsugi;
I want our memories never
to seep; to set
them up for decryption.
Unloving is a study—
consider an archaeologist’s
tentative hands
demystifying an artifact
once treasured for its secret
& leaving no spots
behind.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 11:24 PM UTC
I am me
Until I am not
In the eyes of those who aren't me
Their perception of my ulterior motives pierces
every joke, compliment and remark
I attempt to burrow out of my chamber and into their's
But I find only confusion
Did anybody notice or care?
And if they did
Did they care about me?
Or the facade I built to buffer honesty?
Disgust is spelled on the faces of those forced into proximity
They view me as the canary in the coal mine of their life
Their contempt shocks stillness into me
Could we go back to pretending I'm human?
Are they putting salt in the wound to preserve it?
Or am I the remnants of a wasted youth?
Or a constant reminder of failure?
Do I help lower the bar to their own self worth?
Maybe I'm just paranoid
Is what I tell myself
To feel better
And I can drive down back roads all my life
But that won't erase the shame I feel of the car I drive
People sense my deviations and act accordingly
Their words spray like a flamethrower
Scorching my defenseless heart
And although my sympathy goes out to the innocent civilians
who were also hurt
I was mortally wounded
The well just continued to get deeper
I am haunted by what lies underneath
Afraid any passing archaeologist will dig it up
And share his discovery with the world
Then where will I hide?
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
SHOPPING LIST
after the funeral
your fingerprint lives on
in a jar of Pond's Cold Cream
a shopping list
dug out of a drawer
now a precious artifact
I an emotional archaeologist
unearthing a smile
buried in the past
all our I wills
become the past
tense
the touch of your skin
still so real to me
a teardrop trickles into my ear
Death
unreals you then
makes you more real
I call your mobile
just to hear you say
you are not there
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
Plastic engineering
quite fantastic
so endearing.
But we make no bones
you can't live lives
in plastic homes
eat plastic bread
drink plastic tea
plastic honey's not
for me.
Let's try and be
the reality
we look to find
but seldom see.
If I take the fall or give
up hope and hang myself
with a plastic rope
how would it look in
years to come
when an archaeologist
(From Lancashire)
says,
'eeh by gum
I've never seen the like before,
plastic face, plastic eyes, plastic ears and plastic jaw'
and you're wondering what all this plastic's for,
but you're not alone, not on your own
there's lot more in their plastic home
thinking the same.
It's all in the name
if they'd called plastic, gold,
we'd all have been sold on
the idea.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
-A Psalm Of Johnson Regarding How To Get Saved
Because all have sinned and strayed away from God's path,
We are all deserving of his perfectly just wrath.
But God instead sent his equal to die in our place,
Because he is infinitely full of love and grace.
So in order to escape from your eternal doom,
You must believe God raised Christ from the dead in his tomb!
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 1:33 AM UTC
I have come to understand things
in a rational way.
Even love, that endless mystery,
can be broken down
into respect, reliance, trust and patience
With ample evidence available
for each category.
But a blast
from your long-ago eyes
destroys the shelves,
smashes the glass cases
and smothers the labels
in cryptic Pagan pictograms
I have no words,
only a feeling
warm and welcome
that something remains
forever, unexplained.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
Yeah I get it Woody
You ******* show off
You're a ******* archaeologist
Go dig up a new thing to impress me
So I see you love dogs?
What's a ******* wolf, *****
"Uh I don't know isn't it a canine"
So too is a wolf
You love us?
Come get some
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE
Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
It has been often been said that old age is that period of life,
When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice,
And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive!
Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem
‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;-
‘’Grow old along with me!
For the best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.’’
Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face,
With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains,
‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress’’,
In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise;
As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that
lovely poem from my college days.
As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly,
Getting older becomes compulsory.
But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional,
A choice our free will has the opportunity to make!
I recall what Agatha Christie had once said,
That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get,
For the older she gets, the more interested in her he
becomes;
With due respect to our women whose age is impolite
not ask.
Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost
had once said,
That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s
birthday and not her age.
I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher
who had said,
That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life,
The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time!
It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said.
I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence;
‘’It ought to be lovely to be old
To be full of the peace that comes of experience
And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’
-Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
A humbling profession is
Biblical archaeology,
where people are found prostrate -
Searching for glimpses of Man's history.
Forgotten souls and evidence have been
covered by layers of earthly dust,
as recent discoveries now include...
The decoding of Israel's "Exodus".
An eclectic collection of artifacts
of the "Hyksos Expulsion" have been laid bare
by Simcha, the "Naked Archaeologist",
on TV's "The History Channel" everywhere.
Proposed is a brilliant theory,
that spans a labyrinth of time,
while he employs computer graphics
to capture believers' hearts and minds.
An unending excavation
of God's Truth will forever last,
while we focus our attention
and gaze through... His prism to our past.
Author Notes:
Simcha J., the "Naked Archaeologist", released a two-hour video called "Decoding the Exodus".
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
You know what I mean
that person who seems
to you in your dreams
a bit more than lust
but just shy of love
who can drive you mad
with only one glance
and I'm not talking about
getting into those pants
no, what I mean is
something beyond desire
more than a fire
but not quite the one
that would leave you broken
hearted and alone if she danced
with every man in the room
but, man, I sure do like the way
those butterflies in her *******
make me feel like a lepidopterist
rather than an archaeologist.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Sun comes up,
she goes down
on some upended main drag,
if i were an archaeologist
i still wouldn't dig this place,
every other day she dwells
in tedious, empty cafés,
but on the weekends she flashes
her "license and registration"
to oncoming traffic,
hoping for grifted furlough
to wear as silken, shiny beads,
and so we ride
this merry-go-round,
because moving in circles
is far better than being trapped in a square,
we've stopped climbing the calendar
in search of higher elevation,
she used to pour it on thick,
stirring drinks inside my head,
i used to shake
worries from her hair,
now with bitter orange marmalade
low in the sky, and stacked against us,
it's home before dark,
lest our eyes open wide to see
we are nothing more
but strangers at sundown.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 10:57 AM UTC
remnants of old
conversations
mimic forgotten
fossils, and I
spend my sacred time
sifting through the remains,
trying to find what
exactly we left behind.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron;
still, it's gentler than what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
Joseph Brodsky
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I watched her crumble into
my hands like
the Earth’s crust
her death wish
had become a mass
I could no longer break apart
this Pangea of emotion
that I couldn’t save her from
was on our minds every
waking moment
She was swimming in a puddle
but to her it was the Atlantic
and
the continents were holding her
under
But
any archaeologist
who tried to extract
this skeleton
from the dust of
her mind was
indeed
foolish
-DDF
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
A Fever.
The kind that consumes you completely
and totally. The kind that taunts you by
playing with physics.
You're so hot, yet as you throw off the covers...you shiver
You've been sweating for hours...yet your mouth is barren of moisture
You lie as still as possible. All movement equals pain.
Don't roll over
Don't scratch that itch
Don't even think about it
Curl into a ball and
Embrace the stillness
You're delerious as you flit
between wakefulness and sleep
never quite sure where you are
at any given time
Your dreams are drawn in the style of Dali
Colors everywhere, bright and vivid.
The beauty makes you want to cry
To scream at the heavens,
Yell until your voice gives out.
Why? Why are we forced to live
in such a bleak and dreary world
when such beauty lies
just beyond our eyelids.
The heavens answer.
You wake up in agony. Your head is
Spinning
Thumping
Pounding so hard that your eyesight vibrates
For a brief moment, everything makes sense
Everything in the universe comes together
into a brilliant cosmic speck of enlightenment
It's wonderful and terrible.
It's beautiful and disgusting
Your mind is reeling
The comprehension is too much
You love the pain
The pain is freedom
As it envelopes you,
the realization hits you
that you won't remember
You scramble to write it down
As much as you can before the
dullness replaces the fire
It won't matter
You'll read the words that you've
written on the paper much like
an archaeologist reads ancient
heiroglyphics.
Knowing, but not understanding.
Pain wins, you lose. Unconsciousness
Then you wake up,
still dizzy from the fever.
You
Look around your room
and wonder why you
Feel
Empty
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.
Appended File
Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.
— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
Did you hear about the butcher who backed into the meat grinder? He got behind in his work.
How do you embarrass an archaeologist? Give him a used ****** and ask him which period it came from.
What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend? Wiped his ****
What did the toaster say to the slice of bread? I want you inside me!
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
A new search is ongoing,
with Israeli chemists on a trek;
they seek find the color of God,
which was formerly called tekhelet.
Is its significance a harbinger
of future Messianic times?
Can the rabbis or scientists
decipher this dividing line?
It’s an enigmatic shade of blue
that represents God’s infinity
caught between the color spectrum
of visible light and invisibility.
Some experts believe the source,
(though the origin is unknown),
may be the secretive creatures
of antiquity called… the hillazon.
Based on some vague descriptions,
its body resembles the ocean;
can Levitical trade secrets be exposed
with the clarity of resolution?
This divine azure is a key color,
of the high priest’s holy vestments;
for this serves as a reminder to keep
and honor God’s law and commandments.
Allow the penetrating light of God
to serve as a transforming catalyst;
though this mystery of life is unfinished,
know that faith is not an accident.
Open my eyes Lord, that I may see
the royal blue of Your sea
and observe Your sea of the sky,
that depicts the colored backdrop
of the holy throne belonging to Adonai.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Num 15:38-39 and an episode of the Naked Archaeologist;
as part of the dye making process, direct sunlight is
required and serves as a catalyst to modify the color
pigment at the atomic level.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
Out in the backyard where I discarded the old bard..
..I take a moment to think.
This is not the first time I've been on the brink of a change and maybe it won't be the last.
But I have put what is past into a polythene sack..
..let the archaeologist of the future rummage through that.
If this change is a bust..then so be it..I must..
..change the change that I'm making..
And change is there for the taking..it's free.
This is the way that I want it to be.
If it's not done today..the change will not go away..
..It will wait in abeyance.
A conveyance for me when I am finally ready.
I'm still out in the backyard with the remains of the old bard.
Finding it so hard to leave things behind.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
there are sunken cities
off the pacific ocean.
places we never heard of,
people we will never come to know.
an entire island,
swallowed into depths of darkness;
stuck in time forever like a broken clock
with only one face for the world.
if she were an island,
she would have been atlantis.
her life a compilation of fiction and hypothesis.
archaeologist have searched,
many in vain, for civilisation,
for prevailing proof of her existence.
like any of this all would matter.
because believe me when i say
that i have spent four years
submerged in the atlantic ocean
and the only thing i found
is that there is
no greater distance than
loving figments of her
ghostly shadow.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
I love how we dig each other
Each of us, the Archaeologist of the other
Surveying
Excavating
Recovering linguistics,
Physics, and chemistry
Unearthing from within each other
Sacred pieces forgotten
Discarded
Hidden
And perhaps, pieces not yet realized
Yes, I love how we dig each other
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
CIRCA 1922
Touching.
Almost but not
quite.
They lie together
exactly 6 centimetres apart
if one were to measure
such a distance
but a universe apart
in terms of the heart.
They have just made love
or rather - had ***
Now he snores.
She is unable to sleep.
She stays awake to see
the dawn enter the tiny room
gild ordinary objects
with a sunlight so golden
even a comb, a brush
a chair
become as wondrous
as objects in a Pharaoh's tomb.
And only does sleep
finally takes her prisoner
standing on the threshold
of a dream
she sees some
future archaeologist
unearth the golden comb
brush...chair...
the thoughts in her
head
her feelings
behind glass
in some museum
of the mind
"Despair"
circa 1922.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
Spear shafts splintering beneath its hulk -
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.
Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.
Others frenzied about the carcass,
tracing broken shafts
to salvage the flint for tomorrow's hunt -
retrieving all save one.
A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
**The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
brushed away the millennial dust
and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
'Clovis point! '
'Clovis point' - an epiphany in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jeaned hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
Mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.*
July, 2006
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC