Mastodon Hunt
Spear shafts splintering beneath its collapsing hulk,
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.
Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.
Others circling the carcass,
traced broken shafts to flint;
gathering them for tomorrow's hunt -
retrieving all save one.
A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
brushed away millennia of dust
and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
'Clovis point! '
'Clovis point' - a revelation in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jean clad hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.
poem by Robert Charles Howard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Flint
Who has married a flint?
Who is living with a flint?
Are you okay with the flint? !
Then, use it wisely before it sparks off your life.
Who has married a flint?
Mind you,
It will spark up your life if there is no love.
Who has married the flint?
Please do take care of it before it destroys your life;
The flint is needed to work with but,
It is your lover today;
So take care with the flint before it destroys you.
Who has married the flint?
We all need a flint to work with but,
Sometimes it is very dangerous!
Who has married a flint?
Do accept your life as it is and,
Do learn from it always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Eden Log
Clovis Cornillac, Vimala Pons, Zohar Wexler, Sifan Shao, Arben Bajraktaraj
Stroke A Flint
Stroke a flint, and there is nothing to admire:
Strike a flint, and forthwith flash out sparks of fire.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Upon The Flint In The Water
This flint, time out of mind, has there abode,
Where crystal streams make their continual road.
Yet it abides a flint as much as 'twere
Before it touched the water, or came there
Its hard obdurateness is not abated,
'Tis not at all by water penetrated.
Though water hath a soft'ning virtue in't,
This stone it can't dissolve, for 'tis a flint.
Yea, though it in the water doth remain,
It doth its fiery nature still retain.
If you oppose it with its opposite,
At you, yea, in your face, its fire 'twill spit.
Comparison.
This flint an emblem is of those that lie,
Like stones, under the Word, until they die.
Its crystal streams have not their nature changed,
They are not, from their lusts, by grace estranged.
poem by John Bunyan
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An Emerald Is As Green As Grass
An emerald is as green as grass;
A ruby red as blood;
A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
A flint lies in the mud.
A diamond is a brilliant stone,
To catch the world's desire;
An opal holds a fiery spark;
But a flint holds fire.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We met as Sparks—Diverging Flints
958
We met as Sparks—Diverging Flints
Sent various—scattered ways—
We parted as the Central Flint
Were cloven with an Adze—
Subsisting on the Light We bore
Before We felt the Dark—
A Flint unto this Day—perhaps—
But for that single Spark.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Snow On The Streets
Snow on the streets grooved by tires
into a bar-code. A band burning its first c.d.
Garbage bags humped against the parking meters
like terraformed drunks in an albino mindscape.
I want to sleep. But savage clouds are fuming
with moonlight. Oblivion's sweet, my little death,
gentle as a snowflake but the prelude to it
is pierced by cauterizing anxieties
like a needle park for voodoo dolls.
I'd rather be a butterfly, a pinwheel
spinning on an axis through my thorax
but you can't have it all. I tilt away from the sun
at perigee and try to stretch the night out
like a budget of meds for the month.
The dark's a cool poultice that draws
the infection out of my dreams. It
sublimates my sorrows like dry ice
that skipped the tears. I don't want to get wet
in an ice-age. Crucified by icicles
that drip like syringes in a limestone cave.
I smear my face in red ochre, blood
with desiccated binders, oil pastels,
and lay my prophetic bones under the firepit.
I place a great stone on my chest
like the weight of the world
to make sure I never get up again
but pain is a homeless ghost
and I don't think, even with my knees
popped under my chin like an embryo
every part of me is going to fit
my place at the table like a grave.
I throw a few cornflowers in
and wander off with my spirit
like a thought wave that's tagging along.
I chip away at my heart
like an obsidian lunette
with a bone that's edging it
into a phalanged Clovis point
for a throwing spear to penetrate
the mammoth of the wooly moon.
I think I'm going extinct.
I've culled too many stars.
The herds are thinning over my head.
The green of the traffic lights
that turned yellow in the fall
drops its single, blood-stained berry in the snow.
As the birds and the bards say
of the chokecherries, ripeness is all.
Snow-blinded by this white page,
and blazing is a kind of blindness,
I want to leave something behind
for people to follow like the tracks
of a wounded caribou writing
in the cuneiform Braille of my starmud
you can read with your fingertips
like a hungry clan that hasn't eaten for a week.
I don't want to be sought or thawed out by anyone
who isn't burning my fat in their lamps
or sewing my hide with a splinter
of my femur, threading my sinews
through the eye of a needle
stitching me up in an emergency room
like the mouth of a wound
that's had its say, and holds its tongue
like the exhausted flavour of silence
masticating a wad of pitch and pine gum
like the sacred syllable of the spear point
I was trying to make an era ago
before I got stuck in this one like a tarpit,
an exile returning on a migratory journey
to the prodigal museum of my homecoming exit.
poem by Patrick White
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The Knife
THE plough that marks on Harley's field
In flying earth its print
Throws up, like death itself concealed,
A fang of rosy flint,
A flake of stone, by fingers hewed
Whose buried bones are gone,
All gone, with fingers, hunters, food,
But still the knife lives on.
And well I know, when bones are nought,
The blade of stone survives—
I, too, from clods of aching thought,
Have turned up sharper knives.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Getting To The Point
Its out of control (out of control)
And theres nothing I can do now
Out of control (out of control)
Spinning softly through the blue now
And look beyond these walls
As the meaning starts to dawn
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Its out of control (nothing I can do)
Like a fire that keeps on burning
And nobody knows (what Im going through)
And the thoughts just keep returning
And all you had to say
Was that you were gonna stay
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Chorus:
Its getting to the point
Where nobody can stop it now
Its getting to the point
Of no return
And all that I can do
Is stand and watch it now
Watch it burn, burn, burn
Its getting to the point
Where reasons are forgotten
Its getting to the point
Where no one knows
And all that I can do
Is say Im sorry
But thats the way it goes...
Getting to the point.
Forever
Is a long, long way
Forever
Takes your breath away
Id like to talk about it, try to understand
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Repeat chorus
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point (getting to the point)
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Together
Kicking dirt and rocks we walked
All through the city with lights glaring
Music assaulting us out of hip places
That we'll never fit into.
Wine on my breath and beer on yours
We opened our eyes and drank each other in
Something clicks, we burn.
Flint on flint and we decide.
Wasted time before us
So much to do after us,
In this way we're connected and
We'll grow in the most happy, pain-filled of ways.
Together.
poem by Rachel Stapleton
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There Is More Between Us Going
in that island
we had it all
our hands grope
with what is more
our bodies rub
the heat like flint stones
making fire
in a few days
and night
under the light of the moon
we shall find that there is something
more going between us
something that we cannot forget
beyond the flesh
and the bone of our contentions
i hate to say it
but it is love and i hate to accept it
that i am weak
on this particular aspect
i must pack and leave
the soonest before my heart breaks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Earth, Our Home
dissolving...
we lay down our bodies
etched in stone,
the night sky lit up
by shells exploding,
and falling stars...
time spent,
final payment in
sweat and blood...
packages wrapped in flesh,
without a name or a bow...
struck against the flint,
spark to spark,
dissolving in each other's mouths,
leaving the taste of smoke.
your heart, my heart,
no distance, no seperation...
we crumble like fallen leaves
into the earth, our home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No Point
J. spinks
This aint working out
Its not worth the time I spent on it
When Ive been next to you
Its not the way you want it
And all I wanna do
Is get away and as far away from it
Theres no point cos Im not winning
Theres no point going back to the beginning
Theres no point to keep on waiting
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any closer
If it was up to you
Wed go around in circles forever
Theres nothing left to do
I go around - around in you
Ive tried to see it through
All Ive seen is the stormy weather
Theres no point in still pretending
Theres no point cos this is never ending
Theres no point in keep on trying
Theres no point to carry on lying
Theres no point acting like children
Theres no point cos this time Im gone
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any close
Theres no point in still pretending
Theres no point cos this is never ending
Theres no point in keep on trying
Theres no point to carry on lying
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any closer
Theres no point cos Im not winning
Theres no point going back to the beginning
Theres no point in hesitating
Theres no point tonight
Theres no point at all
song performed by by Outfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As the evening sun faded from a salmon color to a sort of flint gray, I thought back to the salmon I caught that morning, and how gray he was, and how I named him Flint.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brimstone... ' (or A Cryptic-Cremation)
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Flesh and Blood
Wood and Mud
Sun and Moon
Craters and Crust
Flames to Ashes
Smoke to Dust
Ape and Man
Heart and Brain
Glass and Sand
Abel and Cain
Spend this Space
On this Earth
Cutting Down
Another’s Worth
So Much Hate
On World and Planet
Trying to Paint
And Stain Pearls and Granite
‘Til, Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Stop Thinking, ’ Iron Them ’
Start Thinking, ‘ Wash Us ’
Fire On Mountain
Flows Volcanic Ash
Fire and Sand
Equals House of Glass
Dirt On Fire
Smother ‘Fore Long
And Fire and Rock
Equals Brimstone
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Like Scraped Up Dust to Save
1-2-3 and,
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
Like scraped up dust to save.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper.
To e-vap-orate like vapor.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper.
No-longer-to-savored.
To 'trip' on treasured capers.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
That's all it's worth today!
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
Like scraped up dust to save!
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Global Freedom Trending Point
make the comment
mark the thought
make it like you like it
marking thoughts
marking presence
marking opinion mind
to read or not to read
is not the point
point is to comment
point is opinion expressed
point is freedom of speech
point is feel free to express
importance is making the point
social spectrum compass point
global freedom trending point
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Rhythm Of The Heat
Looking out the window
I see the red dust clear
High up on the red rock
Stands the shadow with the spear
The land here is strong
Strong beneath my feet
It feeds on the blood
It feeds on the heat
The rhythm is below me
The rhythm of the heat
The rhythm is around me
The rhythm has control
The rhythm is inside me
The rhythm has my soul
The rhythm of the heat
The rhythm of the heat
The rhythm of the heat
The rhythm of the heat
Drawn across the plainland
To the place that is higher
Drawn into the circle
That dances round the fire
We spit into out hands
And breathe across the palms
Raising them up high
Help open to the sun
Self-conscious, uncertain
Im showered with the dust
The spirit enter into me
And I submit to trust
Smash the radio
No outside voices here
Smash the watch
Cannot tear the day to shreds
Smash the camera
Cannot steal away the spirits
The rhythm is around me
The rhythm has control
The rhythm is inside me
The rhythm has my soul
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walking West
Anyone with quiet pace who
walks a gray road in the West
may hear a badger underground where
in deep flint another time is
Caught by flint and held forever,
the quiet pace of God stopped still.
Anyone who listens walks on
time that dogs him single file,
To mountains that are far from people,
the face of the land gone gray like flint.
Badgers dig their little lives there,
quiet-paced the land lies gaunt,
The railroad dies by a yellow depot,
town falls away toward a muddy creek.
Badger-gray the sod goes under
a river of wind, a hawk on a stick.
poem by William Stafford
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Church Monuments
While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death's incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble put for signs,
To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent, that when thou shalt grow fat
And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.
poem by George Herbert
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