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Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Musings at Giza
by Michael R. Burch

In deepening pools of shadows lies
the Sphinx, and men still fear his eyes.
Though centuries have passed, he waits.
Egyptians gather at the gates.

Great pyramids, the looted tombs
—how still and desolate their wombs!—
await sarcophagi of kings.
From eons past, a hammer rings.

Was Cleopatra's litter borne
along these streets now bleak, forlorn?
Did Pharaohs clad in purple ride
fierce stallions through a human tide?

Did Bocchoris here mete his law
from distant Kush to Saqqarah?
or Tutankhamen here once smile
upon the children of the Nile?

or Nefertiti ever rise
with wild abandon in her eyes
to gaze across this arid plain
and cry, “Great Isis, live again!”

Published by Golden Isis and The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Ancient, Egypt, Giza, Sphinx, pyramids, tombs, sarcophagi, Cleopatra, pharaohs, Bocchoris, Kush, Saqqarah, Tutankhamen, Nile, Nefertiti, Isis
R Nov 2017
It's done.
I finished it.
The Gods are pleased.
The Pharaoh smiles at it.
It pierces the sky thoroughly.
And yet, part of me thinks.
Do they care about it?
I see the skies,
and notice the
stars align.
It's supposed to be a pyramid, though this font doesn't make the appearance look good. Just squint a bit.
Andrew T Jul 2016
Control the guns. Or unload on one. Under the hopeless sun. Or control the shooters who stole his future.
Patrol in stupor when the gaping hole is super. Rolling in supras.
Holding and maneuver, round the bend. Good lord, glad I found the pen. But white men found the pen. In there, Black men down and spent. And they're wasting away in the pen. Write a letter to their friends. Either their behind the bars, or drinking in bars, or rhyming these bars. Spit it like I got tobacco juice in my mouth. Another shooting in the south, while I watch from the couch.

Kendrick said we gon be all right. And I'll believe him, when everyone has the same rights. When the white man know wrong from right. But just because you're light in your skin, it doesn't mean you're gone from light. Let this song break fights. Still though, as long as we're nice, you'll still invite us to smoke bongs and pipes.

But when the summer heat scorches the streets and the Porsches, next to the fortress with the smooth grain porches, you will ignore this. Warning shot coming at you, hot enough to light torches. I wake up every day thinking life is gorgeous, but at night I still walk like the tortoise.

No more of this.

Blood spilling on the pavement, now you wonder why I lounge in the basement. They say practice patience. They say keep waiting. They say there's saving. Pop a pill, forget about life, start raving. Po-po after the po, so send Edgar Allen Poe with a raven. Calling us kings, like this Game of Thrones, but this war is ancient. God vs. Satan. Medusa vs. the Maiden. Neo vs. all the agents.

Take hits before I escape to the matrix. Tired of eating fake ****. Make spliffs, out of makeshift wooden ships, that Cuba Gooding Jr. Gripped. Won't take lip, go and save it. Why are they loved and we hated?

Emotion flowing from the mac and the healing potion flowing from the track. Go in the back. Put the slow motion in the stacks, the records from class, tethered in snacks. America's anger is growing in fact, because every one knowing life's back. Shoot the body and throw it in the back. Fiction, or reality? Turn on the television, that has driven your vision to a complacent state of living. And you wonder why we're so forgiving?

But we're never forgetting. This here is armageddon. This is how life be when karma getting to be like, getting to be like, getting to be like fatal. Like Cain did abel. Death, or disabled. Missed the fable, because I kissed the label. Then the bottle, as I went and risked the stable. Now I'm gathering my crew and we're ****** and a holes.

Hear the shot ring from Baton Rouge to Chicago. Thinking about becoming a florist. Foreigner in this land of tourists. Listening to beats from Morris. Joshua hit me up for the chorus. How many black Americans need to die? If it were white people, would you ignore this?
camps Mar 2016
We hold these rainbows to be self-illuminating, that all their colors are created equal and by the minute hand of the clock, that they are well-endowed by some cheap champagne with certain extraterrestrial Lefts, that among these are Virginity, A Love For The Renaissance Period, and The Thrill Of An Increasingly Difficult Game Of Tetris. — That to see these beings, Prisms are strategically placed among the gap between the lines, deriving their telekinetic powers from the consent of those on fire, — That whenever Porcupines should quarrel among themselves about whether or not they are color blind and become destructive in these matters, it is Up to the Auroras to pick up the quill, and to begin their plan for World *******, making sure to push their celestial cousins to one side and lay little clay men on such lies and such bluntness of mannerism, as to them the Arctic ice will never melt, despite the efforts of their Most Radial Glow. Penmanship, ironically, will dictate that biting the bullet is reason enough to be declared a martyr, something that would not be exchanged for a deflated currency’s worth of low self-esteem and a heaping pile of existentialist crises; and accordingly all experience has shown that angels and men are but disposable commodities much akin to the chips left at the bottom of the bag, all while somebody is out there giving judgmental glances to passport photos. But when a mile-long trail of ants decides to pursue the scents of pharaohs, it invariably forces the same Desert to an absolute Sense of Homeland Security, and it is its right, it is its duty, to throw out the Sphinx with nothing more than a simple eviction notice, and to provide new Guards for the future of its civilization. — Such has been the heavy burden of never winning at Chess; and such is now the necessity to take the pieces and rebuild them into their former Castles. The history of Blank Maps is a testimony of those led astray by the charm of settling down and of getting three x’s in a row, all having a direct correlation to the unwavering need of an absolute Exclamation of Imagination. To prove this, just let Rainbows paint the clearest of skies.

— The End —