"artifacts" poems
The woman in the window
Looks out beyond the glass
Beyond the reach of her whispers
Befogged upon windowpanes glance
Farther than the bounds
Her own breathe imbues
Out of reach her long fingered touch
Tracing her murmurs on looking glass dew
Grasping for the shadowed artifacts
Only time does nonchalantly drift past
Perched alone upon a cloud of silence
Her thoughts eddy in soundless swirl
Spinning like dizzying shadows
Swallowed by a thirst for light
The other side of window beckons
Only she knows she’s looking out through a sigh;
Seeing no one familiar looking back ―
For what hidden jewels within abide
She dreams of dancing leafless by daylight
Twirling beneath the whispering willows sway
Just a step away from being free
Just a step away from feeling alive
With first step beyond imprisoning hesitation
Crossing over the threshold of a dream
Through a liberating portal outside the glass
Just on the other side of the windowsill ...
Jesse e Stillwater
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Look in the mirror
Look at the clock
Look at the time
It never has stopped
It only goes forward
It's a one way walk
See how you have been growing
You ask yourself, "where have the days been going?"
Time can only progress
Yes, the river of life is always flowing
We lived cabins
And castles and caves
We came from Adam and eve
We evolved from apes
From Socrates and Homer
To Napoleon and Alexander the Great
The minds that desired knowing
And the enlightened ones glowing
People can only advance
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Revolutions and rebellions
Riots and revolts
Great discoveries
A key, a kite and a lightning bolt
Great writings and inventions
Innovations from inspiring jolts
Improvement was showing
To the future the world was going
Humanity only began to develop
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Religions and sciences
Economics and politics
Television and radio
Monarchies and dictatorships
Tanks and machine guns
Atomic bombs and battle ships
We went from arrow shooting and spear throwing
The muskets needed reloading
To nuclear weapons
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Exploring new lands
To find the world wasn't flat
To find silver and gold
And buried artifacts
To establish new territories
And expand the map
The searching ship kept rowing
As civilization went on growing
Accomplishments of the past
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Boats and rail roads
Fair trade and industry
World wide markets
Over land and sea
To keep out nations going
And stablize the economy
But now every country has money that they're owing
And the land that they're owning
Is has evolved
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Social reforms
Counter cultures fight
They protest strongly
For equal civil rights
The world's in constant change
Every day turns into night
Every opening has its closing
And then it comes back again
As long as there's someone hoping
Yes the river of life is always flowing
We put people into space
We have fought for equality
Created a world from nothing
And advanced technology
We've struggle to go to where we are
And continue to go strongly
The opportunities fate has been bestowing
We look forward to see what is ahead
The memories and mysteries the hourglass is holding
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised
it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******** sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
=============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
critical thinking
as you call it;
that which
I seem to lack.
need to
improve
upon.
and I agree in ways.
you said,
it is observing
the situation,
the pieces,
I have at hand,
and deducing
the best possible way
in my knowledge
to make them
fit together.
sounds
quite simple -
common sense.
simple,
if my mind
ran as smoothly as your own.
a trait of yours
I admire greatly.
a trait of others
I am envious of.
but critical thinking
is different when
my mode of
thinking
is not the same
I do not see
my surroundings;
my life,
my reality,
as cogs and gears
that progress
this existence.
I admire
the way you,
and others
pick up on the
little
small
hidden artifacts
that allow yourself
to discover
the best
possible way
to proceed.
if I were to say,
you noticed
the overlooked
and finer details,
I would say
I notice-
no-
I experience awareness
of it's entirety.
how it feels
to me
and how I feel
about it.
if our
individual
thought processes
were placed
in an ever changing river,
whose currents
vary
and are unpredictable?
yours
would be
picking up the driftwood
the sticks,
and objects in grasp.
and as the current carries it,
it would be constructing
a raft
to stay afloat:
safe
and
in the most
comfortable way,
so it could eventually
construct
something suitable
and sturdy
to rest upon,
and relax with content,
while enjoying
the splashes
and warm sunlight
from a safe spot.
instead of
deducing the situation
as yours did,
my thought process
would drift along
the same river,
letting the current
take it under -
if that is where
it felt like going.
finding logs
and debris
to hang on to
when the current
became too much
and it needed a break.
yours may be
high and dry,
but mine has felt
the pebbles
along the bottom
of this river -
the depth and pressure
almost frightening,
but the experience
in itself
always beautiful.
mine floats upon it's back,
like an otter,
enjoying the sunlight
as yours does,
experiencing
this journey through
the rivers path.
and maybe,
if the current gets rough,
if mine is struggling,
it will find the hand
of yours
lifting it up
to keep it safe
until the rocky waters
have passed.
I experience
as I feel,
which may not
be the best approach
all of the time.
but with this,
I am able to
feel
what I believe
is the best choice,
based
on my experience
of the whole.
you make me
feel
and want to
try
new ways of thinking,
new ways
that may help.
you are always pushing
pushing me
to do more
to be more;
which is just one
of the many reasons
why I love you.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.
Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take eyes off her,
and she asked what he looks for,
"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.
As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.
That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had nothing to do with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Open your eyes to the beauty of this planet
Nature, since ages, is a work of creation
Its creativity is beyond compare-a masterpiece
We have to wake up to see the true beauty
Open the eyes of our souls to view the vivid colors
All artifacts are work of the master craftsman
Where else can we see so much creativity?
It is all around us, in the midst of nature
The testimony to the works of supreme creativity
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Great City Timbeck Tyu
Coloured Walls Nicely Painted
Arts and Drawing Everywhere
Artifacts on every crossing
People's representatives feel like king
Magnificient buildings here and there
Bridges and flyover everywhere
Toll tax booth here and there
Statues standing everywhere
Banners hanging here and there
Hoardings, posters everywhere
Malls and Hotels here and there
Dance Bars and Casinos everywhere
Citizens always in Crisis
Struggling with poverty
Economical condition bad
Politicians has gone mad
Nationalism in Slogans
Here and there hooligans
Real nationalist are renamed
They are called anti-nationals
Corruption is on the peak
You need license to speak
Crowd imposes censorship
System respects the crowd
Mouse catches the Crow
Everything on the show
Real news not covered
Real issues are untouched
Fake news are implanted
Press and Media on sale
Laws are being twisted
Burden of proof shifted
Culprits are honoured
Innocents are hanged
Farmers are in debts
Their families are starving
They can't even pay their loans
Neither Principal nor interest
They either commit suicide
or land in jail for not paying loans
Hospital competing with hotels
Doctors busy in making money
Patients treatment is on Sale
Get cured only if you pay
Stray Animals on the rise
What you can do if you cry?
Black money in circulation
White money is called pollution
Rapes, Murders and theft on rise
Law and order is on the papers
Lawyers are with Politicians
Politicians are with Criminals
Criminals are with the Police
Police is with the Capitalists
Only the God is with the victims
That too only, if he really exists
Population almost exploding
Environment full of pollution
Fights and quarrels here and there
Religion and faith always on stake
Caste and Classes everywhere
Race and Religion everywhere
Common people struggling for food
Saints consuming wine and drugs
Rallies and protests uprising
The system has turned deaf
Goddess of law weeping and bleeding
Judges busy in process law and rules
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Such a great city Timbeck Tyu
Have you liked Timbeck Tyu?
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu?
If you liked, Timbeck Tyu
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu
First apply for passport in your country
Then apply for visa from Timbeck Tyu
Hurry Up, Hurry Up, don't be late
Visa's are limited so take care
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
somehow all neighborhood tribes & tribe lords love you.
somehow you beat my score on the nickelcade spaced invaders.
we leap fences
in escape of party befouled
cops. crusaders
of mustache & veiny hate.
you rip your jeans
& lose your artifacts in the creek. into
convenience store warm lights
& makeout mixtapes.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
The excitement of holiday has waned
& suddenly
I am on the playground again.
I am thankful for my gifts,
but they are not enough.
I stand at the corner
watching all of my friends.
Everyone has seen my toys.
They are not impressed,
no matter how much I love them.
No matter how much I love them.
Laughter & affection,
like Ring Around the Rosie.
Another game I am not really a part of.
I observe.
I see desire on the lips of every child.
The way their fingers itch
to play with my friends.
They glance back
from time to time,
and a smile I’ve learned to force
from the pit and pain of my stomach
leaves them satisfied.
They carry on playing their games
that I don’t really understand the rules of.
I’m fine.
I am angry.
Someone speaks to me.
I’ve learned to lie.
Even my stories are pathetic.
Tales that claw at the base of my brain
like the tears kept caged in my throat.
No one wants to see me sad.
No one wants to see me.
I impress no one with my hand-me-down genes.
Even I grow tired of them.
My blessings are robust
but that is not enough
for friends.
I am not picked.
They all wear rings and play house,
and in my head I entertain
dead things.
I better not tell them that.
It’s not that we don’t like the same things,
they just don’t like me.
Can I hear them snickering?
They won’t say no
but they won’t sleep over.
I am the joke
when I have no games to play.
If I could disappear,
maybe then I’d have friends.
Don’t they love to watch me go?
On this playground full of girls & boys,
lingers the stench of envy & top shelf rivalry.
My artifacts & ancient dolls,
the historic volumes I collect,
treasures only precious to me.
Let me hide away with these
while they show off their shiny things.
Perhaps in class
I’ll find a friend.
Someone with whom to share & offend.
To play games no one else understands.
Finally.
So I wait for that sweet release,
A ground on which they can’t compete.
A friend to which
I am their toy,
whom they proudly show
to every girl & boy.
It is a playground
still, it seems.
They don’t even know
they’re being mean.
I just want someone to like me.
I’m still waiting for that bell to ring.
"Playground"
2/13/04
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
They said that since I play certain games,
I'm worth a broken shoe.
They judge people for being fans!
Think about that. Would you?
My heart's pounding like a drum,
But my blood is running cold.
I came here with a question;
The answer I must be told.
The air is filled with music
As I slash to the beat.
Getting past just one zone
Has got to be a feat!
Searching for my long-lost Dad
I need to find the answer...
First, I must groove through the Crypt
Of the NecroDancer!
I play my games; all I want
Is to have some fun.
There are seven deadly sins,
And my passion isn't one.
My annoying childhood friend
Sees me walking down the street.
She overslept again!
Now we finally meet.
She told me I should join
A club after school.
I don't really want to,
But if it makes her happy, it's cool.
Turns out, it's full of adorable girls!
My poem may be a stub...
But it's all worth it for
Doki Doki Literature Club.
I have tried other hobbies.
How many I liked: none!
There are twelve horrid curses,
And adventuring isn't one.
I may just be one small Protector,
But now that we've been attacked,
My ship was broken, destroyed!
I had barely time to react.
Stranded in space, thought I was lost.
So I gave myself the quest
To beam down, fix the ship,
And save all the rest.
Now the universe is in danger,
Six artifacts must be found.
I explore space to find them all.
I am truly Starbound!
They say it's better for me
To get my own things done.
There are 4 apocalyptic horsemen
And my high score isn't one.
I tripped and fell into a hole
Forever going down...
A small yellow flower
Welcomed me Underground.
Along the way, I met these beasts,
Heard tales of those above.
Learned of their search for humankind
With SOULs full of LOVE.
Long ago, we lived in peace
With monsters, though that failed.
It's up to me to free them
In my little UNDERTALE.
You may think that all these games
Would weigh on me a ton.
I have 99 problems,
And gaming isn't one.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Gun metal gray,
this pigeon grasps
at current strung black
across a brick-
bounded back alley
edgy eyes on
uneven piles—
disposable
artifacts of people
caught in-between—
it trills its plea,
a directionless
directive to throw
away smaller,
more edible, trash
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 8:46 AM UTC
the surprisingly sweetest clementine
2016
amidst
the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy
the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good
she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?
smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
providing
for all her needs,
known and unknown
even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine
she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:
I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
now,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,
unknown
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
I look at the hieroglyphics on the wall
It’s an epic story oh I’ve seen it all
This place was taken by industry
Powered by fame and the illusion of money
They perverted the artist’s proud, heartfelt ways
Forced the true artists out for the ones who stayed
They create things that sound the same to us
Dropped their talent sold their souls to business
Lost their land to a cult of executives
So now they put out songs without messages
There puppets without any ideals
But it’s amazing for album sales
They were tempted by the glorious pop charts
Every follower goes by the formula
Produce garbage without connection
With no real emotion or expression
Their distorted auto tuned emptiness
All to be on TV and in magazines
Want exposure to be recognized
Their careers won’t fade they were never alive
This place ***** robbed lied to n even forgotten
The ones who stayed chained to the corporation
Not for the sake of art but for the money
Lack of feeling and effort plain to see
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Can’t understand what their saying
Fan base is alienated
Rather be an icon than a star
The space between performer and audience grows more and more
So the true artists have left n disappeared
They’ve been out of sight for many many years
There somewhere where you don’t need to be in style
Might not find them at the left of the dial
No they don’t care about TV or radio
They just want to make something with all their soul
They are all now opposed to the fame
Crossing their fingers it won’t be the next craze
But today we still have the artifacts
Amazing and impressive sounds of the past
Better than the sell outs we all know
Talent, determination, originality flow
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Someone poisoned the main stream
So now it’s the same to me
Did I read the hieroglyphics wrong I don’t know?
But it was the rise, fall and return of rock n roll
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
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
a memory
yes
but after
yes
atomic foreskins
pink and fresh
yes
but no
no dream rocoque
no krupp haloes
no religious artifacts
made of lampshade skin
beneath
a million kilowatt moon
no anticipating geometry
the smell of soap
nor calling into question
human sexuality
without flesh
nor the vibration of blood
that angry lobe
hammering overhead
that echo bite
again
and again
clenched
no teeth
no Hiroshima
no again again
black graveyard womb
milk-glass lit
bandaged echo
**** him **** them
familiar bell music
**** them all (with)
2.9k
From mud walled homes
these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone
leather shoes and deerskin coats
woolen blankets and woven rugs,
baskets for storing grain and corn.
Grinding stones and sun bleached bones
antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,
necklace beads of finest hammered silver
now forgotten and lost, and too the river's water.
Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns
that pierced the heart of every man
no match for shooting arrows.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
1
Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.
Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.
Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,
Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,
And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.
2
The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra
Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the
Ambulance.
Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.
Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.
Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
Millions of men with matchsticks
Brought their heads to
The oceans of kerosene
********** forged their existence
And they weren't able to retaliate
Thousand whispers of desire
Of living a peaceful life
Echoed among the mountains
And between the valley of death
Days were enumerated and artifacts collected
The stories seemed to be a passage full of euphemisms
A dystopian atmosphere took over their utopian views
The matchstick was struck
And humanity collapsed.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
He knew the ache could not be recompensed
they knew it too the moment echoes fell silent
There was already not enough love
in a world grown dark as darkest past
It wasn't the color of his skin nor dialect
or the journey of a thousand miles
Not the place that he'd come from
back when ― left behind
nor a heart of gold,
that never became a home
The colour of unwritten silence
had eclipsed the waning light
On the run from who he'd become;
ashamed for all he was,
couldn't erase a lifetime that felt a waste ―
trying to untie a Gordian knot
He saw his body as an entombing barbwire cage
imprisoning a wellspring of love writhing deep therein
Immured at arms length from the outside world
where the soul of a teardrop abides within
its insignificance
Shielding the inherent maelstrom
from the innocent passersby
Buried thoughtfully for the greater good of all ―
for the unsatiated dream boundless love betides
Written artifacts exhumed like ***** secrets
a lifetime of stigma's stain swept under the rug;
just whispered words written from an unfinished life
few ever really looked deeply between the twisted lines
arising from the soul of just another passing stranger
The long road begets a suffocating silence
choking out, extinguished love inhumed
Ashes of what once had been life aglow of light
forevermore shrouded
like the dark side of the moon
rivers
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
artifacts arranged
chronologically -
flint and wood
allied with cordage -
sharp-edged bronze and iron
- a skull with cut marks
beside a copper
-tipped alloy bullet
on the shelf between
war and peace
and anthropology -
an anthology
- details emerge
in the painting
- killing is our nature
and dying
- a still life.
r ~ 10/26/14
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:44 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
You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.
You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:
"Fire!"
Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.
Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.
Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."
You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
My mind doesn't make sense.
It changes
Doubles
Destroys
Designs.
It cascades in on itself
Creating rubble,
Only to rebuild something
Twisted,
Unsettling,
Squirming,
Swelling,
Bursting.
My mind is a place that
I tend to fear.
It's a trap,
A net
Tangling me in
It's sick web
Of spun tales.
To it,
I'm a slave.
No escape
Nothing left
But shadows
And lost artifacts
Best left in the dark.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
It makes sense that a mummy was required
For the exodus out of my king rut
By wrapping me in silk and satin
And embalming me with love
But my brief time as pharaoh ended
A tomb at the pyramid I once attended
Thoughts of my sins plagued me
Did I get too froggy?
Or maybe he just met another sarcophaguy
Or maybe I misunderstood him
When he invited me over for desert
I wanted to conquer you
Like Brendan Fraser
Now I just want to talk to you
Like John Edward
I tried unearthing artifacts to channel your spirit
But your grave had been robbed
And after swimming in denial for so long
Wandering through the Sahara feels wrong
Your carefree kingdom is where I belong
But the evasive Ra warned
That the ghosts of snake charmers
Are abrasive and horned
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 1:50 AM UTC