and i am eleven again
feeling like tomorrow
is a couple yesterday's ago
smothered in cayenne pepper
hot enough to take off taste buds
and tonight i am eating a meal
only worth burning
it tastes like my parents anniversary
it tastes like a zinfandel
left on the counter too long
it's a bad story, see
there's no silverware
'cause my mom sold it
to keep the lights on
and somewhere in heaven
somebody in a suit
doing commentary
on this fiasco
is telling someone else
in a suit that
"you have to eat love with your hands"
so we sit, four plates on the table
for the two of us
my brother's long gone
dad's even further away
& he's not the one who's buried
i carry both their names like anchors
that i cannot unmoor from
while she looks at the empty table
and says something about the news
she says something else
but she's not talking
we aren't proud of this, see
my dad likes to wax his car
he's proud of it
and my mom says
she sees a lot of him in my hands
says, i touch the things i find
like they didn't belong
to people sleeping in the ground
she says i touch photo albums
the same way-
you know,
i never used to believe
that history could repeat itself
not until i could
fast forward seventeen years
and still wake up to smoke alarms
how i would go into our kitchen
to find it empty
and the dinner smoldering
& my mother in her bedroom
looking through family photos
like it's a just another summer day
and the sirens are just the birds
i don't ask, i never say a word
in this moment
i am an archeologist
afraid to dig up the past
cause history repeats itself-
you see
my brother is dead
and my father is gone
they have been for some years now
and my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets their place at the table
like they're still here
and in the confusion
ends up ankle deep
in pictures of how it used to be
she let's dinner burn
and douses it in red pepper
hoping i won't know the difference

I want to be your abacus baby,Oh you can count on me.
I wont say that i love you, or i heart you, I less than 3 you.
Your molecules must be moving fast,girl. Cause your really hot.
Are you igneous sedimentary or metamorphic? All i know is baby you rock.
And if god existed I'd thank him for you, but I'm rational and read a lot of Sam Harris.
Your beautiful like the font garamad,but i want to see you sandarac, take your pants off.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,
And i observe your quirks oscillating, and I'm formulating, a g-string theory..
Like an archeologist,I'm gonna try and compute your age. cause i really want to date you.
You make me feel like a male giraffe. I want to nudge your **** and make you urinate,and mate you.
Scientific fact,thats what they do.
The value of my love for you cannot be expressed exactly. More rational then Pi.
Hey "****" is a legitimate word in scrabble, just FYI
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
You can **** me into your super massive black hole, the center of your galaxy. Im talkin ******.
I may not be the strongest or the prettiest, but my knowledge of grammar shines.
I know how to use the words  further and farther..correctly. Every fricken time.
Example:farther indicates physical distance
and further a depth or degree
example: the moon is getting farther from the earth
about 4 centimeters annually. Fun factoid,take it home with ya.
You just keep getting further into my heart.
You just keep getting farther into my heart.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,and if the situation is ambiguous, further and farther can be used interchangeably. Just a fun factoid.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
Baby i less than 3 you.
So please take off your pants.

Dear Poet Friends, the Sphinx remains shrouded in myth, legend, and History. Modern research by archaeologists and Egyptologists have revealed some of its hidden mysteries. My research has resulted in providing you with a short & a balanced view about the Sphinx, keeping in mind the short attention span of my readers. Unfortunately, I am not able to post the Illustrative photographs here which accompanies my Sphinx story. Hope you like this story, thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
            
         THE MYSTERY OF THE EGYPTIAN SPHINX

INTRODUCTION
Towering over the Giza plateau facing the rising sun over the
River Nile,
The Sphinx stands defiant for over four millennia, braving the
vagaries of weather and marauding time!
With a lion’s body and a human head the Sphinx remains
shrouded in part myth, part legend, and ancient History.
While the date of its construction, and identity of its face
have intrigued scholars for many centuries.
Today I shall tell you about this monumental and magnificent
structure,
Which stands as an iconic symbol of Egyptian architecture!
Man fears Time since he forever remains as it’s bonded
prisoner in captivity.
However, only few hours of freedom are granted to him during
his earthly sojourn, to live and love life with impunity!
But Time fears the Pyramid and the Sphinx, as they stand
defiant with their raised head;
As miniature symbols of eternity which even Time dreads!

MYTHS AND LEGEND ABOUT THE SPHINX
Many controversies and theories abound as to the identity
of its builders during ancient times.
Some say it was built by the people who came from Plato’s
lost ‘Continent of Atlantis’, prior to the Egyptians, way back
in time!
Others say it was the ancient Zulus who had inhabited the
wet and rainy Giza region with its great lake.
Around 8000 BC, during the close of the Great Ice Age!
But with changing weather pattern the Giza region later became
a desolate and a deserted area.
Yet no records or hieroglyphs survive, to make things clear.
The name ‘Sphinx’ is said to have been given 2000 years later  
by the enterprising Greeks.
Since in Greek Mythology there is a Sphinx, but with a woman’s
face, a lion’s body and with eagle’s wings;
Which guarded the entrance to the ancient Greek City of Thebes.
To the Greeks we owe the ‘Riddle of the Sphinx’ which asked all
passing travelers the following question:
“What is it that has one voice, and walks with four legs in the
morning, with two during the day, and with three in the evening
time?”  - about which those travelers had no notion!
The Sphinx devoured all those who had failed to answer, till the
Greek Oedipus confronted the Sphinx and replied,
That the riddle had described the three stages of a Man’s life.  
Since he crawled on all four as a child, grew up to walk on two
legs.
But during old age used a stick which became his third leg.
Hearing the correct answer the Sphinx is said to have jumped
into an abyss killing itself!

THE  SPHINX PROPER  
Modern Egyptologists generally agree, that the Sphinx had been
carved out from a single mass of limestone mound, -
Which dominated the Giza plateau before 2540 BC.
Built by Pharaoh Kufu’s son Khafre of the Fourth Dynasty.
Khafre was the builder of the second largest pyramid standing
next to his father’s Great Pyramid of Giza.  
While the Sphinx stands on the eastern most boundary of the
Desert Sahara;
Six miles west of Cairo, on the edge of Giza plateau.
It is 240 feet in length and almost 70 feet in height, aligned to
the Pyramid of Khafre behind.
The Sphinx lies on its hunches guarding the vast ‘City of the Dead’.
Where pharaohs mummified bodies lie deep within the pyramids;
To facilitate journey of their soul to gain eternal life and be
resurrected,
To join the Happy Fields of Osiris the Egyptian God of after-life
and death.

Great conquerors like Alexander and Napoleon had stood
dwarfed before the mighty Sphinx.
But to Napoleon we remain grateful for our knowledge of
Egyptian civilisation among other things.
For it was his soldiers who had discovered the Rosetta Stone
in Egypt in 1799, with its  bilingual inscription.
Written in Egyptian hieroglyphs and Coptic Greek, resulting in
the decipherment of the Ancient Egyptian pictorial inscriptions!

EXCAVATIONS AND RESEARCH WORK
The Sphinx had been buried by the shifting sands of the desert
many a time during past centuries.
While periodic restoration work continues to preserve it for
posterity.
American archeologist Mark Lehner and his team during the 1970s,
had analysed the bedrock under the mighty Sphinx.
They found natural cracks and fissures, and also narrow passage
ways dug by early treasure seekers!
His team climbed all over the Sphinx like Lilliputians over Gulliver, -  while mapping its structure entire.
It was found the Sphinx had been subjected to five major restoration efforts since 1400 BC .
While Mark’s dedicated efforts earned him a Doctorate in Egyptology at the Yale University.

Mark’s research also concluded that the visage of the Sphinx was
once painted in red.
While traces of blue and golden yellow decorated the ‘nemes’, the
Pharaoh’s brightly stripped head dress.
Controversies rage even to this date, as to whose features the
Sphinx’s Negroid face did actually represent.
While the disfigured nose of the Sphinx has given rise to many
speculations.
Was it the Muslim Arab conquerors, or a fanatical Sufi Turk who had tried to destroyed it as a pagan symbol!
Today I recall that the mighty 1700 years’ old statue of the Bamiyan
Buddha in Central Afghanistan.
Which was destroyed during March 2001 as a pagan statue by the
fanatical Taliban!
  
Mark feels that in all likelihood the Sphinx’s face was that of Khafre, with whose pyramid the Sphinx stands aligned.
While those ancient architects had arranged the location of the three pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx in conformity with solar events, - while choosing their construction site.
A settlement bigger than 10 football fields at this site was excavated,
Where the Sphinx formed an integral part of Pharaoh Khafre’s building complex!
This ‘Lost City’ of Mark Lehner had barracks, workmen’s quarters and kitchenette.
While remnants of diets found suggested workers were perhaps
rendering national service, and were not slaves.
No iron or bronze tools were found, only crude stone hammers and
copper chisels lay buried beneath the ground.
These copper chisels had to be sharpened at the charcoal furnace
frequently, for executing chiseling  work with artistry.

SIGNIFICANCE OF THE GIZA COMPLEX AREA
Mark Lehner and other Egyptologists felt that the pyramids, Sphinx, and the Temples Complex of Khafre was thoughtfully arranged,
For linking solar events and harnessing the power of the Sun God  
to resurrect the soul of the Pharaohs after their death!
This transformation not only guaranteed eternal life for their dead king,
But also sustained the universal national order, passing of seasons, the annual flooding of the Nile, and their people’s well being.
During sunset at March or September equinoxes when the sun appears to sink into the shoulder of the Sphinx, -
“At the very same moment the shadows of the Sphinx and the pyramids
both symbol of the king becomes merged silhouettes.
Sphinx representing Khafre as Horus the revered falcon god, offers with
his two paws to his father Khufu incarnated as Ra the sun god, who rises
and sets in that temple,” – as the ancient Egyptian’s thought.
Unfortunately  Kafre’s dream was not realised, since the Sphinx Temple remained unfinished as now we get to see,
As the Old Kingdom of Egypt finally broke apart around 2130 BC.
The desert sand began to gradually swallow up the Sphinx, till almost a thousand years later,
Thutmosis IV cleared the area, and introduced cult of Sphinx worship during the New Kingdom Era!
Rest is history, which has been already covered by me.

     CONCLUDING THE SPHINX STORY
The ancient Sphinx as Egypt’s iconic art,
Has captured the onlookers mind and heart.
Buried deep within its shifting sand,
Lies many a secret still unknown to man!
The Sphinx still beckons out to me,
Perhaps one day I shall get to see.
Today the Sphinx stares out at a fast food restaurant.
As it now faces a full frontal urban assault!
The rising water level of the Nile, tourism, traffic, and
air pollution, along with many urban constructions;
Make the authorities to worry about its preservation!
The Sphinx beckons out to man from eons past,
What is that secret it wants to share with us?
Perhaps it is about Environmental Degradation;
And the urgent need for Global Preservation!
                                                   ­        -Raj Nandy
ALL COPYRIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY

after a drunken fifteen minute walk home
you discovered me in my bed
like dinosaur bones
dusted off the feathers and white house paint
we made love after two years
‘my god you’re a saint’
you tasted and felt as good as i’ve dreamed
your name on my breath,
you ripped all of my seams
morning light and we talked about being sad
put my hair behind my ear,
'sometimes loneliness isn’t that bad'
i don’t know if it will happen again
but i’m not ready to let our sweet rendezvous end

The crust barely give us enough
Brown and rocky stuff
To recall histories long removed
From where we stand

But with steady hands
Better men come working
Sifting and shifting
Through layers upon layers
Carefully dusting dear artifacts
To uncover forgotten facts

Till the dullness of ignorance cracks
Letting deep historical truths
Trickle through to me and you

What a grand thing for a human to do

As ancient ruins
get picked over with pick axes,
these detracted sites
show spite towards gods,
plus absurd signs in dirt,
with blurred lines distraught
and new plots not deserved
for fickle followers disturbed
by death scavenger dealings.

Instead of a sickle
it wields a shovel,
distorting the calm presence,
wrong bearings bring up
consequences long coming.
And these phantoms now creep
throughout ghost town dungeons.
Skulls and bones abound, cousins
and other kin found fundable.

Love becomes a couple
archeologists who unearth puzzles
pulling apart logic
no longer deductible,
so loan me your conscious
I'll connect it to old ones
we'll slowly dissolve into
improbable causes, duped.

It’s very surprising that “SATOR Squares”

seem to appear everywhere

the mighty Roman army had gone;

can they together, really belong?

Can anyone else see

inside this puzzle’s mystery?

It’s been learned that it’s not a game

and a truth, always remains the same.

Known is the square’s earliest evidence –

Can it be a mere coincidence,

that it was found in a retired soldier’s home?

From one who had faithfully served Italy’s Rome.

The Naked Archeologist cracked this riddle,

by playing around with the letters of its middle.

Fairly revealing were some of its words,

whose interpretation were not fully obscured.

From analyzing all 5-lettered Latin palindromes,

it became clear; this particular grid stood alone.

The hidden phrases are now, no longer lost;

PATER NOSTER, “Our Father”, forms a cross;

The leftover letters include “a” for “The Alpha”,

while “o” represents “The Omega”.

The last secret, discovered inside this puzzle’s framework,

informs us: “The Alpha and Omega holds the wheels in work.”

For with Jehovah, nothing is impossible –

when we see that “Jesus makes God’s work possible”.




Author Notes:

Information for this poem was gleaned from a video presentation of Simcha J., who is known as the Naked Archeologist. The first SATOR square was found carved on the wall of a retired soldier's home; he had served the Roman army and his name was Paquio Proculo; it's been dated around 79 AD.

http://www.satorsquare.com/

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2011, All rights reserved.

Around the world swinging my hips, A hula hoop queen
Wrapped up in our nation’s flag I’ll be your American dream
Microphone miss superstar, shake the feathers in my hair
Honey you’re my favorite audience, you know I love it when you stare
Late night rooftop philosopher, tell you everything on my mind
Lover archeologist, boy you’re the best thing I’ll ever find
Little baby human canvas tattooed up my wrist
Turn into a woman fast when you grab me for a kiss
Vroom Vroom Racecar driver when I follow you up north
Lit up your sky fire works on our first July fourth
Princess of the gas station, buy me cherry gum
Lighting up my cigarette, won’t forget to spark you one
You lived a world of black and white, and that is not a lot so
I’ll bring in my vibrant reds, you got yourself Picasso
I know I scare you at most times, but never should you quiver
For my king at his request, the queen is sure to deliver
Apache chief rain dance girl, my tribe calls me brave heart
But I’m not always so courageous; I’m just trying to be smart
I’m thinking with my heart so fast the pumping blood’s still blue
But it beats, and I do all these things, I do them all for you.

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

Madame LeCarvennec had asked the chauffeur to be at Manoir Tregont Mab by 7 PM, the start of civil twilight during the vernal equinox, which would give them plenty of time to get to Pointe du Raz by nightfall at 8:52 PM.

It would be bitterly cold and windy at Enez Sun, so Gaëlle put on her black Lululemon cold weather leggings, long sleeved top, fleece vest, black hooded Patagonia puff down jacket, and black military style UGG leather boots.

Madame LeCarvennec had her druidess clothes and things taken to the island this morning, so she could travel and fly unencumbered.

Gaëlle walked down the stairs, where Madame LeCarvennec was waiting for her. They kissed twice cheek to check in silence. Then Madame LeCarvennec gave her a quarter baguette, ham, and butter sandwich.

Gaëlle walked out into the drizzling cold and stepped into a black Evoque Range Rover. The chauffeur, a middle aged man, armed and former  1st Marine Infantry Paratrooper, gave her a quick glance in the rear view mirror and started to drive.

They drove  in silence up D783 to Quimper, then D784 east to Pointe du Raz. She looked at the windows at the ghostly landscape, houses passing by in a blur. The seriousness of the situation weighed on her, as she slipped deeper into her thoughts, watching the endless landscape of cornfields.

They pulled into the deserted Pointe du Raz gravel parking lot. The sound of muffled crunching rocks bring her back to the moment. The driver stopped. She got out, and gasped at the cold vicious wind. She closed the door, and the chauffeur drove off. She was alone, in the dark Finistère shoreline.  

She walked down the paved trail towards the Sémaphore de la Pointe du Raz, a modern lighthouse, equipped with the latest in high-tech lighting, electronics, and microwave communication equipment. Then pass the Notre Dame des Naufragés, Our Lady of the Shipwrecked statue, till she got to the edge of the jagged rocks jutting into the Atlantic.

Directly in front of her was La Vieille, a lighthouse built on a rock, to the north Phare de Tévennec, a lighthouse built on a big rock and said to be haunted, and to the northwest, the infamous lighthouse Ar Men, called the hell of hells by keepers.

Lighthouses were classified by keepers into three categories, according to the harsh working conditions: "Hell" for houses at sea, "Purgatory" for island houses,  and "Paradise" for houses on land.

5 miles out, she could barely make out Enez Sun. The island was dark. The residents had left. The island was deserted except for the nine priestesses. Gaelle jumped into the air, placing her hands to her side as she picked up speed and altitude. The wind was blowing hard, forming white caps on the waves below.

She saw the bonfire, outstretched her hands, lowered her legs, and started her descent, landing several meters away from the circle of priestesses. A priestess pointed to a sack with Gaelle’s clothes: a white heavy cotton dress, a thick green woolen cloak, and turnshoe soft leather shoes.    

The priestesses were standing, holding hands, around two standing stones called Les Causeur in a field south of Eglise Saint-Guénolé in the center of town. Gaelle watched as they chanted and swayed rhythmically as a group. She knew from her days as a priestess, she could not be part of the circle, as the individual priestesses gave their power to the circle and leader, the eldest of the priestess, to amplify and see into the future.  

The priestesses swayed, tilting their heads back, chanting, but the eldest, Kermorian, bowed her head, concentrating and focusing her Sight. Images would come into focus, and she could make out their meaning, front the context of the subject or their surroundings. It was up to her to piece together the visions and make sense of what she’d seen.

Kermorian dropped to her knees. Her head bowed low. The circle stilled and quieted. Kermorian spoke, “ I see her. She has returned to Paris. She seeks her mother, to bring her back. She had killed many girls and many more will die to resuscitate the mother. She is manipulating men, and one in particular, to unearth her mother. That is all that I can see this night.”    

Kermorian, fell back on her ***, exhausted from the vision. Her second attending to her. The priestesses broke their circle and gathered around the fire, breaking breads, cakes, and drinking wine.  Kermorian weakly got up and walked to the fire, sat down on a cut tree stump and stared into the bonfire.

Kermorian spoke, and the priestess quieted. “She is back. Our sisters in Čachtice had been watching her. It is clear why she is back. To resurrect her mother, whom the French archeologists from la Musée Carnavalet are excavating her coffin.”

Kermorian waved Gaelle to her. “You are the closest to the archeologist and the mother. He will lead you to the daughter. Only then will we know how to deal with her and how to stop her from resurrecting her mother. The mother is the one who decimated our people. She must not be allowed to return. When the archeologist removes the iron stake through her heart, and the daughter feeds her blood, the mother will resurrect and seek vengeance on our people.”

Gaelle knew of the horrors the vampires had wreaked on her people. The systematic slaughter most of the druids, priestesses, vaters, and bards, killing the leaders, dispersing the followers. She then killed the men, so no fields could be tilled, gamed hunted, or women and children protected. They died by the thousands, the luck ones were taken into slavery by the Romans.  

The Celts abandoned their cities, dispersed, and hid deep into the forest of Europe. Our people hid in forests around Rennes, Broceliande, Quimper, Carnac, and Armorique.  

The Celtic culture was slowly forgotten and replaced by Gallic, then Roman, and finally French.

A small group of priestesses and druids were able to **** and stop most of the vampires. The others fled Europe, going deep into the desolate and savage Ural mountains, where they stayed until now.

The Christians and their new ways dismissed vampires, fairies, and magik even though their Holy books spoke of Lilith and her sisters in the garden of Eden, succubi, and magik.

Gaelle had seen excavation, the coffin, and Gerard. She’d gotten close to him, ****** him, and made sure he'd not forget her.

Postman
and poet?

love letters in mail

Accountant
and poet?

precision, detail

Archeologist
and poet?

sifting for feelings

Electrician
and poet?

a jolt
leaving one reeling

architect
and poet?

drafting with words

Zookeeper
and poet?

singing of birds

Bus driver
and poet?

observing life's roadways

Minister
and poet?

perhaps how he prays

Lawyer
and poet?

though about win or lose
her poetry just might amuse

Economist
and poet?

Aren't we all that?
though we wear different hats
distilling things downwards
saving on words

whoever you are
whatever you choose
listen, observe
welcome your Muse!

"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.

I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."

I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.

My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.

My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.

The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.

The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.

The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.

With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.

I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.


* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."

" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.

The street named after the Spaniard who discovered the Pacific

The drive named after the Spaniard who conquered Mexico

The lane named after the Spaniard who blessed the Americas’ first Thanksgiving

Yielded enough rubber bands from newspapers

To twine a ball

Round enough

Bouncy enough

For a good game of stickball

Until the kid tasked

With finding rubber bands

From the circle named after the Spaniard who painted pictures

An oddball among all those adventurers

And a cluster of dwellings that didn’t subscribe

To rolls of paper

Hit it into the backyard with the dog on a chain

But fear kept us on a chain

As we stood over the rock wall

Looking for a manila spot

On unwatered St. Augustine

And spotting it

Disdaining it for

The angry barks

Bared teeth of the restrained beast

Letting it wait

For an archeologist centuries hence

(Maybe even a few decades from then)

To find it and marvel

“Even back then humans played games -- or so we assume --

With round objects.”

The pain is felt
As she, the preeminent archeologist knelt
Before the porch
And the holder of the torch

Of a land, once beautiful
Protected by the dutiful
Vibrant cultures which would fall with a thud
A price paid with disease and blood

From this would rise a new culture
The ancient morsels scavenged by this vulture
Manifest destiny was the rule of the land
Smothered and choked by a cold hand

Created by terror, torture and fears
Remaining in place for hundreds of years
A promise of liberty and justice, but not for all
The reason for this culture's eventual fall

This was not the story her digs appeared to tell
For liberty was the name of that cracked bell
Hymn's proclaiming the land of the free
And a constitution that begins with "We..."

As she gazed towards the sky
She could not fathom why
What on earth made this lady cry?

"Give me your tired, your poor"
Welcoming all upon her shore
This was the message upon her door

Gazing upon her once hopeful eyes
She soon began to realize
Perhaps, they were not all knowing and wise
And for too long believed their own lies

It was this realization
Of this ancient nation
Which helped her see
The tears shed by she
This lady...
Liberty

(C) Shawn White Eagle

Please tell me all your secrets,
I’ll listen so very intensely,
I know I could never beat this;
intrigue consumes me so immensely.
Tell me all your little stories
from your birth until today,
I swear there’s so much there for me,
not one is boring regardless of what you say.

I’m an aspiring archeologist
wishing to discover your bones
I’ll take detailed notes in a list,
from the gravel to the stones.
I’ll dig as deep as you permit,
carefully brushing away the dust,
gently admiring bit by bit,
proving I’m someone you can trust.

Please tell me all the thoughts in your head,
the ones before you sleep and while awake.
A novel that’s new each time I’ve read,
each detail I’ll comb and rake.
Speak every word that comes to mind,
I crave to step inside your brain,
I know there’s hidden corners for me to find,
and so much understanding left to gain.

I’m an aspiring architect
wishing to build you to the sky,
every support beam I’ll personally inspect,
protecting any damage low or high.
I’ll construct only to your designs
ensuring you’ll never break and never bust,
producing the math and drawing the lines,
to prove you’ll be the only thing to never rust.

Please tell me all your deepest fears
so I can prepare myself to stand toe to toe,
the ones that cause sleepless nights and tears,
those are my one and only foe.
Tell me about the world you see,
how it looks through your bright eyes,
so I can express it creatively,
and paint you the perfect skies.

I’m an aspiring starving artist
wishing to illustrate every aspect of you,
you can criticize and say I’m blinded by the mist,
but every poem and portrait will be true.
There’s no explaining this pure bliss,
but I’ll make up new words and colours if I must,
as you’re the only thing that I ever miss,
proving this is love not just lust.

She lays out her heart
On her sleeve  
Both sleeves
As the red
Carpet is rolled
Out for royalty
Whether for
Honor or dishonor
But always
For ceremony

It beats in polyrhythms
Under and on her
Many layered epidermis
Whose layers
Perhaps only a mystical
Archeologist could
Analyze
The complexity of an
Ancient undecipherable book
              
Created by years of damaging
Neural and spiritual
Pathways by absorbing
The essence of her
Personal peace pipe
Which is bereft of the
Essential factors found
In thousands of years of
Dream religion

She fancies herself
A new breed of
Shaman perhaps
A connection broken
At an unknown time
In her spirit
But felt strongly
And deeply as
Phantom pain
Evident in her
Crystal ball
And stargazing

A remnant of
A long lost tribe
A tapestry of
Religions
Trivialized
Pop cultural  
Spirituality
And superstition

Her motives
Misplaced and obscure
But definitely from
A healing source
But the channels are
Eroded and indefinable
Bastardized by

Extraneous channels
And alien sources
A trickle of water
In a dry river bed
All muddled into
This enigma and

Multicolored tapestry
Which is often
Misunderstood
And underestimated
Protected by the
Thick epidermis
And hard to follow
Cardiac polyrhythms
Revealed when her
Many layered tongue
Lashes out and cuts deep

Not intending to control
And manipulate
With leadership
Origins perhaps in the
Shaman or tribal leader
But definitely
Out of place and time
Since their true essence
Has been lost through
Her Westernized
Industrialized
And hyper-capitalized mind

And scattered to the four winds.

When I was traveling in the train,
With no strain on my brain,
Only peeping through the window,
To have a look of nature.

The flying birds, the grazing cows,
The race of trees in opposite direction,
The green green fields, the great mountains,
Lovely ponds and walking rivers.

The muddy huts and the children playing,
That was all that I could see,
My soul went somewhere else,
And I was thinking, what is life?

The gift of God, or the curse of devil,
Life is to enjoy or to suffer,
Many answers floated in my mind,
But the journey finished with answers incomplete.

Thereafter, I bombarded this question,
to each and every person I met.
A philosopher told, Life is sorrow,
A Scientist told, it’s an invention.

It’s a game answered the player.
No, it is a play, told the actor.
I went to a sage to get the answer,
Devotion is life, I was told.

Life is an ambition and dream,
Answered rich and cultured youth,
But the other youth not agreed,
Because he believes, it’s struggle.

Life is a chance, said the gambler,
No, its dance of happiness and pain,
Answered the classical dancer,
No, Life is Renovation, told the Archeologist.

Life is knowledge, said the teacher.
Life is thought, said the thinker.
“Life is a matter of self realization”,
It cannot be defined, defined the absent minded professor.

I met a roadside preacher,
That’s poor little creature,
Totally filled with confusion,
Said, ‘Life is an illusion’.

I asked this question to the driver,
Who picks me daily for the school?
He said, Life is like a bus,
Running on the roads of time.

So many answers, all were right,
But all were somewhat incomplete.
So it was difficult to compile,
And get the answer as a whole.

I keep on thinking all the time,
Deriving the answers as solving equations.
At last, I concluded as a whole,
That Life is Hope and Hope is Life.

History of people

The stone walls and vaulted ceiling held memories the light seemingly superficial human identities have
Passed in and out like the outward wind that briefly buffets the outer structure then moves on if only

We could use a tool like the archeologist not to deface or change but take scrapings their work tells the
Grand story of people and place I would like the more personnel their struggles and their outcome we

Can and do learn from history and in time be able to take DNA when the science is stronger to take  
From these living libraries through test tubes and meaningful searches that will connect people even

Closer than ancestry search sites this shows your long ago relative was a silver smith and how impressive
If the very searcher himself works in a similar field someday I’m sure they will have applications that

Will be virtual it will be made in the same village you can set in your easy chair and have the unfolding
Of how it felt the highs the lows the commutable variable of life’s most cherished meaning what is to

Exist to be such time and effort is expended in the thoughts of this will serve our posterity what a
Precious stream flows from solid rock just like life giving springs in ancient and modern day where life

Would have to be deferred but out of a pristine valley not only nature but human enterprise is giving the
Opportunity to devise many wonders traceable back through time we lose essentiality when we don’t

Build bridges to our rich past cares can over run us or as they say they can provide stepping stones it is
So easy to defeat someone who has lost the chain links that tells who he is and where he comes from

This erodes his knowing and sense of belonging take careful measures to shore up the present with the
Glories others fixed in the earth as guide posts that will not fail no matter what the storm is now go in

These sacred blessings that hold back fire and flood in them you will feel your stature enlarge nothing
Will be to big you already have been given the mastery of them it’s told in the stone

My safe place
is not so safe
anymore.

Tinged with
wisps of passion,
second-hand smoke.
Forbidden memories
curl around
my heart.

The keyboard
looks up at me,
in pregnant
silence.

It knows.
It has the power
to unlock
earthly secrets.

It sits
like an archeologist
on a mission,
ready to unearth
old texts
private messages
never meant to be
seen by others

I stare at it.
My heart is there.
Those texts
and the white space
in between

I want my space back.
For it is mine, only mine
way before I let you
push in
My place
to dream
to dance
to let imagination
fly.
After all….
this is how
you arrived


So now, I summon
myself
And in one
simple act,
I take it back.
Just like that.

I release you
back into cyberspace,
from whence you came.
My lessons
have been learned.
I now say
No to pain.

Keyboard,
welcome back.
I crown you
Guardian of
my Safe Place.
My music,
my poetry.
Where imagination
runs wild,
My inner sanctum
of peace.
This has always been
and will always be
my landscape
of
release.

I see you,
In greater conversations
And small
Talks,
Lost in time,
But,
Weighted in a reality,
That the years
Exist,
Through small lines,
Near your eyes
Are histories,
That most miss,
I see you,
In stanzas of songs,
Reminding you
Of home,
Nights of sweat and smoke,
Paired with a hopeful abandon,
Of living forever
But praying for death
By
Their kiss,
I see you,
In prose and rhymes,
Of books upon books,
With eyes heavier than
The pride,
You wish you saw in your father's,
The legs sore,
Because you forgot what it's like
To not try to run,
I see you,
In the moments,
In the
In between,
The indescribable
Deep breath photographs
That make up the flashes
Of phone calls and razors edges
On linoleum,
With Fate's scissors
Being put back in the box,
I see you,
Through the hidden smiles,
That convey a sense of mystery,
Forcing my uncontrolled
Outbursts,
To see what other
Smirks and eye rolls
That even you are surprised
When they are uncovered,
Like the gaunt archeologist
I treasure them,
And put them on display
At my memories museum,
I see you,
In the days
You are away,
When shirts and the sounds
Of morning coffee contemplations
Are the only things
Keeping me sane,
I see you,
In future momentary messages,
And past years pudding proof,
That with all the moments,
Yet lived,
That
Will let me,
See you.

As I danced into a flowered sea
My spins consumed space and time
Each whirl sang "whoosh"
Dirt flung about new finds

An archeologist of selfish kinds
Fossilized in feat and pride
Each further from the truth
Perception left beside

I kept about, my eyes did lie
Everything began to melt
Deluded happiness formed in whole
Willingness was all I felt.

Sometimes,
in the Land of Dreams
I can see my own karma
a flicker
of flame
like those ashes that shoot up
from a summer bonfire.
Tiny lick of a second
Before it fades
I reach out to capture it
like a firefly in a jar,
But with a kiss of white heat
It is gone.

Sometimes
in another land
I am an archeologist
digging deep into the Earth
uncovering secrets
revealing artifacts.
Looking for the bones
of my past existence.
Searching for selves
I cannot remember
In order to  hold them
Up to the
Light.
Then after digging,
behold the curious sight:
Me, on the earth, on my knees
mouth open in amazement…
for instead of bones
I have found fire opals
slipping and sliding through my fingers
Cool and smooth
glowing in the night
their brilliant iridescence
lighting up my palms
like a dance of fireflies.

And then,
A most peculiar event;
A hot crimson glow
Emanates from inside, above
And below


Could it be?
Is this real?
I check once, then twice
Yes, my very bones
have turned into opals
Making me gleam from within
Sending out messages of light
Into the full dark
Of the deepening night
Trying to catch a signal
in the air
crackling along those roots
hardwired within .
Roots, like bones.
Growing deep into the earth
where precious stones reside
I am at a loss for words,
just feelings now
and have completely
forgotten my pride.

And  I stand there,
in contemplation,
all lit up from within
radiating light
unto every direction...
I think:
"This is the place to begin."

And all at once
in the blink of an eye
the opals pour from me
right out
And as those fine stones
slip from my bones
I know I have changed
both within
and without
the fire implanted inside
never to go out

9/15/2016

the first confirmed case of cannibalism in the Jamestown colony has been identified as a 14 year old girl, possibly from a wealthy family

they found you with
lamb in your bones
and said you had a good diet

I am trying to think of
what kind of person you were
before they put a hatchet to your

skull, assembled you along with
skunk, peat moss, dog.
you were from a wealthy

family because of the
protein they found embedded in you
or maybe you were a servant

and ate well.
maybe this is why they got you–
the first two blows were shallow

and meek
the one that severed you into
cuts for meat

broke your tibia
like you would slaughter cattle
maybe, the archeologist said, if she had

someone to protect her
this wouldn't have happen
she didn't.

but then I read you were dead
before they even
started

I was left to wander this wasteland
of broken dreams
and uncover their shattered remains
hidden, embedded into the sand of time
lost in a golden desert, forgotten
I unearth them
like an archeologist digging up ancient bones
magical and weathered  
the fossils of dreams
are beautifully tragic
melancholy nostalgia

I'd like to be buried in sand
so when an archeologist, an excavationist, or a child
walks into the sandbox,
they might believe my body is a hidden treasure,
and for once,
I would be remembered.

In the dark, I see you.

I see your room, dim and weird. Unusual artifacts from an unusual archeologist, digging through the sediment of life, littering shelves.

I see your face, framed by loose hairs from a lazy bun, all over a poorly fitting hoodie.

I see your hands, more aged than I remember, with your various rings, punctuating the oddities of your personality, acquired over a life strangely lived.

I see your tattoos, a reflection of choices and things believed at one point or another. People who influenced, and ideas that crept into prominence. I don't like tattoos, but they are like stained glass windows, and I can see their beauty, as you shine through them.

I see your car, on a mountain road. I can hear you loudly proclaim, expressions of grief, and through them, expressions of relief. A venting process, an opportunity to raise your voice and yell! To shake a stick at God, not knowing if he sees you, but knowing that I do.

I can see the three days we spent together lined up in a row, like photographs in a reel. A moment at the University, holding my hand, and my ever so subtle embarrassment at the notion. A prolonged eye contact over coffee that's not that great, but servicable as a context for deep conversation. A long phone call, after a short text, after a long time, from a short lived love.

I can see your eyes, looking back at me, wondering what I see in you. In their reflection, I think the same. I can see the shape, and the eye-shadow, applied meticulously or perhaps lazily, I'm not sure.

I can smell the lotion you use, I guess it's the same you've always used. It takes me back to hiking short hikes in non hiking county, sitting over an ugly creek on an old rusted pipe. Yet in those moments the world could not have been any more beautiful.

I can feel your hair in my hands, a soothing motion, attempting to smooth the notion, the conversation, that was ugly and disgraceful, but necessary.

I know in my heart , what you mean to me. I know that I love you, and feel no shame at saying as much.

Around you, I am free. My soul bared, I melt on to you, and carbonize, like sugar burning in a pan. How stuck I have become.

"Let a pan sit in warm water with some dish soap, before using the rough side of a sponge to remove stubborn food and stains."

Some cleaning advice from me to you.

In the dark, I see you. You glitter like the stars. In the distance, you dance in perfect harmony.

But like every astronomer, I too must accept, no matter how much I love the stars, I cannot go to them.

I watch, through my telescope of memory, where only in the dark, can I see you

you keep taking until my hands are empty,
and then you take my hands.
if I start to cross your mind,
let me keep walking.

you don't get to be both
the shipwreck and the lifeboat.
you don't get to be both
the storm and the disaster relief.
the hurting used to come in waves,
but it won't pull me under anymore.

your apologies died behind your teeth.
you're just spitting out the remains.
somewhere there was once sincerity,
but I'm done being the archeologist
digging through excuses to find it.

I don't miss the person I thought you were,
or the person you could have been,
because at their core,
they are both
still you.