Plate LXVI, Figure 6. Stone Disc, Carthage, Alabama, Holmes, 1883

The Moundville Rattlesnake Disc (Holmes 1883)


Eat and vomit, and let the visions begin –

of the Tree People who beckon and call from the darkest depths,

of snakes flying out of the burial pots of clay,

reciprocal cults of wandering shaman emerge

from the funeral mounds, and chant throughout the square.

The goddess blinks and smiles for you alone –

isn’t it time you dance inside of her?

Categories: Archaeology, Artifacts, Cemeteries, Exploration, Indian Trails, Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Broken Glass


The ruby river of tears, bloody tears

tastes like port flowing from a broken glass

at a picnic table sitting on Wolvercote Green

where laughter rings and glasses clink together

in a garden where dogs and boys are running wild

and little Clara Rose chases them down

until she falls and scrapes her knee and

I wipe the port away and you refill

and heal our shattered spirits with a gentle kiss.

Categories: England, Food & Drink, Literature, Poetry, Pubs, United Kingdom | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Portmeadow Kisses



Portmeadow, Oxford, England

The smell of her skin in Oxford showers

Her hands combing my hair at night

The taste of whisky while I look in her eyes

Her sideways smile, so fresh and silly,

Tea in the morning, singing songs at night

Serious, studious, loving, and sweet

The idea of her forest by the sea

Portmeadow kisses, indescribable blisses

Lips of fire so fierce and free


Categories: Exploration, History, Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry, United Kingdom | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment





Simanolanoki Flow Away

Our love is broken on your shoals

The sacred fire that burned within my heart

Like you it ebbs and flows away


The hawk has flown away upon the wind

The breezes carry him away

The love I gave to you in heart and song

Like the hawk has flown away




Now like the empty field where once we roamed

Where only broken sherds remain

My heart is empty too, unworthy muse

My love for you has flown away




I’ve closed the book of love I wrote for you

Odshisi carries it away

My heart is mine again to give or break

Flow, Wild River, flow away


[refrain 2x]

Categories: Archaeology, Artifacts, Exploration, History, Indian Trails, Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry | Leave a comment

10,000 Years

The Reader cannot read
The sleeper cannot sleep
The singer cannot sing
For love of you

The dreamer cannot dream
The diver cannot dive
Except into your eyes
Ageless and green

But the poet writes your soul
And the painter paints my heart
While 10,000 years of time
Smile through the ice

And 10,000 more may come
Before such souls may meet
And I would spend them all
O muse with you

Categories: Archaeology, Artifacts, Exploration, History, Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry, Primitive Skills | Leave a comment

Flow into Me

Minds afire, Hearts as one

Dreams descend when Day is done,

Deep in your Soul broad rivers run

Dark is my Night, bright is your Sun;

Shadows flee when I look in your eyes,

Stars grow weak and fall from the skies,

From Fires in our Souls sparks arise,

Love makes the Magic that never dies;

You are the River, I am the Sea,

You are the Earth, I am a Tree,

My roots run deep, your Spirit flows free,

Run into You, Flow into Me.

Categories: Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

Silent Tombs of Despair

Let yesteryear’s kisses lay hidden in the shadows of time,

For the ghosts who haunt time’s halls are silent and sad,

Though still they remember the fires and desires of love,

And they envy the fire in my heart and the flowers in your eyes;

Listen, o muse, to the song they would sing to your heart – 

Of death, who strangled their hopes, silenced their songs,

And buried their love in silent tombs of despair;

Their bones now rest ‘neath the Earth, though their shades remain, 

Chained to the places they haunted when their lips were warm;

Perhaps these spirits will awaken when you fling wide your soul,

Full of winter and storms, of springtime and sassafras tea – 

Perhaps even yesteryear’s sighs may meet with today’s

When we are the ghosts who sigh and long for one kiss,

And the poems and songs of tomorrow are sung o’er our graves.


Categories: Cemeteries, Exploration, Literature, Love, Nature, Poetry | Leave a comment

When You’re White with Age

When you’re white with Age, and I’m asleep in my Grave,
Buried and awaiting my final excavation,
Think back on your youth, and smile, and raise me a glass.
When Time has shortened your breath and flowed away,
And those twin suns you have for eyes are setting
Beyond the River of Night, and you long to sleep,
Remember – and our shadows will rise up like ghosts in your Mind,
Trooping onto Memory’s stage while salt tears flow.
Then the very words we spoke will be spoken again,
And the very hearts we broke will be broken again,
And the Visions you inspired in my Heart and in my Mind
With your lovely dark eyes will burst through our Souls
Like a Supernova, or your magical smile in the fall.
And we will be One, if only for that instant in Time
While you recite the words of the Poet to his Muse,
When you’re white with Age, and I’m asleep in my Grave.


Categories: Archaeology, Cemeteries, Literature, Love, Poetry | Leave a comment

One with Night

Until my Muse bids me from bed to rise

I will remain cocooned in Night’s embrace;

Though Day himself demand I open these eyes,

I’m deaf to Day when Night’s kisses fall on my face.

Dressed all in black lace, her pale shoulder’s bare,

Luscious her lips, ghostly her secretive smile,

Loose and disheveled her ebony moonlit hair

In which I’ll be entangled for but a while.

For awhile I’ll dream of the stars in her dark, dark eyes;

For but awhile may I be one with Sweetest Night;

‘Til My Muse bids me again from bed to rise –

Reborn on the wings of Day, Night’s songs take flight.




Categories: Literature, Love, Poetry | Tags: , | Leave a comment

At the Twelve Pins

Twelve Pins Pub, Islington

Taxis and tourists, ice cream girl

waiting to cross with flowers in hand, crying,

while Daddy chases daughter in pink cap exploring, learning

Islington’s ways; working class guys and foreigners

walk with Irishmen, Arabs, and Africans; the quiet American

smoking his pipe at a table on the pub sidewalk –

first a Guinness then a Strongbow while he watches and waits – for what?

The Ginger Beauty? The Ice Cream Girl?  He exchanges

knowing looks with the daddy, baby daughter imprisoned

again in her pram; buses of red roaring down

Seven Sisters Road where Blackstock turns

downhill.  Just sit and watch and London

passes for the price of a pint or two at the Twelve Pins.

Categories: England, Exploration, Food & Drink, Poetry, Pubs, United Kingdom | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

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