"cowrie" poems - Hello Poetry

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.

0

May 19, 2015

May 19, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC

frederick-shiels

SWEET SKULLS OF JERICHO

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.

35

Sleepy blue ocean Hiding in a cowrie shell I heard her snoring

0

Jul 14, 2021

Jul 14, 2021 at 5:18 AM UTC

unpolished-ink

Being Six

Sleepy blue ocean Hiding in a cowrie shell I heard her snoring

3

*Spreading his mystic chart of zodiac signs, cowrie shells And the writings on palmyra palm leaves in his hand An outflow of astrological destiny of the landlord Kik kik kik kik sounds the house lizard The astrologer confirming the death of the man Predicting an accident after a day Exhaling his last breath of disbelief With fear of mystical belief pushing his destiny Before a day of astrologer's prediction !*

0

Jul 27, 2016

Jul 27, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC

prathipa-nair

Fear of Disbelief

*Spreading his mystic chart of zodiac signs, cowrie shells And the writings on palmyra palm leaves in his hand An outflow of astrological destiny of the landlord Kik kik kik kik sounds the house lizard The astrologer confirming the death of the man Predicting an accident after a day Exhaling his last breath of disbelief With fear of mystical belief pushing his destiny Before a day of astrologer's prediction !*

9

Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, *** and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize. This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew. On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us. Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken. Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin. I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound. The time for hearing is gone. Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums. I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves. Air is limited. Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape. Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet. Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.

0

Aug 30, 2013

Aug 30, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC

victor-tripp

PASSAGE BY VICTOR TRIPP

Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, *** and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize. This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew. On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us. Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken. Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin. I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound. The time for hearing is gone. Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums. I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves. Air is limited. Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape. Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet. Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.

1

Bar me off, Useless! Cryin' a'sighin'– over cliffs, over. She caught me a'whisperin' at the docks! Far, yea, far; And when did compersion to the western wayside go? Feeling let down. Staircase is a'goin' for a day or two! Distance between two points. Farther, father, fathoming depths. Low, now! Lower bent! –you, so far bent, did ask him so. "Chief Joseph– St. Joseph– Won't he have word with me? Nonsensical, man. Understand! If only for a day or two." Yea, some men never call. Some callers a'callin' do. Blue collared jazz blues– You saving it for the morning? Where the sea meets the land. Find him by the cowrie reef– I say that's unnecessary. Stand by me for a day or two! And them stories be so far bent, all a'tellin' them so: He fell out! What a falling out! Talked about for years to come! And hear they come 'round the bend– Lessening distance between points. I see horizon. O' horizon! Yonder horizon! And the sun all arisin' be! Huddlin'– All huddled like. Beneath the comet's tail she caught me. Found me all a'whisperin' at the docks... and I say: "Seaside, O' Seaside! Beneath them netherskies you wait. Yea, if a fool's never foolish are his thought's so foolish, see– I never felt so transfixed. Them waters got a depth to them– Therein lies weight. I talk to still paintings– none be a'talkin' back to me! Minds racing backwards. Would you listen to that still? Silence, she finds me in unnerving non-natural states. Psychosis takes a seat. They say them waters at the western wayside foam! A real, true foam! Froth and cough into your sleeve, white foam! Kiss me on the lips and tell me secrets for a day– Frenzy! Riot on! Whitewaters, subtle sexes, and a midnight matinee. I say what a night– What a comet's shone today!"

0

Feb 5, 2014

Feb 5, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC

brad-lambert

Riot On

Bar me off, Useless! Cryin' a'sighin'– over cliffs, over. She caught me a'whisperin' at the docks! Far, yea, far; And when did compersion to the western wayside go? Feeling let down. Staircase is a'goin' for a day or two! Distance between two points. Farther, father, fathoming depths. Low, now! Lower bent! –you, so far bent, did ask him so. "Chief Joseph– St. Joseph– Won't he have word with me? Nonsensical, man. Understand! If only for a day or two." Yea, some men never call. Some callers a'callin' do. Blue collared jazz blues– You saving it for the morning? Where the sea meets the land. Find him by the cowrie reef– I say that's unnecessary. Stand by me for a day or two! And them stories be so far bent, all a'tellin' them so: He fell out! What a falling out! Talked about for years to come! And hear they come 'round the bend– Lessening distance between points. I see horizon. O' horizon! Yonder horizon! And the sun all arisin' be! Huddlin'– All huddled like. Beneath the comet's tail she caught me. Found me all a'whisperin' at the docks... and I say: "Seaside, O' Seaside! Beneath them netherskies you wait. Yea, if a fool's never foolish are his thought's so foolish, see– I never felt so transfixed. Them waters got a depth to them– Therein lies weight. I talk to still paintings– none be a'talkin' back to me! Minds racing backwards. Would you listen to that still? Silence, she finds me in unnerving non-natural states. Psychosis takes a seat. They say them waters at the western wayside foam! A real, true foam! Froth and cough into your sleeve, white foam! Kiss me on the lips and tell me secrets for a day– Frenzy! Riot on! Whitewaters, subtle sexes, and a midnight matinee. I say what a night– What a comet's shone today!"

22

Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com Social Distancing is a Gilligan’s Island Re-run Because the CV has cancelled new shows And yet another Monday night football game Life is a Gilligan’s Island re-run Until for non-payment the service is stopped For we are all on an island of isolation Even if the Professor builds us a TV Of palm leaves, cowrie shells, and Ginger’s pins While Mary Anne crochets a mask for her navel Maybe a ship will rescue us today But will it take us back to where we were?

0

Oct 13, 2020

Oct 13, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC

lawrence-hall

Social Distancing is a Gilligan's Island Re-run

Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com Social Distancing is a Gilligan’s Island Re-run Because the CV has cancelled new shows And yet another Monday night football game Life is a Gilligan’s Island re-run Until for non-payment the service is stopped For we are all on an island of isolation Even if the Professor builds us a TV Of palm leaves, cowrie shells, and Ginger’s pins While Mary Anne crochets a mask for her navel Maybe a ship will rescue us today But will it take us back to where we were?

15