At Olduvai Gorge
Some time had passed already
since we’d come down from the trees.
We still walked with an awkward gait
Sore backs and aching knees.
Lar still might be alive, old mother,
if he hadn’t pawed my mate.
When I saw him mount her
in the brush
All I felt was rage and hate.
The jawbone of an ass was near
I took it in my hands.
I brought it down upon his skull
I killed with these two hands.
I wouldn’t let the Jackals have
the body of my friend.
I covered up his corpse with stones.
this is where it ends.
As a tribe we are too small, too few.
to let the blood lust linger.
We must keep moving further north
until we are out of danger.
Old mother nodded sagely.
Lars clansman did the same.
I promised I would share the catch
with the children of his name.
Some book may talk of Abel-
that at Cain’s hand he died.
but it was the tribe of Lucy
that first committed Hominidicide
A tale of the first Hominid population at Olduvai gorge, Africa and the first murder. It was over a woman. It would not be the last. ( I have translated this from the original Bushman clic language)
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Related quotes
Genesis BK XVIII
(ll. 1082-1089) And there was also in that tribe another son of
Lamech, called Tubal Cain, a smith skilled in his craft. He was
the first of all men on the earth to fashion tools of husbandry;
and far and wide the city-dwelling sons of men made use of bronze
and iron.
(ll. 1090-1103) Then to his two beloved wives, Adah and Zillah,
Lamech rehearsed a tale of shame: "I have struck down a kinsman
unto death! I have defiled my hands with the blood of Cain! I
smote down Enoch's father, slayer of Abel, and poured his blood
upon the ground. Full well I know that for that mortal deed
shall come God's seven-fold vengeance. With fearful torment
shall my deed of death and murder be requited, when I go hence."
(ll. 1104-1111) Then another son was born to Adam in Abel's
stead; and his name was Seth. He was a righteous son and
blessed, a solace to his parents, his father and mother, Adam and
Eve. And he filled the place of Abel in the world. Then Adam
spake, the first of men:
(ll. 1111-1116) "The eternal God of victory, the Lord of life,
hath vouchsafed me another son in place of my beloved whom Cain
slew. So our Lord hath stilled the sorrow of my heart. To Him
be thanks!"
(ll. 1117-1127) Now, when Adam begat another son to be his heir,
that sturdy man had lived an hundred and thirty winters of this
life in the world. The writings tell us that Adam increased his
tribe on earth, begetting sons and daughters eight hundred years.
And all the years of Adam were nine hundred and thirty winters,
and he died.
(ll. 1128-1142) And Seth succeeded Adam: at his father's death
the well-loved son possessed the treasure, and took himself a
wife. And Seth lived an hundred and five winters in the world
and increased his tribe, begetting sons and daughters. Enos was
first-born of the sons of Seth; and he was first of all the sons
of men to call upon the name of God since Adam, first a living
spirit, set foot on the green earth. Seth prospered, eight
hundred and seven winters begetting sons and daughters. And all
the years of Seth were nine hundred and twelve winters, and he
died.
(ll. 1143-1154) And after he went hence, and the earth received
the body of seed-bearing Seth, Enos was warden of the heritage.
Dear was he unto God! He lived for ninety winters in the world,
and begat children. And Cainan was first-born of the sons of
Enos. Eight hundred and fifteen winters the man of wisdom lived,
at peace with God, begetting sons and daughters. And all the
years of Enos were nine hundred and five winters, and he died.
(ll. 1155-1166) And after Enos Cainan ruled the tribe as lord and
leader. He lived seventy winters, and begat a son. An heir was
born unto his house, and his name was Mahalaleel. Eight hundred
and forty winters Cainan lived, and increased his tribe. And all
the years of the son of Enos were nine hundred and ten winters,
and he died, and his appointed days beneath the heavens were
fulfilled.
Genesis BK XVII
(ll. 1002-1005) Then the Lord of glory spake unto Cain, and asked
where Abel was. Quickly the cursed fashioner of death made
answer unto Him:
(ll. 1006-1008) "I know not the coming or going of Abel, my
kinsman, his lot or portion; I was not my brother's keeper."
(ll. 1008-1021) And the Gracious Spirit, Lord of angels, made
answer unto him: "Why hast thou slain that faithful man thy
brother in thy wrath, and his blood calleth and crieth unto Me?
Accursed for ever, driven into exile, thou shalt be punished for
this deed of death! The earth shall not yield thee of her
pleasant fruits for thy daily need, but by thy hands her soil is
stained with holy blood. Therefore the green earth shall
withhold from thee her beauty and her delights. In sadness and
dishonour shalt thou depart from thy home, because thou hast
slain thy brother, Abel. Loathed of thy kinsmen, an exile and a
fugitive, shalt thou wander on the face of the earth."
(ll. 1022-1035) And Cain made answer unto Him: ...."I need not
look for pity in this world, High King of heaven, for I have lost
Thy love and favour and goodwill. Weary the ways my feet must
wander, in dread of woe, whenever one shall meet me in my guilt,
near or far, and by his hate remind me of my brother's death. I
shed his blood and poured his life-blood on the ground. From
this day hast Thou cut me off from good! Thou scourgest me from
home! Some cruel foe shall slay me. And I must needs go forth,
accursed, from Thy sight, O Lord!"
(ll. 1036-1043) And the Lord of victory said unto him: "Thou
needest not yet dread death, nor the pangs of death, though thou
shalt wander, far from kinsmen, with thy doom upon thee. If any
man shall slay thee with his hands, on him shall fall a
seven-fold vengeance, and torment for that deed of sin."
(ll. 1043-1054) And God, the Lord of glory, set a mark upon him
and a token, lest any foe from far or near should dare to lift
his hand against him; and He bade him go forth in his guilt from
mother and kinsmen and from all his tribe. Then with despairing
heart, a friendless exile, Cain departed out of the sight of God,
and chose a home and dwelling in the eastern lands, far from his
father's house; and there a comely maiden bare him children after
his kind.
(ll. 1055-1073) Enoch was first-born of the sons of Cain. He
built a city with his kinsmen, the first of all those strongholds
under heaven which sword-girt men established; and in the city
sons were born to him. Irad was first-born of the sons of Enoch;
and he begat children, and all the tribe and race of Cain
increased. And after Irad Mahalaleel was warden of the treasure,
in his father's stead, until he died. Then Methusael dispensed
the treasure to his brothers and his kinsmen, man for man, till,
full of many years, he died.
(ll. 1073-1081) And at his father's death Lamech succeeded to the
treasure and the household goods. Two wives bare children to him
in his home, Adah and Zillah. Now one of the sons of Lamech was
called Jabal; and he was first of all men by his skill to stir
the harp to music and its strings to song.
Cain And Abel
When Adam fell he quickly lost
God's image, which he once possessed:
See All our nature since could boast
In Cain, his first-born Son, expressed!
The sacrifice the Lord ordained
In type of the Redeemer's blood,
Self-righteous reas'ning Cain disdained,
And thought his own first-fruits as good.
Yet rage and envy filled his mind,
When, with a fallen, downcast look,
He saw his brother favor find,
Who God's appointed method took.
By Cain's own hand, good Abel died,
Because the Lord approved his faith;
And, when his blood for vengeance cried,
He vainly thought to hide his death.
Such was the wicked murd'rer Cain,
And such by nature still are we,
Until by grace we're born again,
Malicious, blind and proud, as he.
Like him the way of grace we slight,
And in our own devices trust;
Call evil good, and darkness light,
And hate and persecute the just.
The saints, in every age and place,
Have found this history fulfilled;
The numbers all our thoughts surpass
Of Abels, whom the Cains have killed!
Thus Jesus fell - but O! his blood
Far better things than Abel's cries:
Obtains his murd'rers peace with God,
And gains them mansions in the skies.
poem by John Newton
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Africa We Stand Up For You
When they ask you tell them you are from Africa.
Africa and nowhere else.
Africa has made you
Africa has made me;
It is time to make Africa.
So Mother Africa
Do not be in haste.
Your sons and daughters
Still live.
They live you rather than leave you.
Once perched we will fly.
Fly to you and not from you.
Your songs of praise
Will always be sung unrestrained.
You are Beautiful, Africa.
Africa you will never go on your knees.
We were imprisoned,
We were exported,
We were whipped in those days,
We went on our knees,
But it was not for a lack of hope
Or a plea of submission on our part.
Rather, our kneeling was to take
Courage from the brown earth,
Your Symbol-In-Common.
Like the Saviour among thieves on the cross,
Africa will be the Lighthouse to the world.
Diop may have died at thirty-three,
Left behind only twenty-two poems,
But Africa we say this to you:
More Diops will rise.
And even live to a Senghor.
Yes, Africa, do not be in haste.
Your children are still Alive.
And no death can ever kill Us.
poem by Hamza Issah Danjuma
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Mother Sky
Oh great mother of the sky
Hear your children’s cries
They have been taken away
By non tribal hands
To a place far from your eyes
Taken off of federal land
Your children now cry for you
Eighteen of your children missing
Their spirits grow weak
Has they are together trying to reach you
Wishing to be back home
Under your watchful eyes
Oh great mother of the sky
Hear your people’s cries
We wish to have our family
And our friends back home
Investigations continues for your children
The eighteen that are missing
Photograph taken of the site
Now are missing as well
Eighteen children missing
From our holy cemetery
Help us find your missing children
Whose tribe looks endlessly for them
We want them back home
Here in Kingman Arizona
Home of the Hualpai tribe
poem by Davina Vanessa Rivas
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New Dawn for Africa
Mother Africa
Mother of Plenty
Countable in number, countless in population
Crown with nature's endowment
Traded slavery trans Atlantic
Iron bangle Africa
Mother Africa
When will freedom engulf thee
Fifty three addition your mammalian gland
Tears never at all mama
Tears, tears not at all
Mother Africa, Mother Africa tears no more.
poem by Emmanuel Uchechukwu
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Hands & Knees
You see me walking away
What more could I say than sorry
I failed by all your complaints
You pushed a life change but its not me
And filthy hands lay apon my chest
Lay upon my sin, but I do it for green
And in your mind you are blind
And your back turn so fine
Where were you when I needed you most
So mother so father
Im on my hands and knees
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
My self-indulgence to blame
For all of the shame in the family
You dont know what its like
How I feel how I cry
How I hate the way I hate my life
So mother so father Im on my hands and knees
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
Pues madre, y padre
Esta vida no quiero vivir
So mother so father
I dont want to live this way
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
So mother so father
I dont want to live this way
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
song performed by by Unloco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Virtuous
To deceive,
To destroy,
To betray,
To hate;
But the original Hebrew Text has the truth for you,
And like the voice of your husband calling at you.
Optimistic,
Honest,
Respectful,
Trustworthy,
Courageous,
Virtuous;
You will bring forth children like Cain and Abel,
But do mind your language when speaking wih others.
Little by little,
Step by step,
The time of life!
And like the voice of your wife;
But try to educate your mind with peace and love than hate.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Oh Mother
Oh mother
The very first time I saw you, warmth filled my eyes
The vision of a simple woman
The touch of my truthful maama
The beginning of an endless affection
Lest you forget
Oh mother
You built my home within your heart
I was lifeless you brought me life
Deepth in darkness you maketh for me a light
Delivered carefully your baby so I'll come alive
My first friend, my best friend
We always thought alike
Lest I forget
Oh mother
Gone in a flash
Sitting here like trash
Now I cant play outside
Pain stricken so harsh
Tears are salty not what i want
Cruelty without you has gotten me bad
But the hope you fed me is still intact
Lest I forget
Oh mother
Remember you promised me forever
My little sister awaits you too
Playing here on her chair
In her best coloured attire
Waiting for you dear
Lest we forget
Oh mother
Within and around you piety
In you I've known chastity
There I found serenity
Taste of peace and tranquillity
No adversity no enmity
Lest you forgone
Oh mother
Your baby boy is now a man
Praying for you days and nights
Hoping your abode is full of lights
Knowing my place is reserved by you
Because beside you is where I belong
The next time I see you I won't let you go again
Hold your hands the way I used to
This time you are not leaving without me
Lest thy lord forsakes
Oh mother
I trust you like no other
I love you I respect you
I pray that we'll end up together
poem by Khalifa Mustapha
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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An Arab Love-Song
The hunchèd camels of the night
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
poem by Francis Thompson
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Heavy Pup
They sang it was so
Even witout words,
That Malakui, the Brightest One,
Had a pup conjoined.
We celebrated for many years.
We worshiped the oscillating stars
And their constant cousins,
Granfather Moon,
The Blood Star and the
Roving Lion Pair.
I, Himantiab, was the man
In the jungle moving,
Who first the little ones observed.
In my loinclout they laid hands upon my shoulders,
Brought me down to my knees,
And when feeling my face and lips
I first heard their song without words,
Their song of lights in the newborn gaseous sky.
Some came from far North,
A group of Whites,
And they wanted to know
How we knew of the Heavy Pup.
We kept the secret of those
Who sang witout words.
So they gave us the wrong name,
The Unnaming Tribe, or some such,
Not Dogon,
And we laughed around
The fires of eternity.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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A Matter of Trust on a Summer's Day
Jane's mother said
she was up by the church
and so you went up
the path leading
to the church of St Mary
and there she was
laying some flowers
on a gravestone
she looked up
as you approached
and smiled
your mother told me
you were here
you said
I think Mother
must like you
she wouldn't
have told you
otherwise
Jane said
getting up
from the graveside
and brushing her hands
on her summery dress
who are the flowers for?
you asked
looking at the flowers
placed in a small jar
on the grave
a parishioner
we used to know
who used to like
this type of flower
oh I see
you said
looking at the graves around
and the Downs further back
and the trees nearby
where did you want to go?
you asked
how about a walk to Cocking?
we can do some shopping
while we're there
and enjoy each other's
company in the process
is it far? you asked
a mile or so
she replied
ok
you said
and you followed her
down the path
and along the lane
to her house
and you waited outside
while she went inside
after a few minutes
her mother came out
with her and said
it's very good of you
to go with Jane
all that way
I wouldn't like her
to go alone
that's all right
you said
and she smiled
and went in side
and Jane said
see she trusts you
not many boys
around here
she'd say that to
oh right
you said
looking at
her dark hair
and her eyes
gazing at you
and her hand
holding a shopping bag
and her lips
breaking into a smile
come on
she said and
so she took
your hand
and you walked
along the lane
keeping close
to the hedgerow
the sun warm
and the sky blue
and you sensed a joy
of it being
just her and you.
poem by Terry Collett
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As If It Was A Crime
Your mother had given you
a few coins to buy sweets
and on the way you met Fay
and you said
do you want to come
and buy some sweets?
and she said
I haven't any money
and you said
you can share mine
if you tell me what you like
but she said
my father wouldn't like it
if I had sweets he says
they rot your teeth
but she walked to the shop with you
thinking silently to herself
and outside the shop
you said
are you sure?
she nodded and stood outside
while you went in
and bought sweets
when you came out
she was waiting there
her eyes gazing at you
her tongue running over
her lips
you showed her
what you'd bought
and her eyes widened
here take one
you said
your dad won't know
if you don't tell him
she hesitated
her fingers lingering
over the bag of sweets
but what if he sees me
or smells them
on my breath?
she said fear entering her eyes
her hands falling at her sides
you put out a hand
and touched hers
it's only a sweet
it's not as if
you're having a drag of a smoke
or sipping beer
she nodded and smiled a little
best not
she said
if he finds out
he'll get angry with me
for eating sweets and lying
and you remembered
the bruises you'd seen
on her arms and thighs
that time
and you sighed thinking
as if eating sweets
was a big deal or a crime.
poem by Terry Collett
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oh yes, Mr. Shaun, the Bible was not written in English
The Gospel of Christ and, in general,
the Holy Bible are written with the inspiration of God.
The Prophets and the Apostles
have recorded in written form
a portion of the oral teaching of the Old Testament
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
These are the original languages of the Holy Bible from' which all the translations have been derived. God's inspiration is confined to the original languages and utterances, not the many translations. There are 1,300 languages and dialects into which the Holy Bible, in its entirety or in portions, has been
translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.
This does not mean that the translations do not convey the meaning of the Bible for spiritual uprightness of the readers in their own language. On the contrary the Bible should be spread and preached to 'all nations'. The missionaries in foreign lands learn the language or the dialect of. the new area into which they bring the Bible and other religious teachings. For example, the missionaries from Constantinople, Saints Cyril and Methodios, sent to Christianize the Slavic peoples in the 9th century, first translated the Bible and the ritual books into the language of the people.
yes, Mr. Shaun, my friend the Bible was not written in English.IT was written in HEBREW, ARAMAIC, and GREEK....
But i like it written in English too, how i wish it were written in such a
language,
with a sense of class
and fashionable disguise,
for without it, how could i ever understand, God,
oh, my, God!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Autographing (Fun Poem 78)
For years and years,
I wanted to be published.
To actually see my name in print
to be able to hold a book up
and say that it is all my own work.
However, not once did I think
of the problems that might bring.
I never though of the sore hands
and blistering knees
I would get from autographing
the books for all my friends.
It is not a choice I don’t relish
as I do it with heartfelt ease.
It is just that I am so tall
and to sign a book
I have to get on my hands and knees.
Now my hands are full of calluses
and my knees full of blisters.
What more can I say,
except thank you
for listening to me today.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Blood on your hands sister
You said you loved him told him you cared
Promised him forever together
Instead you broke his heart into countless pieces
You drew tears of blood from the Prince of hearts
Hurt his pride with your insolent words
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands
I saw the pain in his eyes
I felt the bitter tears that he cried
Kicked a man when he was down
You left him a broken man
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands
From a loving giving sensitive Prince amongst men
You took your pleasure and stifled his laughter
You took your fill and threw him upon the scrapheap
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands
But his precious tears are wasted
Wasted on a dry barren heart like yours
For his heart is alive and flourishing
Whilst yours is dead and lifeless
He is the victor
Whilst you the loser
You may wash your hands of him
But the stains will never fade
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands
poem by Lilac Wine
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Ballad Of A Self-Loading Pistol
Father, i have come.
To tell you about somethin' i done.
Well as the night reared its light head
Into a baby's sun,
We rolled down into the town
From where the black throats come.
And you know there was a robb'ry.
There was a holdup.
Ooh, there was a shootout.
And there was a killin'.
And there's blood on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
Well now, sister, you know me well.
And you ask me well, how it was i felt.
Well, she had an appetite for lovin'
Only a fadin' beauty could posses.
She knew just what she wanted
And she wouldn't take less.
I figured it was a small town.
It was at sundown.
It was just a small crowd of people around.
Oh! but he wouldn't put his guns down.
No, he wouldn't put his guns down.
Oh, he wouldn't put his guns down.
Now his blood's on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
And, papa, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
Well, that song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the story of the self-loading pistol.
Well now, father. i have come.
To tell you about somethin' i done.
He had a widow, runnin' through town screamin'.
He had a brother, and his tears were streamin'.
Now i'm movin' on the border
With a rifle on my shoulder.
'cuz, daddy, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
The love song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the glory of the self-loading pistol.
And i just come to tell ya,
That it don't hurt no more.
No, it don't hurt no more,
'cuz your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
Yes, your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
Now, your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
And this blood feels good on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Stepdaughter
Hands cold and clammy
from all of the dishwater,
Hands wrinkled and raw
for she was the stepdaughter.
No way out that she could see.
No one seemed to care.
The others all laughed at her,
their hands soft and fair.
Knees scraped and scratchy
fom cleaning the floor,
Isn't that what stepdaughters do?
Isn't that what they're for?
No way out that she did know.
This was her plight.
The others all hated her.
She'd cry in the night.
Back sore and achy,
her stepfather's body lying.
No one helped her with him
as he lay there dying.
Eyes red from crying
she held his hand. He said
'I'm leaving all I have to you.
Let my will be read.'
Mind filled with memories
of all she had done,
The others all just stared at her
as she walked into the sun.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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1975
A boy asks his father to spiral a football over a tree
to arch it, so the ball will arrive an instant before the child.
The child dives. tendons extended, heart bucking
hands opening, to clutch what descends from the sky.
Your mother left today for the institution. If the ball
hits ground, she dies.
That December afternoon the boy's mother passed away,
thirty-three times in the first hour.
Each time he grabbed her head from the snow and
ran it back to his father, promised to do better
and he did, he ran hard, focused, dove.
I caught my mother's skull thirteen times in a row
and she's still not coming home.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
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