"archeologists" poems
Gold and silver battle *****
torn from swords saddles and crosses
lying beneath a farmer's field
tributes to kings and bellicose gods.
Fierce birds of prey snakes fish and bears
framed in filigree geometry
guarded warriors' savage souls.
No mercy in Mercia.
Archeologists anthropologists
historians librarians
curators and consertvators
collect confer and classify
while I just try to connect.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
I found myself in darkness there
My hands reached out
and touched concrete.
I could smell the wet cement
and the odor of dead
chrysanthemums.
At my feet a wooden box
and a brass plate displayed my name
(Useful for Archeologists
though I doubt if any ever came)
my heart raced with anxiety
there in the crypt none heard me scream.
Where is the border beyond which sleep
would end my fear and ease my pain?
I woke in the darkness of my room
The sheets were dripping with my sweat.
It seems I'd been to hell and back
and seen the eternity of regret.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.
If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.
Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).
What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.
When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.
Amen!
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
Nobody no longer contains the desire for unrefinity
The urge to tap into the void smacks of divinity
What exists in its place in the flesh market place
Are bartering skill sets and chocoalte puddings
When confronted by an invisible elephant
The people, in consensus, turn away
This happens within the day to day
The elephants march on, heedless vessels
Turbans floating downstreat, mainstream.
****** babble replaces conversation
Emblamatic gestures infiltrate the realm of the symbolic
The priests have all taken off their underwear
And the women are putting their brasiers
Back onto their chests, underneath their shirts
Blouses are burnt.
Toast is burnt.
Jams are being made by machines, horses do have dreams
Jelly and ice cream make delicate farts
Ghosts live in pipes and buy and sell art
People whose names are Horace or Rupert
Have been decommisioned
And the stories are locked in pie dishes
And the tale remains the same.
Remember, that future archeologists will exist.
Excavating sites will bring us all
To the kingdom of devon
In the beautiful future of documented tales
Which we are building for
Inside the spaceships.
When ponies are invalid and germs become common currency
Know that it will be time to fly your pillow cases as flags
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Love love love
The riddle of the Sphinx
Love poems,
eternal hieroglyphs
and lovers,
desperate archeologists
attempting to decipher
the ruins.
Dead languages
that haven't been spoken
for thousands of years,
the naive attempt to
resuscitate an extinct civilization,
sit pretty on the tongue
because things are sweeter
when they’re lost.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Hundreds of thousands of years from now
I hope they’ll find my bones
Cradled in the womb of this earth
And the archeologists- as careful as midwives
Would scoop me up, brush me off
And deliver me from the dust
Then when they softly blow off the rest of the soil from my skeleton
Ever so softly for a better look at what I used to be
They’ll see my sandy frame and they’ll **** their heads to the side
In wonder when they notice two sets of bones
Yours gingerly entangled with mine
And as they pick up the pieces of us
That used to be we
They can’t tell them apart, which parts were mine
And which parts you lent to me.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
Fossilized
Bed frame in the garden
Picked bare by the vulture of rain.
Analyse.
Mustachioed archeologists
Will dustily brush
Its slatted ribcage
And wonder how many years it suffered.
“This ornate four poster,
This mahogany rollercoaster,
Was used to aid in sedation and
Sensation.
To the best of our knowledge
It seems to have broken
Under the weight
Of a boy's imagination.”
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
GInger Demons and Universal Nightmares with scarred faces meet the wandering minds gaze
WIth furrowed brow in confusion and a spark of indecency caught by the synaptic spiderweb
Well that was the point any way, I think
but really I don't recall
Positively Yeatsian in grandiose metaphor
and impenetrable like the intangible soul flux
I chisel cave drawings crude and star spangled
to be found by future archeologists
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Nowadays, we learn that size is everything
We learn not to believe in the comforting words of our peers,
We learn, thinner you are, the more you're worth.
It seems that we've become archeologists, because all we want to see are bones.
You are only valuable if we can see your bones.
And now, we see these kids who suffer in silence, who intentionally skip their meals, who take fingers to their throat, or go to the store to look for skinny pills and laxatives
It isn't something these kids can just stop, it becomes part of them
It went from an experience to a habit.
From a habit to an addiction.
From an addiction and now a condition
A year later those same kids are going to treatment for heart disease, ulcers, and eating disorders. They'll go to the dentist for their tooth enamel that no longer even exists
But how did they let it get this far?
How did WE let it get this far?
They begged and begged but little did they know how much they were really losing besides weight.
They have lost their time, their dignity, their self worth, their identities, and possibly their lives.
It wasn't their fault, they just wanted to be pretty
This should not be the cost of beauty.
Ever.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
“Tribal art,”
says Marcia
her wrinkled face
etched with a forgotten sort
of kindness
“That’s what the archeologists
will say.”
Her consolation
to when
my sculpture
goes missing
and I think of
the archeologists
a thousand years from now
finding my piece
and thinking of it as such
some, as they age, grow bitter
like over ripe wine,
cousin Marcia,
grows sweeter
a walking keepsake in a moo-moo and house shoes
Time flips backward
Grandpa
I never met him
My mother’s green eyes well
when she speaks of him
“It’s time to hit the road!”
he’d say
and he’d go and
hit the road with a stick.
is this where I get
my sense of humor from?
the man had a monkey and
five kids and
a heart full of
meat, potatoes and
Chanukah candles
Flip forward
in the middle of
the 80’s
glowed, ***** and I
shared a room and belted out
Madonna songs
night and day
not even knowing yet
what a material girl really was
or if we’d ever be one
hope
took on a neon quality
that faded
like sharply lit days
of winter light
bent off snow
and sunk
into the hard frozen ground
never to be seen again
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 8:13 PM UTC
When the apocalypse happens
the aliens and Archeologists
will at least have our art.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.
this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.
my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.
november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.
for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.
the picture frames will not let me back in.
i / am / absent / here
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
falling into despair as the inundation continues
every turn finds me staring into another memory
of you
motherless child staring into the void
seeking to be comforted and held
by arms free from judgment or need
close to the source
of my existence –
hidden in the background sits a vision
future life placed in hazy quarters
glasses and compounds give no relief
as the reality is locked from me
cleverly stashed between morality and righteousness
the grail pail sails the trail of failings
settling gently in the obscene and tarnished
oxidized
rusted
worn
shabby remnants brushed by archeologists
collect dust on a shelf in the home of the long dead curator –
fading into obscurity my youth looks back
cracked mirror inferiorly reports the passing of time
lines etched along the horizon
crow’s feet menagerie –
passion passes for persuasion
and the rotted fruit holds tight
blindly winding, finding lined rhymes
pining for the time shinning on the vine
let’s look behind the sign to the minds grinder
and just try to be whole –
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Our history is buried 6 feet deep,
and the worms are excellent archeologists.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 8:32 AM UTC
As ancient ruins
get picked over with pick axes,
these detracted sites
show spite towards gods,
plus absurd signs in dirt,
with blurred lines distraught
and new plots not deserved
for fickle followers disturbed
by death scavenger dealings.
Instead of a sickle
it wields a shovel,
distorting the calm presence,
wrong bearings bring up
consequences long coming.
And these phantoms now creep
throughout ghost town dungeons.
Skulls and bones abound, cousins
and other kin found fundable.
Love becomes a couple
archeologists who unearth puzzles
pulling apart logic
no longer deductible,
so loan me your conscious
I'll connect it to old ones
we'll slowly dissolve into
improbable causes, duped.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
I have been stretching inside my skin
and trying to fully wake myself up.
and still falling short of reaching
where my fingertips seem to be.
I'm falling short of all this potential that I have.
It is an endless pool of possibilities
and I have found myself cowering at the edge.
I found myself struggling to even test these waters.
The Dead Sea is almost impossible to sink in
but there's no promise of a similar salt content here.
I've been bleeding ink
and leaving tire marks over old verses
that never made sense to anyone else
because I thought success was measured by
how others viewed my accomplishments.
How others viewed me.
In that mind set,
everything is monochromatic.
In that mindset,
I would have everything I am
taken at face value alone.
I cannot accept this.
I am so lion-hearted at the end of the day
to let another summer storm wash away
everything I've worked for.
Life is not a series of chalk outlines
and my passion will leave marks
like cave drawings that will make those archeologists scratch their heads with wonder.
They will make new words in old dictionaries
to describe the way my heart burns everything it touches.
I never told anyone why
"go big or go home" was a kick in the teeth
because I didn't think it was a secret
that going home was never an option.
I didn't let my downfall be so simple.
I didn't let myself lose ground
just because I'm more comfortable in a shady park
than in the living room of my parents' house.
The Great Depression is over.
I stopped planning.
I started doing.
Everyone is watching things fall apart
but I'm seeing all the pieces
that are slowly coming together.
There's a battle in Gettysburg,
my head against my heart,
but now it's 1865
And they're finally willing to unearth my promise
I'm finally willing to learn how
to put my ***** hands on something clean.
How to stop shaking and start
dancing to the beat of my own voice
echoing something I am not ashamed of.
And let it be clear that
I'm not ashamed anymore.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
I'll tell you more than the truth demands
Of a land hidden in the sands
A city only spoken of in tongues long dead
Whose name will linger like a spector in your head
And I must confess
That you will obsess
For half a century
From my curse i shall never be free
I don't know what keeps me going
Even if i die without knowing
I know it's too late to turn back now
I wipe the sweat from my brow
As the heat strangles the air
My companions and i all stare
They've all been with me for years
As our hope slowly disappeared
Only our friendship remained
We stared at the sands until it became ingrained
deep within our brains
it fanned the old flames
one more try, one more excavation
I should have chosen a different occupation
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
My legacy,
given to and
through the madness and magic
of poetry
will live on long after I'm gone
and
that's what you got
to look forward
to.
You can sail off or bail out,
set fire to the winds and watch
the clouds shout as
they niftily shift through the air, but
my lines will be everywhere.
And when I am dead, in the dark,
my skeleton dug up,
archeologists will remark
these are the bones
of a poet,
I know it and you'll know it too
that's what you got
to look forward
to.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC