"archaeologists" poems
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Maybe men labored under a yellow sky
bent under barley sheaves they’d cut,
returned behind limestone walls and leaned
to splash water on each other at the well.
You can see its crumbling curve today, in one
city as old when Cheops' pyramid was built
as pyramids are to us right now.
Jericho, not so far away from Egypt and,
our archaeologists tell us, likely really didn’t hear
the blare of Joshua’s trumpets shuddering down
old Canaan-cursed by-Noah, coaxing walls
to shudder, teeter, list from Israelite raids.
You see one barley-bearer shaking dry,
descend stair-tunnels to his flat to kneel
before his hungry daughter, hungry wife,
waiting for evening’s barley bread to cool.
He joins as they resume their business of the day
to gently set the cowrie eyes in Grandma’s face,
two priests removed the rest of her last year,
but left the precious head to decompose at home
scented in the wall with sweet Netufian herbs,
And now the family gathers near small fire,
desert nightbreeze filtering through the cracks
tenderly to soften Mother’s bony head
with daubs of plaster re-create her nose,
and gaping eye sockets, softening too
those black orbits with white plaster.
Slowly her death’s head touched tenderly
by younger finger tips becomes
something like a human head again,
If not quite living, cowrie shells complete
this vision of a vacant queenly stare
befits a family shrine. When things are done,
small granddaughter now squeals with delight
her own dark eyes reflect the fire-light.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
Do you ever think about your bones?
The way the support everything we do.
They break and they age and they grow.
Bones hold every story you've ever told.
From the time you broke your toe dancing to ice ice baby
to the time you wrote a new chapter.
Bones are everything we are
and everything we ever will be
Our bones are what's left behind
after we move on to the next life
Our bones will tell our lives stories.
The carpal tunnel from writing, painting and playing an instrument
these are all left behind
to tell the archaeologists we
were here
and we tried to show the world
we cared
about its
Bones
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
A-Artifacts of long ago they're ever searching out
R-Relics in the Earth's soil layers interred deep
C-Curios from cultures past they're excavating out
H-History is alive in the things buried so deep
A-Abroad and at home their trowels seeking out
E-Enlightening the world with fragments of the deep
O-Open our eyes to the objects they shovel out
L-Lasting stories of past societies entombed down deep
O-Ongoing discoveries made with what they dig out
G-Great civilizations lie in quietness beneath the deep
I-Interesting journals and facts these specialists put out
S-Saving the ken of ancestries which are lodged deep
T-Times way back in eons past to-day bought out
S-Surfacing from the ground out of a sleep most deep
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
(Plaster cast at Pompeii)
[THE TOUR GUIDE]
*“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls. One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”*
[BONITO]
Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.
*"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone. Follow me please to the residential
area.”*
He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.
*“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest. During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”*
The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.
*“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments. Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”*
June, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
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
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
a.) a crossed off to-do list
b.) crumpled toilet paper, used as a tissue
c.) white paper, rumpled but never used
d.) raisins
e.) sins
f.) a green plastic bottlecap, inscribed with the waves of a far away sea
g.) a mechanical pencil, out of lead
h.) a bobby pin, rendered useless due to short hair
i.) a small piece of string
j.) the small piece of my heart which contained affection for my father
k.) just kidding, that never existed
l.) the sleeves i cut off of a tshirt
m.) the heart i cut off of my sleeve
n.) a ****** poem about alcoholism
o.) the self loathing that weighed me down for nearly a year
p.) a list of the different gym classes available
q.) q tips, in the interest of alliteration
r.) one very old, very ***** sock
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
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.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
dangerous things:
fire and its notebook,
the burden of procuring more poison,
my love affair with hydrogen,
the missing footage,
the sniper's veil,
the secret moon,
the cat's tale.
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
random things:
Icarus descending into
brokenness and the candy afterlife,
the sound of the young
approaching an unseizable world,
the splendor of gretel,
the plunder of hansel,
a house of sticks for inbound kings.
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
things said in passing:
"don't forget to write,"
"I'm too emotional to care,"
"I've got problems bigger than global warming,"
"touch this and die,"
"I think it's passed the expiration date,"
"leave it for the archaeologists,"
"the heart is sometimes wrong..."
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Television,
There are poor air quality in national parks.
Californians are painting their lawns green.
A ****** Galactic pilot survived failed space mission for billionaire.
Santa Cruz lost an 8 year old and found her dead in a recycle bin.
Berkeley police in riot gear hunted a man with silver teeth for robbing laundromat.
Jamestown archaeologists found first American settler remains.
LA mayor second guessed Olympic games.
SF sign said "hold it!" to keep urination off public domains.
LA police handed out "quality of life" citations to homeless people.
Opinions urged citation clinics for the "service resistant".
Others said it's all in vain without any housing.
Mexico made Presidential candidate Donald Trump into piñata,
but the people have taken enough swing at him already.
Your pal,
Newspaper
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
With blood in her veins and heat circulating through her frame,
You could compare her to a furnace.
Carrying energy throughout her body and distributing it evenly where it’s needed.
It’s the pressure, the turbulence, the years of experience that molds and forges her heart into the form it takes.
Her heart is made of ceramic, shaped into a wide-mouthed or funnel-enclosed hollow and glazed with painted flowers, or abstract patterns, or tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts.
Her heart is the fortune of archaeologists and antiquarians alike, the field of study of historians, the apple of poets’ eyes. They seek to wipe every speck of dust that obscures every stroke, every detail, every scar and fracture they seek to decode.
Because as beautiful as ceramic can be, it is brittle and delicate and easily fractures as hearts do. Because if there’s one thing ceramic and hearts have in common, they can only withstand a certain amount of stress for so long.
Because every scar tells a story. No visible fracture can be just a fantasy.
A scratch from heartbreak, a mark from rejection, a line from quarrel. A scar from unrequited love, a scar from a failed test mark, a scar from falling over while biking. A breakage from inner demons.
We are the same. We suffer the same.
Yet the painted flowers, the abstract patterns, the murals telling tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts, they all elude us, because we’re inclined to focus on the debris before us.
We’d rather walk around the debris, walk over the debris, avoid touching the debris when we’re well within our ability to repair and mend the debris.
Gold for recovery, silver for hope, platinum to mend her broken pieces.
Gold to crown her a winner, to declare her triumph.
Silver to ease her troubled mind, to give her hope anew.
Platinum to strengthen her, to enlighten her, to remind her that she can rise up again.
Golden joinery, or kintsugi, as the Japanese call it — it’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, or silver, or platinum, holding its fragments together by a tight bond. It’s meant to treat breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, rather than something to disguise.
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
Her heart is made of ceramic — and gold and silver and platinum intertwined, a story of heartbreak, rejection, and quarrel conquered by recovery, hope, and strength, and proof that she is more than her heartbreak, her rejection, her storms and trials and tribulations.
She is, quite literally, the cloud with a silver lining.
Her heart is art.
But it need not be displayed in a museum case, or in an antique shop window, or a gallery chamber.
Because she, in all of her beauty and grace, she is the museum case, the antique shop window, the gallery chamber.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Will archaeologists dig
For veins of code
Lost scripts of forbears
In dead machines
Of love and grace.
On clear days will fathers
Hold children aloft on hilltops
with the render up high, no fog,
And proclaim legacies
Of digital lego.
'Soon child all this will be yours'
Will meaning be found
On a plastic thumb
Under a fingernail of silicon
In a Chain World
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 5:14 PM UTC
a pretty face won't make him stay,
only words can,
but you write them all down on paper
instead of telling him anyway.
if you spoke up sooner,
if you didn't let your words strangle
themselves in your vocal chords,
maybe love would be a roar,
maybe it would be louder than the sound
of your neighbors fist hitting his wife.
maybe your love wouldn't be so silent,
as his footsteps late at night,
when he comes back stinking of anothers perfume.
you'd turn your body to face the wall,
you'd be a body of bricks,
you'd be the wall.
maybe if both your bodies entwined,
you could form fossils in bed.
and later, archaeologists could marvel
at the beauty of human heartache,
how the heart turns to dust,
and the love decays with us.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 7:49 AM UTC
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.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Went to the doc.
Told me I was on my way to
Dying
Way faster than I should be.
*Laughed.
Doc, you been telling me that for
Five years
And my poetry is only getting better.*
He says,
Ya think?
Look at you,
You live in a watery place,
Talking to god about sports,
Ripping off O.Henry,
Solving equations
On the direction of the
Bubbles you blow into the skies,
Recording your innermost
In public bathrooms,
Ever ask yourself,
Is that normal?
*Laughed.
Every now and then,
I take them pills
You gave me.
They come in orange cylinders,
30 at a clip,
Supplied my druggist dealer.
I figure for every pill,
Another day, another poem.
But I won't stick myself no more.
Got enough people- things
Sticking me daily.
Why should I help themselves along?*
You right, doc snorted.
You've lived this long,
What ya got to show for it?
Then why do you come
Bothering me,
Annoying me.
You think I like
Spending 90 minutes
With you?
You think I spend
90 minutes of mine
On every poet
That comes thru
My swinging doors?
*Well I like how, doc,
You write down everything
I tell you, so when the archaeologists
And the alchemists
Come a-digging,
Looking for the facts of figures,
In your files,
They will find the gritty story
Of a New Yorker,
Who saw poems in sidewalk cracks,
Street signs, young hearts and smiles,
Even you white starch coat,
Your stern disapproving face,
gets utilized, but got stop someday,
Wouldn't be fair
If I used up more than my
Fare-thee-well share
Of words.*
The doc,
He didn't laugh,
Nah, don't buy it,
Gotta be a reason
Better than that
Why you keep on
Bothering me,
Ignoring me,
Hastening your mortality?
*Doc, done my time,
Sentence served,
Now I'm just coasting,
Waiting for the day,
When I get summoned.*
*Looking for a new view,
Looking down on the young ones,
Staring down, at them struggling,
For the exact right word,
To place just so on their computer
Screens/screams,
I can be the rustling noise
In their ear,
They call inspiration.*
**That will be Part II,
That is what I will do,
When your forecasts
Come true.
So what me worry,
I got jobs done and to do,
And I can do 'em well
Just about anywhere,
But I visit you, cause you,
Are a righteous one,
Cause you care.**
And I will be watching you too.
5:38am
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
All that glitters never meant much to me,
Petals fall & fade, withering along with time like its temporary immortality,
Money joining suit in its temporary fervour, but never buying love as the Beatles crooned.
So let me tell you what does:
The look on your face when I've made you happy with a surprise or two;
The sound of your laughter reverberating through the air as I cowl in my witty silly remarks;
The mental connection that pleasantly astounds me with every thought-stealing line and mirrored gestures-humour-reaction-action;
How your words has awaken the inner dormant writer/poet and inspired to put my venomous quill to paper again;
How you make me feel beautiful, appreciated and respected, just the way I am;
Your empathy and understanding that chase the dark clouds away and silence my demons;
The way we make love with the glances we exchange in public like there's no one around;
The way we make love with our bodies, explorative archaeologists tracing each other's landscapes gently-sweetly-devilishly;
How you claim my arm across, intertwining with yours, caressing it as if it's a part of you;
When your palm holds my face lovingly while we exchange sweet kisses, nibbles and all;
Blowing soft breaths onto our goosebumpy skins, whispering how much we love each other;
Cheekily stealing smooches at traffic light stops which never seem to be long enough;
Resting your head on my sturdy shoulder as I cushion mine into yours, christening it with my lips,
As we serenade that BSB song transporting me back to 14 again.
And the realization pierces me through like truth always does:
That I would not trade any moment, any era, any wish, any desire
Than the one right now with you that has headily grasped me so:
A dizzying cocktail of drugs that is you.
Shalini Nayar
31.10.14
(c) 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
The labyrinth of our mind
In the labyrinth of our minds, the secrets of the brain still hide
And maybe in the days of our lives, the answers we shall find.
The key to our knowledge and our lost memories preside,
In the basement of our unchartered minds,
In our subconscious lost time.
One day we shall find out all the secrets hidden within,
The pantry of our minds kitchen, which creates our feelings.
One day we shall realize how to spy the mysteries locked there in,
The safe of our conscious and subconscious labyrinth.
Our dreams and our nightmares are a glimpse at another wonder;
The original wonders of the world are deep within us, to be plundered.
We as humans shall take all we can get as we delve under,
The skull of another human mind in search of a new treasure.
What lies beneath the truth and the lies we all do speak?
What lays hidden under the shell of our sanity or insanity?
What will they think of next to invade our personal sanctuary?
In the deepest recesses of our labyrinth, our brain, our memories.
The doctors and nurses, the psychiatrists and psychologists,
Are a fingertip away from knowing the reason for our existence.
All we have left to discover is covered with the bone of our heads;
The brains functions have been unraveled partly.
Now we seek the rest.
We wish to know all the answers, so we dig like archaeologists,
Deep into the minds of the men, the women and the kids.
One day our T.V. will be linked directly into our brain cells,
So we can see the thoughts of our fellow humans and animals as well.
We shall unlock all the mysteries of the human mind given time,
But will we like what we see, deep within the labyrinth of our minds?
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 4:49 AM UTC
A throwaway.
Not for posterity.
Not for unborn archaeologists
To extract caked with mud.
Not to be hidden from the sun
Under a millennia of detritus.
Just for now.
Just for this bit of time
When nobody needs you immediately,
And nobody expects you to deliver,
And nobody is depending on you.
Just for these moments.
Just to share a bit of your space-time
While the sun finds a gap in the branches
And drives the chill from the room.
While the office has emptied for lunch
And a breath can be taken in peace.
While the hum of the bus/train/plane
Has lulled your fellow travellers to sleep.
Just to see some words gathered
Purely for their affinity to one another.
Just for the love of pictures
Painted in your head alone.
For when just one more read through
Is purely for the pleasure
Of sitting awash in an idea.
Throwaway.
A handful of words.
Just for you.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
am I just an excavation site to you?
you **** archaeologists
digging for some relics of the past
greedily searching for personal gain
and if you find nothing of any worth to you?
well
you move on
without a second thought
that ground you just wrecked?
it won't ever be the same
sorry it wasn't enough for you!
sorry it didn't meet your grand expectations!
the least you could do is act like you give a ****
but instead
you run off in search
of something better
never know that you just dug a little bit deeper
you would've struck gold.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Aimless, in a desert of
strange colors I have never seen before.
Lost and wandering, wondering.
I find the sunburns oddly charming.
Dry skin, splitting lips,
and the constant crawl of sweat
on my baking, burning skin.
I know only the sky,
as empty as my jaded, coffin of a mind,
buried in Egyptian sands,
long forgotten by even the most dedicated archaeologists.
The sky is laughing at me,
my plight.
Contrary to popular belief,
it does rain here. But only for a moment,
the most brief whisper of hope that falls,
unobstructed, through my grasping, thirsty hands.
Or maybe that is my imagination.
Or, better yet, simple determination.
It's probably better not to ask questions.
The phantom rain is my only sustenance,
after all.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
*Don't color me comatose
If there is breath still in these lungs
Don't fade to black just yet
If there are songs left to be sung
I want a romance that crashes
Like the moon into the ocean
I want a history that archaeologists
Dig up to set in motion
Don't drown me in sorrows
If there's a smile creasing my face
Don't chain a ball to my blistered feet
If there are still rainbows left to chase
I want an epiphany that explodes
Like stars gasping their final breath
I want a heartbeat that is loud enough
To pierce both the eardrums of death
Don't color me comatose
If there's a blink still in my eyes
Don't forget me when I take my leave
There's still a chorus left to reprise*
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
We will all soldier on because that's how we're made
one more commando
one more daylight raid and we soldier on.
Long after we're gone and the archaeologists move in to dig up our lives and try to begin and understand the way that we ticked
the way we picked fights,the wounds that we licked,
I'll be in somebody's sights as they examine my bones,searching for clues,considering how I had lived so, with a body abused and wondering if time had it all his own way or did I have some say in the way that I lived and the way that I died.
In the glass cabinets of museums the people will peer at me and what will they see but an old bag of bones covered in rags, a bolognese of a man all knotted then cleaned up and slotted,pigeon holed, allotted my own private page which reads,
'this is a man from the second dark age'
and in years to pass when the glass cracks with the weight of the history inside it
I'll step outside it and continue my soldiering on.
But we'll all make the raid until we're finally laid
at rest,
waiting for the semaphore,the telegram,the history man marches on.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
You strike a matchstick
and name it hope—
watch the flame gnaw
its own tail, a hungry ouroboros.
Your hands tremble like cities
under siege.
The skyline cracks, a porcelain plate
held together by spider silk.
We are all archaeologists here,
digging through ash
for the bones of who we swore
we’d become.
Some nights, the moon is a pill
that won’t dissolve.
You swallow it anyway,
let its cold light pool in your ribs.
The world is a fever dream,
but listen—
even wildfires leave behind
soil thick with tomorrow.
So let your heart be a dandelion:
ugly, stubborn,
and impossibly
easy to love.
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 9:31 PM UTC
We, together
Were perfection
They described us as Bonnie and Clyde,
Astronauts on Mars,
Romeo and Juliet,
Archaeologists at the pyramids
We were the king and queen
Screams of torment
Cries of sadness
Pain of love
Pain
What sweet nefarious
Necessity
Pain
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC