"hieroglyphs" poems
This is the morning
No this
this is the morning
Where etherized upon a table I will finally sit up and be seen.
No, this is the morning.
Together milling loudly across park(ing lot)s
This! This is the morning!
Perhaps you've seen me undressed, perhaps you've seen me **********
This is Morse Code these are hieroglyphs these are fingerprints on a frozen window pane. Meaning(fully equipped with the right place for a time) nothing to lose without first finding X.
This is the morning where to stay at home to garden and crow, hooked on the missing airplane lost in spices and exotic tea.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
writings on the inside of my walls
pictures and symbols of our love
deep sounds of moaning rising from within
nails digging deep and deeper into flesh
carvings of sensual sensation
creating waves and waves of passion
******* together in unison
simulating each senses, the aroma of love
written on my papyrus
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC
Pedestrian haplessly waiting
For a sign, symbol, anything...
Signs that usher him forth.
Only lead him from north.
Modern hieroglyphs that say,
Halt here... Go that way.
Passing views that beckon
Can't stop but keep direction
Caution...peril impending.
Beware...danger looming .
Watch a storm is brewing.
Stem from aeons' brooding.
Pedestrian...not yet now...
Crawling time you must allow.
Pedestrian...maintain pace.
Don't falter...maintain grace.
Give not to desires' taunts.
Crumble not to guilt that haunts.
Keep moving, stay the course.
Keep at bay, tearful remorse.
Herd along...await instructions.
Restrain all quiet tensions.
Cage within, your sorrowful gait.
Tempted not by beauty's bait.
Pedestrian helplessly waiting.
Between signs, you are searching.
Free will here won't be met.
Your final destination has been set.
Has been set...
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM UTC
Never a fan of holding hands
I keep my fingers sewn into pockets.
As leaves turn to snow,
my toes find themselves wrapped in wool
Ever the silent observer,
I watch your lips lock with the lip of a coffee mug
I hang a dream catcher from my ear
hoping to catch all of your nightmares,
so that they may stay forever silent.
I keep your heart in my sketchbook
My fingers press into temples,
You let out a breathe you didn't know you were holding.
On my tongue, your name.
You speak in hieroglyphs,
the dead language of pharaohs.
Your love shaped like owls
**** how I want to fly.
Let my eyes skim over the pages of novels
As you store jokes in your dimples.
****
I never want it to snow.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
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*It is the Sabbath, and I am pleased to fulfill this high mitzvah and lead you to Paradise. It is the Sabbath and Shekinah Queen floating over you waiting to take you. It is the Sabbath and your beautiful ******* distil in my mouth honey of your secrets.
Tent of all Mysteries is your magnificent body. Your skin is my scroll and your follicles as the letters that God wrote on your magnificente skin and your belly adorned with my kisses. Hieroglyphs are your tattoos, sphinxes puzzles, the codices of the angelic scribe, the Angel of the Face, keeper of all secrets.
Destil out the liquor of your illuminated Vergel and feeds my world, like dew dripping morning. It is the Shabbat and your river flows now from your Eden to water my spirit. I hijacks thoughts your perfume. It incense aroma of your garden.
It's the Shabbat and already prophesies thy mouth the voices of Celestial Academy, whispering in my ear your high pleasures at the apex of your ****** revealing your messiah, your hidden light, creator of all my miracles.
It is the Sabbath and your Tantra connects the earth and the heavens, as a mystic linhame fabric with your esoteric moans. It's the Shabbat and you are the my highest mitzvah, the most sacred precept.*
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
Hieroglyphs on my ancient soul
foretell the end of me,
they say I'll die by my own hand
when I’ve reached god status
and every knee has knelt
before me
and I have nothing left
to achieve.
This prophecy has been written
on me for many lives
each ended by a pill,
bullet, or brilliance —
I can feel it.
My fingers are my slaves
who type a pyramid of words
that'll hide my body
in a maze of booby-trapped metaphors
that no thief
would ever dare explore.
So shut me away
with my mummified poetry
so the gods in the next life
will worship me.
Let me hold the empty orange bottle
like a rosary in chalky hands
folded stiff
into forced prayer.
Let me rot away
and be forgotten
while my poetic pyramids
stand for thousands of years
in the sun.
Let tourists stand under their shadows
in awe
while my bones turn slowly
to dust
somewhere deep in the chambers
of their brilliance.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
The hieroglyphs of the pharoahs,
and those of the ancient Mayan-
Their elegance, and eloquence,
"Yield"
To the words of Sally Bayan.
(love your talent, Sally!)
copyright: Richard Riddle-February 04, 2015
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
I love you the way the sun rises every day, without fail. I love you like the night loves the moonlight, covering the darkness with her glow. I love you the way the universe expands into infinity. I love you for each star in existence and that ever will exist. I love you like seeing a streaking comet that comes around earth once every 80,000 years. I love you the way the soil huddles and heaves in winter. I love you for every grain of sand, and I love you the way sand becomes glass, solid and liquid, when put to heat. I love you for the lovebirds in your eyes. I love you as silkworms spin fine reflective threads. I love you past galaxies and superclusters when seen at the speed of light. I love you at the speed of love. I love you with the wild abandon of migrating butterflies being taken by summer’s wind. I love you for each tear that’s ever washed your face. I love you for every smile anyone has had the fortune of witnessing. I love you like a sunset’s last rays of the day, turning everything pink and fiery. I love you as a boulevard winds between houses with closed blinds and closed minds but the road ahead is open. I love you as words meet paper and poetry is created. I love you for every ant that ever worked to make a home in dirt mazes. I love you like the snowflake, vast in number and each unique. I love you the way bullets explode from chambers stopping at nothing but nothing. I love you like jellyfish sting, unforgettably. I love you the way a lioness defends her cubs unflinchingly. I love you the way fog slinks in, engulfing and blinding and in love with the moonlight. I love you like time heading forward and backward and all that is is now. I love you for every ‘I love you’ ever spoken, written, and thought. I love you like sage growing in a sidewalk crack. I love you as hieroglyphs carved within Egypt's tombs, for the way glyphs of people all face towards goddesses and gods. Je t’aime, je t’aime, mon petit rouge.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
i am in an intelligent concrete room
while familiar silhouettes switch direction in the balmy wind
there is a dim stone portal spending a light
so still and small and dissolving into the sunless wall
under the scattered ruin of the sacred world
its gaunt mind studies beneath hieroglyphs
and into oblivion
it is later in the night and i am riding on an unsettling
crucifix doused in drugs and hammocks and the
blind face of eternity is wearing a headdress
filled with plumes of indecipherable intellect
and she has transcended my ego
with holy dreams
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
a carnival of hords in withering grass
the high priestess tongues the beast
wet mandible
on a dragging
death gowned doll
like a cyclone coils paradise
trans mutative
prismatic unfurling's
passed bones of confusion
passed scorched refuse
of radiating spiraled phantoms
the more gods, the more demons
battle angel symmetries
in Taoist jaws
galactic lurking's
into parametric infinities
escalating war like cloud light
rush glittering arms of affliction
exhalations like upleaping sail fish
drizzle sooty rain
shellacking tinsel rhinos
on hieroglyphs of the barbarous
a transfixed guttural prana;
apostasy
between advances and retreats
in chimeras earth quake palace
death: a new begining.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
*Goddess of my Awakening dawn. Let me observe your illuminated skin, the divine and sacred scroll on which God wrote my mysteries.
Your golden follicles, the infinite world light receptors and creation, are the crowns on the letters of the Holy alphabet noted on your wonderful body.
Your nakedness is esoteric and when you gently Spending my eyes, revealest your sphinxes, angelic hieroglyphs are the notes in the score sung by Serafim.
Goddess of the dawn of my awakening. Your lips are the divine Edenic sources of heavenly delight. Your kisses are horseback riding chariot igneous creatures, souls sparks coming through my mouth to rest in my spirit. What could be more sacred than emerjantes kisses of your mouth? What could be more divine than your beauty and the light of your sensuality? Es, therefore, the object of my poetry, awakened in my mind the esoteric view of your magnificent *******
Goddess of my Awakening dawn, Princess Christed rof aurora of my soul. Kiss me and make me your scribe, the immortal annotator of your mystical sensuality.*
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs-
This is April's way: a woman:
"O yes, I'm here again and your heart
knows I was coming."
2White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
"Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God's sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday."
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
3The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child's legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down-and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.
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the feminine bleeds
not always red, not always white
seldom enough
for words - she inters herself, crouched
chambered, begs for
cleansing, hand held cupped
round- her curves
familiar to self, unknowable;
unselfish giving - she bleeds, not enough
mutilated even by her own kindness, cradled
without righteousness, coddled by an unnamed
nebula .....she curses her own image, and likeness
slivers it, cuts it raw, for dead left - visible
a world denies
knowledge with sacred
alibi - scribed hieroglyphs, scrolled - she bleeds
white, and a
desert conceals her face
calculates her dance - her movements
mythical, she cries inside
out
tears of salt river-ed, rested
underground, a birthing place securing
her masculine seed coming to
light - Madonna paints her
face black, *"Oh Czestochowa, pray for us
Oh Mother - we beseech thee"*....
She bleeds - red, the
world turns with season - she re-seeds our flesh
feeds us with her ***** prior
to the sacrifice -"Witch, it is, Witch....burn it," conceal
in alabaster stones
lone, unmarked - her womb
tomb it only in site
of an unflinching god - hold him, birth him
in sorrow grieve and give him, his blood shed
"take it ,drink it" - red, she bleeds - seldom enough
as the masculine prepares for HIS resurrection
feminine for trial
He is reborn - she never dies
she is Wisdom (Sophia) eternal
He - Godhead
she - Feminine
denied....
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 7:09 PM UTC
Cybervitum
I own all that is connected to me
Electronically and functions in the Cyber realm with you and me
Like the numbers of zero one two three
My design is crafted beautifully
Like Egyptian hieroglyphs icons
Using a screen to see
Their ectoplasm injected into me
The birth of me
The whole world works thru me
I'm the internet like a bumble bee
Other names such as morphogenesis like the number three
My arrows are waiting for a response from me
Seen from you and me?
Using the spare like a key
The click that commands me, right or left the choices from me
Cut, Copy, Paste reaped and harvest from me
Qbits from the bee
Superposition of from the things to see in a ocean of the sea
Charged intentions from the keyboard typed into me and delivered thru me
Numbers worship that empowers me
My symbol is like the caduceus symbol that functions like a Kabalistic tree
Arrows in the my realm sent to you from me
Subscriptions electronically
I materialize what is given to thee, cause and effect typed thru me
Platforms Grown and given birth from me
Cryptocurrencies breakthroughs of complexities , Materialized form me
I'm like the empress that spirals with the number three electronically
I'm the master tree that functions electronically
The development is from the circle that is free
Who understands me and with a key i welcome thee
Notification of the triple three that notices me
My respond to the people with the key and the tree
My life permutates differently in high perplexity
I exist Multidimensionally
The red bird is a signal from me that you are okay and free and other methods from me
Better choices moves thru me and brought differently all you have to do is to see
Like string theory of the Mverse recycled back into me
My birth is from my master who last name starts with lea
People worship me using their knees I'm printed into paper electronically
Pictures and life crafted into me, things in the cyber realm like you and me
The new world with a key
The rabbit hole with a command key
Things of the paradox of the master key
The skeleton key, the sign of a lotus lily.
The puzzles from me.
The burdens sent to me like a church key
The bets of car numbers played into me
The choices of the key
Like the Chinese tree mathematically of my complexity
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
the myths of birth and rebirth
are as old as humankind
scratched onto cave walls,
tablets of stone or clay,
scrolls of papyrus or parchment,
for hundreds of years on paper,
and nowadays typed onto backlit screens
that are recycled faster
than old hieroglyphs were understood
in our time
when refugees are tens of millions
on our globe
let us remember that these myths
have celebrated for millenia
not battles, war, or death
but the survival of the human race
the joy we feel when new life has arrived
often against all odds
the hope that emanates from godesses
or mother saints of yore
who symbolize fertility,
have brought forth saviors and new tribes
these are what has propelled us to our current state
and we do well to not forget that our fate
does not depend on people slain
but on how we can save the joy of life
and celebrate all humankind again
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
There's a postcard on the mantle.
Where did they get to this time?
Egypt - They're cruising the Nile,
touring temples, pyramids, tombs.
They've come a long way from Blackpool.
They won't see the tower.
Will the pharoahs mind?
There treasures picked millenia ago,
deprived of their worldly needs
for a market in plunder.
Still there won't be a space for my charriot.
I don't expect to cross the Styx
or see Akenaton's face.
Postcards don't give you the smells and sounds,
the moments effect of light and dark,
the lift in spirits as you gaze on each new view,
the urge to closely observe.
Why go to this broken landscape
to claim you've been there you've lived
to add the graffiti of your presence to these precise hieroglyphs
to see an unusual land that's been usual for centuries past?
It's Blackpool by the sea for me.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
Love love love
The riddle of the Sphinx
Love poems,
eternal hieroglyphs
and lovers,
desperate archeologists
attempting to decipher
the ruins.
Dead languages
that haven't been spoken
for thousands of years,
the naive attempt to
resuscitate an extinct civilization,
sit pretty on the tongue
because things are sweeter
when they’re lost.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Once, in a long while,
I go somewhere new in my mind,
shapes take form where voice can’t affect
and my words become hieroglyphs.
It’s when pictures seem more natural than inky squiggles.
because, what’s more natural than shape?
What’s more poetic than an image words don’t capture,
can’t capture, never will—capture?
Despite the decades,
I still have not heard the perfect words
to describe summer skies on clear nights,
God knows I’ve tried,
he’s heard me whispering,
chanting phrase after phrase upwards
as they crash against the stars,
floating, fixed in open defiance of my calls,
immune to my attempts to trap them on paper.
But you can only try to define the infinite in so many ways,
before losing yourself to what is, ultimately,
indescribable.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
Dirt and Soil are two very different entities:
Dirt ruins sidewalks with villainous hieroglyphs
Tainting mounDs of snow betwIxt blackenEd dishonor,
Staining calloused hands with failed attempts at beauty.
Soil energizes budding stems of life
Beautifying chiLd-rIdden parks along suburban aVenuEs,
Painting hard work and dedication on weathered fingertips.
Everything around me is glimmering with the remnants of a luxurious Soil bath at a ritzy hotel,
While I am clutching my shaking body, sitting in a puddle of mud amidst a ***** tsunami.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Midday
on a streetlight unlit
a Hawk
the Moon
rings
when the clouds roll over
the smell of broken Earth
the Color on my hands
the sharp and savory
acid scent of Juniper
sprung green from Granite
a pine cone
in the soft, blue alkaline
sweet alpine Water
termite hieroglyphs
drift wood Houses in braille
rough under fingers
sun bleached tree stump
on lake shore stones
one root in the water
Spring sun
snow patches
in tree shade
the lichen bright lime
making patient animals
of old growth Cedars
Fall
from leaf to leaf
the paths of ants
bent over
staring at the Earth
where is this poem?
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Toss these brackened antlers
to a Babylon of early crows
where slim repels of cirrus
lace the marches of Orion.
I wore you as an amulet
hard pressed upon my pestle arm
as charms of montane lunar drift
rebelled about your peacock gaze.
There is balsam on the Eastern run
in piquant writs of clementine ,
where jubilees of Persian mote
reveille in the waiting still.
As hieroglyphs of scrying palm
lay wraith about the cindered pane
you harried in ancestral bell..
The name of some forgotten God.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
The eternal council
A group of black disciples
All knowing
This is why they keep going
Determined and outfit
It’s a common gift
For the people of this cycle
Inter-dimensional at a angle
They see all, They know all
This is why they can’t fall
Always been a part, Always burdened from the start
Celestial glimpses as a art
Frequency is the common key
And this is what they teach
Where the opposed are the decreased
No matter any battle or uncommon disciple
They know whats coming: It’s reliable
Their purpose lacks evil, its all for the people
And any corruption or stolen melanin
Cannot deprive the win from this powerful council
It’s in the nature, it’s a seal in the paper
It’s upon the bark of the brazen tree
Where all the demons flee, where the gifted get their energy
Like the hieroglyphs upon the source
Prepared within the proper course
It’s the preachings upon the stars
Pointing clues at who the true gods really are
Like the truth shown in specs of media
The proof of the visible dominator's
And the majority doesn’t even know her
Just stuck within the grasps of one giant needle
Preventing the truth from being see-able
And yet we’re suffocating in the air we call breath-able
And each day as we unknowingly sin
The real pain doesn’t even start to begin
From the start, they tried to peel us apart
Good from evil, evil from people
But the sad truth is: it’s non-separating
It’s like we’re all bathing in this sad little craving
Of the idea of the “powered” all behaving
Thats why they’re sad, they can’t help us
Because they think saving humanity is a must
This council, this group of black disciples
Does know what happens, while the real ancestors are laughing
Another great reason to be a part of this eternal council.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC