a poem for the cavemen
Sticks and branches were not enough,
the big cats and other beasts
had learned the bluff;
other groups had big sticks, too.
And in their natural state,
rocks just would not do.
Then like magic,
the flint breaks away
and with it some of the darkness
and the fear.
There was an edge now to our being,
like new found claws or tiger jaws,
weapons we learned to hold dear.
From then on rock pounded rock,
with a purpose and a plan.
Art was born and moved us along;
thoughts turned inward now
the birth of man.
The search for god, meaning and a plan.
From the flint was born,
the bulls at Lascaux, a father for fire,
dreams of angels, fat man and little boy.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved