"excavating" poems
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.*
personally? i hardly think
******** **** is what men turn
to when excavating
***********
ever watched
pregnant
women
************
while filming themselves?!
ever watch pregnant women
film
themselves ************
ever?
in the beginning there
was the word,
and the word was god...
you hear the talking
of pregnant woman ************
**** me...
who the hell needs ******** ***
when you can **** off
to a pregnant woman...
jerking off, talking *****
paradoxes of Freud
about her yet to be born
son
watching her **********
who the hell needs
******** ****
just watch a pregnant woman **********
oath of god...
hand on my heart...
it doesn't actually encompass a
desire for intricacies of latex...
just a pregnant woman
************
*** mad... *** mad...
*** mad...
******* *** mad as hell...
Freud? pale as an uncooked
pancake dough...
the **** that comes out
from the mouth of a pregnant
woman ************
believe me...
i ****** off to one of them doing it
helpless.
nice try... thinking
a man would turn to ********
***********
can't turn to more ********
****
than a pregnant woman,
************
while talking, Oedipal,
*****
try... try, ******
try to bash that fact out
of existence!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.
Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.
The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.
Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.
It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
Spending Nights cheaply,
television doesn't work,
rats or moths,
have chewed the wires,
now a black square,
sits quiet,
Monk like,
Enlightened,
reflecting me,
dust layer,
my plastic texas radio,
calmly,
oozes,
discharges,
Jazz,
my final cigarette,
silently waiting,
like the television,
like the *****
patiently watercoloring on red lipstick,
seducing not me,
but my lungs,
the ego.
And I fantasize being in an Italian cafe,
smoking,
with low eyes,
like a hill,
with a Gold hungry man
excavating for Fortune,
or bones of Glory,
and maybe a leaking pipe line,
dripping wisdom.
And a tall Italian goddess,
walks,
appears like a ****** magician,
into the cafe,
as the Italian Night,
dances ****
the stars like beauty marks,
and quaint street lamps illuminating,
sidewalk puddles,
like jewelry,
worn by an immortal belly dancing siren singer,
who lost her voice,
seducing Gods,
now mute,
cursed to ****** Man by her body.
And she sits down,
her legs dark like mud,
but glistens like the hot Sahara Desert,
and her scent,
is not of Cacti and Lizards,
but of Roses,
but of Rust Michigan,
over comes the roasting beans,
like a house burglar,
or a spider,
creeping up on its fly prey,
enters my nose,
and my recollection of beauty,
is warped,
simply by the way she lightly,
taps,
her fingers,
against her legs,
like a light drizzle,
on a tin shack roof,
after a century of drought.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
When You Should Be Doing Homework
You dig for your future inside a mirror,
Excavating pimples, drowning in your pupils,
Wondering if the road map that gathers around
The belt of your iris will make you look wise
After fifty years of blinking—or
If the folds in your skin will bookmark a chapter
Where you let them close for too long
Memorializing a missed-out stripe.
You lean closer to the better half of yourself,
The one that gets to look real
in a cold glass surface
Without enduring the social blemish
that comes with authenticity
And a lack of caked on makeup.
You count the pores on your nose.
The weight of silent opinions and swallowed up worries
Split the edges of your lips wide open like a sore.
You look inside; behind the fillings, under the flood of saliva, inside the flesh of your gums,
For the shelves where advice for your unborn children
will sit and gather dust; yellowing like old bones and tasting like coffee.
Don’t marry your mattress.
The way to a man’s heart is bacon.
Sticks and stone don’t usually look like sticks and stones.
If those children become anything like you are now,
it’s a safe bet they will have selective deafness.
You imagine your graying hair and huskied voice
spewing life lessons drilled into you
by your parents, Hallmarks cards, and people who call themselves poets—
*Make sure your smile matches the color of the dry cleaned heart your wear on your sleeve.
If you want to do well in school, learn how to ********
Never own / wear anything studded.
One day you’ll want to die your hair a rebellious color, thinking it’s cool: go for it. To hell with the people who will give a ****
One day you’ll want a concert t-shirt with wholes and stains that spell out **** go for that too, you’ll learn the hard way those are the hardest to wash*.
You step away from the echo of your eyes in the mirror,
feeling sorry for the future responsibilities
you’ll try hard to raise into good people.
Mom and Dad don’t always know best.
Don’t look in the mirror and think about the future. You’ll only see your hair gray.
Do your homework.
Keep your socks clean.
Use protection.
You pull yourself out of your mouth
Gulp down the darkness in your pupils,
Letting your face return to normal—the road map sinking into your skin, disappearing.
That future is too close for you to conjure it in the mirror.
Even without the weight of wrinkles,
Your eyes are too tired to stay open.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:17 AM 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
In the darkest corners you lurk with teeth snarling,
unleashing your claws to tear at her fragile skin.
The arrows of your pent up
anger never miss their target, her.
Time between dusk to dawn
filled with ink stained air,
You dug your paws on her once fragile mind,
excavating the emotions she
boxed and buried.
Tears she shed when you mined her heart with crass hands,
Shot daggers with your eyes,
Stained countless sheets of paper.
Remember:
Nothing Builds Character More Than An Antagonist
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:45 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
Friends are the jewels of the earth
For the real treasure
We all seek
Is to be understood
And cared for by another
With endless conversations
And cups of tea
There’s a longing
A sense of peace
That comes from good company
As the day rolls on
We talk and feel life through
Laughing at the situations
That seek to destroy us
There’s a beauty
In mutual bonding
And learning
And laughing
At life’s trouble;
It’s just me and you
Lost in our little bubble
When feeling blue
Unearthed, deadbeat
They give you a new perspective
to set you on your feet
Friendship is priceless
Connections
Communications
More tea, cake and understanding
By text, by mail
By spoken word
They reach over continents
Villages, cities and towns
To make themselves heard
To lend a hand
When feeling low
Or losing hope
They give their free support
The kind of which
Can never be bought
Days, weeks, months and years
Pass by in the blink of an eye
No need for an explanation, reason or why
They are there for you
No matter how life changes
A true friend
Always caring
Always the same inside
Getting to know you a little better
Than they did the last time
They read your letter
Never tiring of your company
A spirit so pure
You may not find all the answers
But will laugh, and talk and share
So together, we’ll find the cure
Digging deep into the human soul
Excavating feelings
Working through emotional episodes
To find peace in the present moment
And in each other
At the end of the day
That is friendship’s truest goal
Be they brother, mother, sister or lover
Friends come in many shapes and guises
For what it’s worth
A true friend means more to me
Than all the jewels of the earth.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
Orange skies alight above urban blight
blinking motherboard of these city lights
the circuits begin fraying
all these alleys lead away from me
I'm only out for the time it takes
for messy thoughts to catch clean escapes
at bus stops and in dive bars,
lonely strides scuffling on sidewalks
save me something
just one ******* bite
run-off melts were raging,
I aged fast floating through city streets
at night
And I----
----Keep on glancing at my wristwatch
tugging collars, setting time bombs.
Doors are locked after the last call
I'll head home, turn my bed down
let my head assess the damage while I dream
Ashen nights are mine to walk borderlines
off-rhyme steps enjambed as the clocks unwind
I tick off all the checkpoints;
all the scotch sinks and the gin joints
send me something
call or text to just say hi
arctic fronts converging
I'll be excavating frozen feet
all night
Slip and fall out on the sidewalk
on a frozen pool of puke
I'm growing
Old and so detached
and I am
losing all context
But, when the Springtime rolls around
I'll shave my face, stick out my neck
until again I'm winding watches,
strolling sidewalks, naming faces
and the lines
erased
tell tales.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Succulent to the core
Chilled to the bone
I likes the way your speckled body
Rushes through my veins
I like the sound of my
Sinking teeth excavating through
The avenues of your perforated skin
You were born in the sun,
Hot and bothered,
A summer fling.
My sweat streaked back
Goose bumped
With thoughts of you
I do not wait for the sun to
pick apart the buds of spring,
open them up like wrapping paper
a gift unraveled by April’s heat
No.
instead I wait
for your sweet taste to come
when the heat is on the brink
but has not yet fallen into the
gorges of summer
They say -
‘A tree is known by its fruit’
But you do not grow on trees
You grow on the roasted earth with
Vines that intertwine
Wildly,
a green mangled field...
Maybe that’s why I like you so much
Mine.
I am possessive
Aggressive
I carry you around in an opaque bowl
So no one can lay eyes on you
Your red bloodless interior
Is a sin
Greed-
green like your hard shell
I pull you out
When everyone is asleep
Tiptoeing across the floor
Smuggling you into my room
Carefully picking at you
Taking you in and spitting you out
Until nothing more is left
Except for the red sap I spared
Only because my teeth
Could not sink in it
Because it
Slipped through
the narrow alleys between my teeth
sliding down
the side of my mouth
Sweet indulgence.
Wiped off at the back of my hand
Sticky –
like a hot summer night.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
My life is usually unraveling quietly inside various states of disarray
Its my own doing and I am a professional
I know I sound self absorbed and self afflicted
I hope I didn't steal your time
I am a lot of things
but I am not a thief
I suppose I could take comfort in some small consistencies streaming through our species
In comparison to the time we spend dodging trains
Or pursuing another 0rgasm with an animalistic momentum
This is light speed fleeting
Still
Only a small step away from creating black holes
Anyway...
I say obsessive compulsive disorder
the red tape says crazy
I say these 60 hours of consciousness are the product of a restless mind
the white suits say its surely a chemical inbalance
but upon what scale are they operating?
(eyebrows raised in disbelief)
THE SCALE OF SANITY OF COURSE
oh
The only thing that provokes a serious need for vacancy in my life
Is full pockets
That's not a half baked metaphor
nor is it an obscure display of nerves crumbling
...forever deconstructing inside a failed attempt at demonstrating the burdens of existence
I really cannot stand crowded pockets
My lifestyle does not accommodate such a condition
Tobacco boxes and plastic flames
Cheap contraptions for times subtraction
A wallet absent of evil
Still
Chalk full of all the proper identification for existing
and depending on the day
The necessary tools for twisting reality into compliance
A touch screen distraction full of pain and despondency
Its disgusting I know
we all stay cozy and space phone faded
When I come home
The first thing is excavating pockets
an act of defiance towards my own brain
I throw it everywhere
my disease has broken three phones
This has no purpose
Nor does is contain the thread of my own insecurities
its merely the ramblings of a mind finally breaking
its clearly time for the sleep that keeps eluding my trajectory
it will be a microscopic moment on a backdrop full of faceless collisions
My off switch is stuck on the green light
I wish I could wake up for a sun rise
instead of avoiding it like a criminal caught up in circumstance
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC
I'm excavating your ribcage
Looking for answers
Of when things went wrong
I'm no mathematician or buddhist priest
But I'm really good at French toast
And overcomplicating myself
I convinced my coworkers I'm a vampire
Even though I'm vegetarian
The only kind of bloodlust I have
Is for loggers
(They took away my Mother nature)
I'm also really good at being over-dramatic
In a non serious way
You're wearing broken ankles on your wrists
How did those get there?
Did you walk all over me
With your hands
Around my neck
Your hands were the noose that will pull the trigger and make me swallow all those sleeping pills so that people realize my pillows aren't made from the ocean
You are that critical blow, K.O.,
last breath,
That push over the edge
I'm really good at letting my
Scars be neon flashing lights
and/or ants that are
crawling,biting, poisoning
my memories
Letting my past,
Make me a Ghost of Today
I'm excavating your ribcage
And everything checks out
But I think you left your
heart at the train station
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Hummingbird,
reflecting shattered
strains of
stained glass light,
invoking the laws of physics...
You,
Threaded a muted conversation
through soup can telephones
into this delusional bubble
within the Novocaine fog.
Unexpected disruption
in my comfortable illusion,
grating vibration buzzing in...
Inadvertently excavating
that secret chamber,
pressure sealed,
Only to find there are no treasures inside.....
For the Sphinx has lost them,
and the mummy's venom
reactivates in this bent light...
and digests me...
from the inside.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
When pain escalates, your mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Thinking while you sink
Sinking while your mind attaches links to other links which create memories
Vile memories that participate in your habit to erase them
To remove them
By ripping them from your mind with force
Using the high of that blatant eight ball as your source
When pain escalates, your mind begins to deteriorate
As you ligate your mind frame with a plateau of mistakes
A gust of emptiness floats uninvited through derailed spaces
Generating issues on top of issues
Imminently transforming you
Fabricating you as two addicts in one body
Two addicts in one mind
Two addicts in one soul
The mind excavates on the level of your thoughts
It digs deep
By means of unique technique
It leaves your heart weak
Like a fading light in the middle of the dark
It'll pull out your distress with raised instructions of defeat
Then attaches a link that involves a ghost that sets your mind a bit free
A bit free, a little empty
The voices go quiet for a time
Your heart can now slow down as your mind continues to unwind
The high of it all makes your body want more
Reaching into your subconscious
Making you believe you need more to be cured
Sinking while you think, your mind provides solutions
Excavating while you sleep, your heart decaying from contortions
Contortions happening in your mind and soul
Contortions that have the ability to leave you body a bit sore
Masking the fears of this uneventful detour
Cause when pain escalates, the mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
I'm excavating strained crevices in complete caves of royal silence,
A coil of better-left-behinds trail me
Frail me,
Bear in mind that I'm to blame.
Brute valor left undervalued
Caliber I drowned to death in her
A messenger of baptized alibis
Who am I who am I
Distant soundscapes of times ago
Blue-light memories aglow
I thought this was what I wanted…
If (only) I told you all my vaulted causes,
My daunted losses haunted with flaunted gauzes
I could have had what I always daydream of
But the day seems to have, still, just begun.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
there’s nothing left from line to line,
as each word consumes the next
like prophets marking “x’s” on calendar squares,
and mathematicians feasting upon the sum of our selves -
bounding like fleas,
tickling feathers between the wings
the seraphim feared to spread and draw shadows,
like a tombstone across the sod-turned feet
of a man not worth the effort.
tears fell but no flower bloomed
from the crumbling soil
swept aside like eraser dust by a *****
and patted down across a heart
that cast its beat in time with the shovels “shucks”
in excavating a soul at the cost of its weary bones.
time ticked despite the hands
wrapped firm around the hilt
of the driven-dagger
frozen somewhere between the three and four,
and teeth found each other like cogs around fruitless gears,
that’s sole ambition was to wind its own fate
around the process of begging alms for the ink
that mere poets came to bleed
upon his blessed crown.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
What is it so odd
not a good idea to seek answers here
of course you are seen as abnormal
God complex
compulsive
too empathetic
take some medicine
you need it apparently according to society
well no I will not change
I like me because I do love others
I like to save my planet
digging through trash to recycle is frowned upon
well, oh well
let me be me
I do not see me as a God
I just love, too much
there will be no excavating my inner me
so I will be me
and I won't take your **** pills
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
I will listen, if you have something not nothing to say that can grab my attention
like a bear snatching salmon, I will listen to the information you chain together
and sprinkle into the air if that sprinkle can sparkle
However, If that sprinkle cannot sparkle yet is sprinkled nonetheless, I will smoothly acquiesce
stealing my future time and progress, to hearing your sprinkled nonsense.
For words left unheard can stain one’s terrain,
inside their mind where vulnerable thoughts formulate
and like a club they congregate They seep through every crack
and they weep with all the lack, of strength and inner willpower you solemnly accept is not there.
But you’re dreadfully wrong! Enough force to move mountains lies within your bag of tricks
yet you’re still focusing on a whining stair you need to fix.
The whine in the coal mine echoing for days
it’s been your voice all along finding its way through the maze,
of minerals and fears buried in the rubble, excavating through has been causing you some trouble.
Breathe as if this oxygen is sweet and pure, breathe as if you feel relief and sure
Patience wafts inside you not causing a stir, but in content, a peaceful breeze, an all knowing powerful cure.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
I am playing
Nay dug in
Scratching
Young mind you
My sandbox
Eating sand is
Behind me
Bored sandbox time
Digging
Reaching
For prolly
Eleven months
Just excavating
Using all the Tonka tools
No China
No spoons
I find! A
Discarded
******
Mom!
What's this!
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
In the palm of your hand an augur collects dew,
Closer to molten rock then lava,
Like skin on glue.
Jeremiad tongues connect with one kiss
Of the first lover of his kind
Never to be missed.
Amongst skipping stones and a de facto home,
Books stack high between beds made of bone.
Excavating a rib cage only to find a heart, hard
Stripping each symbol of protection
On a door fire charred.
Your eyes choked love
Words tore veins slow
Burning the worst fire I'll ever know.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Deep beneath Park Avenue,
where protestors never tread,
The Sandhogs delve beneath
the earth laying new track bed.
In time to come commuter trains
from Grand Central to Penn
will take the tunnel they have dug
at a cost now of one dead.
A father and his only son,
both of a Sandhog line,
were excavating underground
and working overtime
when suddenly there was a roar
a shifting in the earth
Their two lives were in jeopardy
They ran for all their worth
The Dad survived, his son was crushed
beneath.the the earthen mound
Despite attempts at C.P.R.
A pulse could not be found.
They bore his body up the shaft
to the city that never sleeps.
Where his poor father, suddenly old,
a lonely vigil keeps.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:13 PM 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
His dream was buried under
So excavating down he went
But 'twas his mind that split asunder
And his solitary heart rent
He was forced to rediscover his way
With no hope left in sight
Past treacherous rocks of obloquy
Back to a place of light
The settling dust reveal in the end
That a laurel wreath or a thorny crown
Is for the one who would dare contend
For the one who would not stay down
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC