"excavator" poems
peeress: a woman holding the rank of a peer in her own right.
what tools fo you require?
a microscope, binoculars, perhaps an observatory telescope...
you ask to peer into my soul,
the heart of the matter,
and I object
not,
asking only for a workman's wages,
of honest preparation,
have you the tools to see me properly,
and when you love what you see,
will you have them by your side
to see the future close by,
and so far ahead?
do you possess within thy
secret places,
an archeological brush
to wipe gently away my ancient earths,
or a toy red shovel to remove fossilized
10,000 year old grains of old hearts,
or fresh, damp from this morning,
of words and sand from my inner
beach, even then, the tonnage may
require an industrial excavator
to clear, hold and perhaps contain
all that poetry, all that love that it contains,
so I ask, you, myself:
*Do you have the proper tools,
the necessaries and the necessities,
to find to store to relish and to delight
in what you may find?*
be an explorer,
and write of all your discoveries,
hurry, for the word
time
means in soul terms & the heart's specialized verbiage,
never enough
so girl scout/ mademoiselle peeress
you s t i l l
have much to assay/essay/uncover
re the meanings of love...
for there is as much to learn from the
quietus of love,
as there is, from the vibrant tumbling of
climbing to new heights
peer carefully...
5:44am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 9:28 AM UTC
I am an
emotional
archeologist
digging d
e
e
p
into the contours
of the heart
trying to discern
what spots
need tender healing,
how to treat and
soothe its
fissured parts
I am a soul-mind
excavator
discerning
temperature and hue
measuring the depths
of textures
as we get down
to the root
We work hard,
my team and I
mapping earthen layers
we use the implements
of wisdom
to try and heal
this pain acute
and as we gently
cut through the strata
of history, of scars
I know that this
explorer's work
is worth it
for we will reach up
to the stars
So we continue on
in patience,
into the
blazing core
like truth-warriors
like healers
unlocking secret
ancient treasures
that will rise up
to the
fore
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
My head is against the hard plastic, my hair softening the uncomfortable edge
I catch a sliver of the snowstorm when I look out, blocked by his silhouette
My hands place themselves on his waist, preparing for the worst
Lips on lips feeling the unequal pressure and my heart feels it's cursed
My chest feels strange as he transfers his kisses and finds my hands
I feel him pressing against me and I sink myself into the stained fabric as far away as I can
My body tenses and my mind tells it to stop but it doesn't understand
His movements are choppy as he tries to explore the new terrain
Does he know this terrain is 17 years young
Because the ground can tell the excavator is at least 21
Teeth collide with my lips and I cringe at the lack of skills for a man
My eyes drift to the snow outside the warm well used minivan
Wishing how badly I could be a snowflake on the other side of the glass
I pull my sweater up
And let him take off my bra clasp by clasp
But I don't want him
I don't want this to last
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
The peace in this seclusion
Of a tranquil park in green,
With stately trees of ancient years
And walkways in between
There's deep shade under foliage
With sunspots everywhere,
And a velvet sense of peacefulness
Pervading in the air.
But:
Should you step beyond the green grass,
Should you venture onto seal,
An abrupt and harsh transition
Manifests, as quite unreal!
There's a cacophony of engine noise,
The headlong rush of cars,
A kaleidoskope of steel and glass
And frantic men from Mars!
The grind of wasted hours
With inertia breeding dread
And putting up with maniac's
Ignoring stop lights turning red.
There's a quagmire of congestion here
A head ache for the Tsar's
And for myriads of people
Who queue daily in their cars.
There's a White Knight in the future,
There's salvation in the air
For the God's of your deliverance
Will relieve you of despair.
They will forge a mighty tunnel
Deep beneath the grassy park
And divert congested traffic
Out beyond congestion's arc.
Melding with the motorway
To make breathing space for all,
The Victoria Park Alliance
Guarantees their clarion call.
Energetic men and women
Who are planning round the clock,
Engineers and excavator's slave
To work without a stop.
Concrete slab and steel amass
To build the tunnel strong
And sleek attenuators
Keep the traffic flowing on.
Salvation in the form
Of a tunnel underground
Beneath the spreading boughs
Of an oak in green surround,
Beneath the peaceful turf
Of a verdant park as planned,
Found amidst the million souls
Of Auckland, New Zealand.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Auckland City
New Zealand
6 November 2009
www.worthyofpublishing
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 9:59 PM UTC
There's something in his
Eyes. That construction worker
With more dirt on him
Than the ground.
I recognize you, I say
To the reflection in the
Excavator window.
*You look like the guy she
Fell in love with.
Not the one
She left.*
Perhaps I should change
Back into him again, or
Just not. Me: Yet another thing
That wasn't broken until
I started fixing it.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
A lonely warrior of dust and dirt
Taking eternity off his metal shoulders
Perched atop a mountain of enemies
Narrowing down the endless battles to be waged
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
already I feel empty
still...the mining of my heart
continues apace
...the riches are almost
fully depleted now
...and still I open the gates
to 'this claim' with hope
each time you arrive in your
grimacing excavator.
I watch as the
gallows **** heap
that is soon to replace
my once priceless gems
grows in ugliness
in the full knowledge
that you are already
prospecting elsewhere
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:18 AM UTC
Bright heat shelters me,
Absorbing doubt into a glowing orb.
A cocoon,
wrapping me up in silky denial
And
offering the freedom to pretend.
Crisp air weaves it’s way between my bones,
Shedding burs
into every notch.
The prickle in my neck taps Morse into the skull,
The truth that looms like Babadook:
The excavator of ideas
is a soulless body
that only dreams
of digging the earth.
Suspended in-security,
turning thoughts to stone.
The chisel makes its mark
My hands are tied, the artist is fear.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
A balance beam
the edge of the sidewalk
Excavator escapades
the sandpit
Sundry scenes eclipsing face
Mom's cooking
Turn around
Nothing
Apr 11, 2023
Apr 11, 2023 at 7:40 PM UTC
Sitting cross-legged at your site,
dreadfully admiring the grass clumps
growing disrespectfully over your plot,
as if time forgot to stop for you.
Your neighbors are encroaching closer,
becoming a sea of graves,
You’re blending in with the rest.
Crickets and birds keep chirping
while the excavator cuts through
my thoughts digging new plots.
Time and life just keep progressing
But without you, I’ve stopped.
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 5:32 AM UTC
There's a dinosaur
outside my door
making such a row
I think it's called an excavator,
I call it a selfish cow.
What a noise
can hardly sleep
dig,dig,dig,and
beep,beep.beep
I think that when it's in reverse
it's filling in the holes it digs
and that is even worse.
What a waste of bleedin' time
diggin' holes outside of mine
fillin' in with concrete mix
building homes with
stickle brix
I wish the thing would go away
I need to sleep a bit today.
In ten million years from now
that ****** rotten
selfish cow
will be extinct and
so will I.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
A poet is like excavator,
digging through cave like walls of self
even when dark visions come.
A poet is like ballerina,
using words with poetic power
to spin thoughts inside readers mind.
A poet is like hiker,
walking up mountain with stored words
to be sorted out inside quiet.
A poet is like farmer,
planting a crop of words to help grow
a new perspectives for reader.
A poet is like a painter,
creating a masterpiece to excite
conveying visions with their gifts.
A poet is a human,
opening their precious heart
as they share a personal reflection.
A poet is like a pregnant female
laboring to birth a creative work
for the world to see and feel.
A poet is me,
who writes, to tame a raging sea of words within.
Who writes with her passion and heart.
StarBG © 2017
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC