"precambrian" poems
In the ancient darkness of that rock chamber,
bats hung upside down like unrecollected memories,
startled by his footsteps flew scattering around, coming alive,
the Precambrian rocks, smelling his presence, but still without recognition,
wordlessly asked, "Who are you intruder, troubling our millennial sleep?"
In his mind he heard his words echo,"Sister dear,don't you remember?
we came from the same mother- earth- then a molten mass,
she gave us birth, then wind, waves and water separated us in our Precambrian childhood,
you still are in your slumber, secluded from all, happily oblivious,
your journey still in the beginning, at a different pace"
**The elements took me to a pilgrimage,I took avatars one after other,
I am swimming towards light, at last,I believe,
rippling through the darkness all-round**
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 12:30 PM UTC
for all of us, star-seekers, feeling now alive
for those with the ghastly skill of being alone
amid crowds of people
lost in thought but ok inside
for those who see streaks of madness
fly round, illume patterns/puzzles
grasping scales celestial to infinitesimal
for those playing games with reality
snogging smug wealthy boys in stairwells
oxygen bonds breaking the sublime
for those forgotten under dirt, asphalt & spot
buried dates and dashes no splashes of memory
just naked nihilistic Precambrian bones
for those nameless from identity crises
smiling glibly through missing teeth
embarrassed by circumstance and the folly of age
for those trapped in jaunty youthful frames
lacking mind's dessert: veneration (contradiction)--still
wisdom perilously choked plus feared
for those chanceless beings fate sweeps & sooner snips
chuckling at theodicies while they still can
some soothed by snake oil--I mean Purpose--
then just dying
and we're still uplifted? we are still star-seekers.
we, divorced from form and aching for the sky's response
hear nothing, but we know
eyes' lies are all around us and inside
they wear us out and keep us moving
they are ancient dull clichés, tarnished but
they have the audacity to make us shine, aspire
they are what your grandma says to get you to behave
eyes' lies are true:
we are still star-seekers
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Whispering mango grove, in its heart
keeps this secret, lone block of rock
black and sturdy, precambrian marks
making it a thing of curiosity.
Travelling by foot, weary, needing rest
he sat leaning against its ancient comfort
not knowing what a boulder has to offer,
other than that,
as his eyes pulled curtains,
and brought the night for the time being
he heard a music or was it a voice, almost like
another kind of silence?
The sculpture within the boulder's prison
told him in a pathetic tone,
how beautiful it was
"Help me come out of solidified darkness,
take away the bitter cup of solitude
millenniums made me drink
I want to see the light of the day"
When he opened his eyes he heard
the voice echoing deep in his psyche
---a flower bloomed suddenly within
the barefoot traveler's diamond moment ,
right then, he heard, the beauty within him plead
to be discovered, the rock and him aren't two,
realization dawned.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
An uncanny and unfamiliar view: the sun gazing over the Sperrins.
Light granted sight and in the
smarting, sticky glow of day the range seemed endless.
Every peak,
protruding from plate like
vertebrae of the obscene Oilliphéist, aspired to pierce the clouds (had there been any) and
swelling like the ego of that Boeotian hunter, set Olympus and Rheasilvia to blushes.
An omnidirectional parsec of perpetual nihility that,
swallowing the senses,
renders proprioception void.
Everything suspended for a second or century under the watch of that inert sentinel, whose
magnitude mirrored the Cosmic Turtle.
Say some stray tenant of Mountsandel
had wandered through these ancient fields and looked, as I do, upon the eminence of this glen;
From now til then, this Precambrian master had aged but a second.
Words are feeble against this primordial Schist and cannot hope to evoke it.
But all perceived as hard then shifts; I see the hulk in its youth suffering
the divorce of Rodinia; drifting further from its peers – drowning.
Even now the car traced the scar carved in the little pinnacle.
Granted, it bore us tourists stoically on
Granite too pure for poetry.
Yet still I see, as clear as Sawel, the young stone struggling to breathe the noxious air;
Freezing and thawing with the trends of the earth and
Bearing it all alone.
No wonder it had become catatonic.
How fitting, that every traveller on their
commute between the Pillars of the North,
should be forced to stare
Eden
in the eyes and acknowledge
where
earth began.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
maps coloured in,
places where I’ve been
other maps show stolen land, places of war,
cemeteries marked with crosses
– plague cities black ringed
– places of pogroms marked pins –
arrows indicate migrationary trails –
outward from Africa monkey man to homosapien
the evolution of the thumb &
blind fishes
(the first restaurant sold primordial soup)
in Precambrian forests they hired
priests to baptise micro-chips before they left the factory
holy water sprayed from water pistols
– microchipped meat
you are a small blip on a map
on a map on a screen
on a screen in a room that doesn’t exist –
a small blip flashing
–
a liver made in a factor
a wooden lung
so many pills
she sounds like a maraca when she walks down the street –
rattle rattle rattle
– pills for all kinds of alignments
weight loss
erectile dysfunction
laser eyes
internal rot
diseased *****
side effects two many to mention
the Elvis shakes
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:23 AM UTC
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish ******** animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the ***** and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Alam Sayed
My dormant dreams remained in the primordial soup.
As an amoeba I dreamt about you eons ago.
In the sacred hollow of my mind lives your shadow.
Scrawny leaves of memory in the gutter of my brain
remain fossilized.
I waited for you in the Precambrian mud.
I roamed in the puzzling field of Cambrian jungle.
I dreamt about you being sheltered inside the body of a dinosaur;
Among acid rains my dreams were burned.
I searched for you amid the cry of stars.
My dreams were washed away during Noah's flood.
I wept for you near the stones of pyramids.
I reluctantly cut the throats of my blood brothers
in the Colosseum of Rome,
and fought the ****** battles with Spartacus;
and I saw our blood bloom as red flowers
in the reddened field of Capua.
I didn’t want to be a witch hunter
in the muddy medieval jungles,
and I didn’t want to be a gladiator of modern times.
I didn’t want to be a vampire of corporate age
******* the blood of my postmodern friends.
Perhaps, you will never be born in the craters of
ever hungry tyrants.
And, perhaps, in the world of fanatics and *******
you should never be born.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:23 AM UTC