"pharaohs" poems
The all seeing iris imperial city
The swiftest of stylus this side of the ‘sippi
The trippiest spittin’ Promethean hippy
Conspiracy theorist of eeriest verse
The despotic hypnotic black flag bearin’ Hearst
Still immersing myself in a poverty trap
As I grapple with lack of fact check cashing crap
Cryogenically frozen emotion vibes flowin’
From out my funk bunker boombox
Overthrowin’
Your global dominion opinion with ease
Shootin’ breezes with Tirailleurs Senegalese
I’m the kid wicked picket sign paintin’ Tom Sawyer
The ill eagle Taino privilege enjoyer
Still swoopin’ in mean on each **** I make clean
Pick the bones dry of serpentine oil green dreams
Then I bury what’s left of your money machines
With the pharaohs of old’s latest pyramid schemes
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
In this battle for the freedom of our souls some may think
Maybe I should've let go long ago
From being kings and queens, Chiefs and Pharaohs
To ******* in the cotton fields
To slaves being whipped and forgotten
We were stolen.
Stripped from our homes and looted of our gold.
Fast forward
Now we are doctors, lawyers, professors
But Don't tell me the cotton fields have recovered from our tears
Our sweat seeps deep into the souls of America
So Don't tell me the cotton fields have recovered from our blood.
Fast forward
"All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law."
They tell us equality is coming.
That it is here.
Then let you wait holding your breath
Suffocating.
Black boy shot and killed for walking down the street
Black boy whipped and beaten for looking master in the eye
Tell me are you still holding your breath?
Still suffocating
Still waiting for the keys to our chains
Fast forward
Black lives matter
All roads torn down, we've paved new paths
Stripped from our houses so we built homes
Lotted for our gold but we are golden
Black is hard to get rid of, that annoying stain that stays to long
Black is rough and tough
Black is solid in luring ways
But
Black lives won't matter until we love our own people
Black lives won't. matter. to. them. because you've called that girl a *** or Thot"
Black lives won't matter until we stop the black on black blood splatter
For black lives to matter...
We must empower each other
Standing together the ground will break recognizing he whose tears, sweat and blood upon which it was built
So take one look at our past
Because this will be the last
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
The teacher stands before her detained class
And from behind her authoritative podium
She equates abortion to the holocaust
A dangerous comparison in an educational garrison
But the other children nodded their heads in agreement
A benefit of having the ear of youth
Is being able to infect it with your own toxic ideology
What bacteria did this ear infection consist of?
Conservatism? Religiosity? Chastity?
The answer was depressingly simple
I was the only one there unaware of Fox News
I was a casualty of the confusion
The confusion engendered
By venom thoughts placing politic-colored glasses
on the entrenched masses
Entertainment
Used to convey anger and hate
Emotions worth conveying
But not living in
The intents and desires of their vulnerable receivers
become an incongruous disaster
What could I have done?
Minds as still as the pharaohs heart
We live in a society where we're all infantilized by one myth
Good and evil
Looking back on what I did do
I didn't do much
But I did do something
I didn't nod my head like a ******** sycophant
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Insignificant dust
Swept under a cosmic carpet.
From pharaohs
To the night stockers at Wal-Mart,
Beg the questions asked countless times before.
I tell myself it doesn't matter
Because I'm on the up and up.
I won't be in this place forever
So what's the harm in taking it easy?
Some alternative country song plays on the air;
Singing about nostalgia and the west.
They don't have those things in China.
And here I thought I'd get to start over
In an afterlife with my family.
When I see their lifeless eyes,
I can tell no one thinks beyond themselves.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Tired, I awoke upon a lonely island beach
And gazed on a Goddess above the shore,
With sea foam hair, coral skin, what dream,
My salt eyes, blinded, open, wanting more,
Conspiring with rays of summer she shone
So bright, this daughter of the sun, we stood
I and my castaway crew, to that siren prone
As she led us to her mansion in the woods.
Her potions tamed the forest wolf and lion,
Spellbinding warrior poets to liven feasts.
Why then must she turn ***** men to swine,
By what she most desired contented least?
Desert falcon, my moly held Pharaohs' breeze
And what nil escape above the wine dark seas.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide,
next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois.
Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go,
on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso.
Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes
and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime.
Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro,
take my body to whatever stop, just go.
Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night,
beneath the Louvre pyramid light.
Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow,
make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau.
Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque
accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed.
Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess,
in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed.
Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream,
the silence drowned out only by the guillotine.
Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me,
that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries.
Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed,
next to her, I, in eternal rest.
Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing,
or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking.
Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true,
but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge,
Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing:
“Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
In my mind, we stand on the balcony
Drinking whiskey bourbon talking 'bout you and me
In my mind, we move down to a city in Mexico
Get away from the winter because we both can't stand the cold
In my mind, we follow our dreams to Rome
Live like pharaohs and worship each other's bones
In my mind, we make love like lovers do
Becoming each other, there is no me and you
In my mind, the tidal waves start to fall
Breaking down the canyon, breaking down the valley walls
In my mind, the sky begins to break
Every little crack is another small mistake
In my mind, you're lying here in my arms
Falling asleep to your breath and no alarm
In my mind, your secrets are safe with me
Like a little piece of you that I get to keep
In my mind, we meet on the edge of town
You look at me for protection as we drive around
But my mind isn't what the world wants to be
I guess, today, I'll start moving on down the street
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
darkness consumes all
the black night swallows our thoughts
Vomits back our fears
Shadows pollute minds
Specters of the past revive
They taunt tease and laugh
We give in so quick
Victims to our own morals
destroyed by self doubt
Quick to love others
so fast to hate ones own self
So slow to forgive
The mirror whispers
The wind curses so sweetly
The blade kisses you
It tenderly glides
Slides against ebony skin
Gaping rift remains
Scarlet life erupts
History of an empire
Contained in those veins
Osiris Horus
Pharaohs Gods ,and rulers.Kings
Contained in those veins
Isis Hathor Bast
Greats queens, protectors, healers
Contained in those veins
Garden of Eden
Cradle of our mother Earth
Contained in those veins
Newton,King,X,Parks
Men and women with Brave Hearts
Contained in those veins
Swift minds,Diamond tongues
hip-hop jazz blues rock, our sound
Contained in those veins
Firm hands,and strong arms
The power to hold the world
Contained in those veins
A deep rich opus
there is his story and hers
Contained in those veins
Our blood stains the soil
Why destroy the tapestry
Contained in those veins
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
every time I speak
to your best friend
I pray to every Aztec God
and once holy Pharaohs
and stones worshiped
on this planet that
he tell me you are nearby,
or that this was all a big sad joke,
or a prank
or that you would come back
but no.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
*Feelin’ like a new model keepin’ thoughts in a safe
Nothin’ but new beginnings while maintainin’ the faith
Of better days ahead, walkin’ away instead
The world on my shoulders while walkin’ on eggshells
Difficult steps lead to redemption, no need for attention
Dowsin’ my sorrows in drinks with a fear of reinvention
Weakened souls lackin’ ambition – ones that we attend to
Distracted by the means to makin’ profit
Pharaohs and kings reach Ozymandias
Castle of the manliest reduced to rubble
Inspiration's a privilege, the uninitiated struggle
Lookin’ to the stars closer to Mercury
Celebrating longer than a single anniversary
Build the padlocked building blocks of the brain, preventin’ burglary
Intellect protection needs remedial advancement
Followin' the lessons and morals of real testaments
Crimson waters divided by Moses, halving the sea
Aidin’ people across, the shepherd leadin’ the sheep
Heated cycle of violence by disciples
De-escalated by the sacred teachings of the bible
Able to color-code their understandin’ with a cipher
Gifted in nature, minus robotics turnin’ sentient*
WE MARCH!
*Hand-in-hand in unison! A unit full of sin
But we protect the world from Judases,
Our doubts are in the wind
A state of peace we feel the crew is in
The rest will follow soon,
Our inner voice of hate is ludicrous
It sings a hollow tune.
Leavin' this place without askin' just where the exit is,
Keep a steady pace as we're headin' right into exodus.
Lessons are taught to help you rise from the fall,
Nirvana awaitin' – you better answer the call.*
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
Looking back it's revolting to me
A marriage to hypocrisy
Quantum leaps forward
Like an angel's descent
Into darkness and madness
Wings are picked off for lent
The pride of the ages and mediocrity
Are the fruits of the pharaoh's' monopoly
Golden decor for tombs
Sandstorms and lost places
Swords of knowledge are found
But wisdom; no traces
Sold myself in to blind slavery
The chains that bind are just as free
Quantum leaps forward
Like a mortal's ascent
Above the pride of the ages
Till the pharaohs repent
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
the mystery of Egypt
the sands of time
serpents on crowns worn by pharaohs
Queens that rule their kings
while sipping on honey wine
chess games might have changed
but symbols don't lie
Isis and Horus
the all seeing eye
im so lost in your words
and the journey that im on
where the God of Moses has
become the Queen of the Nile
Peace is what is seek and here it lies
rhyming words with the spirit that
never dies
your picture is the god i used to seek
the heart does not know why
its all in the smile and in your eyes.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale
Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly
Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown
Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:07 PM 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
I will burn this land to a grave and make
an idol in the hollow of the hallow
shadow, a crow, a cow, pharaohs.
men on fire and women on spikes, children smiling and casting a storm across the sky,
flooding heaven in a whisper as water begins to pour from the eye to wither.
ashes dance to the winds, swirling and screaming through the smoke only to be cursed and burned, choked without a Phoenix to dream, I will swallow this dusk for a dawn as if I was never born, to mourn my own.
chiseled earth traversed, traveled, levelled, to make way for a travern that follows the winter through the mighty mountains, a fountain that shows one who seeks a face as it fades into the skin of its reflections affection.
skeletons crushed beneath the weight of bricks and stones, seeds sown, meat grown to feed the hunger of a stranger with no home,
claws and knives kept in the belly of a slave wandering in the midst of a cage, a cave with no escape.
slitting the sunlight and offering it to a red morning forming bright halo against the dark surface, a maze, ablaze with the hurried footprints of a sage that turned into a monster and made the cursed cry, a lie, to die for.
illusion of a delusion, evoltuing into a revolting fanatic staring at satanic verses carved on cryptic, epileptic, metallic claws of death.
words eaten by dust as it rust, sprinkling age on the old, cold, sold for a dream that mints insects clinging to the heart of its host, a ghost at most,
a soul to the least, a feast for the diseased
as they keep the ones who would weep in a coffin to sleep.
forming circles in thin air, a mare, a layer of filth emerging from an ocean of bodies floating in the images young and gory,
they will tell you a story and i wouldn't believe me.
in the wake of morrow, swallow the yester tears immersed in the black hue of the lingering silence, violence will crown another king, to sing and bring, wearing skin to hide the monster he became in the blessing of an idol, a crow, a cow, pharaohs.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
You are there in the centuries,
standing on the hottest sands
face of illusion, higher civilizations
everyone tried to understand,
For you they wrote so many poems,
books and pages, history archives
the unbearable block stone can't hide
what you have inside your cold womb.
Pharaohs, kings and dynasties are
there to come and go as shadows,
Embraced by you their faces remain
deep in underground finding the truth,
but you still live proudly with the time,
until existence of the earth and sun
return you to the ashes of greatest love song.
-nour-
June-013
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.
Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.
Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.
A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.
Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.
Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.
This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.
And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.
The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.
And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.
As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.
He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write
To forget.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Ah, you ask
what the origin is of the word pharaoh
Let me assure you first
such questions need to be asked
and you have come to the right person
for I am an antimologist
one specialized in the study of the origin of words
1
Let us consider....pharaoh...pharaoh...pharaoh...
Ah, I have it...the answer retrieved
from the safe confines and treasuries
in the deepest recesses of my mind....
The pharaoh
was so called
for these rulers were,
in spite of the scorching heat and unforgiving sun,
these rulers were always fair
and never became dark
and so that clears the mystery of the first half of pharaoh
2
And moreover, it is revealed in the papyri
and graffiti in the tombs
these Pharaohs could row -
even as Rulers these Pharaohs could row -
you know
row, row, row your boat
and they could row
the full length and breadth of the Nile
And thus from the 2 Divine attributes
of FAIR and ROW
came the title: PHARAOH
3
But....but...but! you say
Ah, I know, I know - you are about to ask
why then is the word spelt as PHARAOH
and not as FAIRROW?
Ah, such questions you have this morning -
what are you on?
Too much sugar and candy floss last night?
Well, you are lucky as I’m not only an antimologist
but also an IsDorian
and so I shall dispel your doubts at once:
It’s simple - remember they were Ancient Egyptians
and these Ancient Egyptians did not know their English well
and so instead of the proper English FAIRROW
they gave us the mangled PHARAOH -
and let us not be too hard on them
as you also recall this was all in the infancy of human civilization
and we shall be graceful enough in our maturity to accept these errors,
for after all, these Ancient Egyptians were but as children
in the History of Human Motion
And I hope I have now dispelled your morning perturbations
as I rowed you over
the rivers of knowledge of antimology, IsDory
and the secret knowledge of FAIRROW and the PHARAOH
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
Tired, I awoke upon a lonely island beach
And gazed on a Goddess above the shore,
With sea foam hair, coral skin, what dream,
My salt eyes, blinded, open, wanting more,
Conspiring with rays of summer she shone
So bright, this daughter of the sun, we stood
I and my castaway crew, to that siren prone
As she led us to her mansion in the woods.
Her potions tamed the forest wolf and lion,
Spellbinding warrior poets to liven feasts.
Why then must she turn ***** men to swine,
By what she most desired contented least?
Desert falcon, my moly held Pharaohs' breeze
And what nil escape above the wine dark seas.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
"Born 20120718 08h00 AM"
Here’s to my new-born child of the Pharaohs, I swear, no more news on the kind of a farrow. Colour of the Soil, you fill my heart with a new Love unknown. See the Colour of the Oil that fills the Art your true bloodline own. You’re the Oasis of the world, so beware of greeks bearing gifts closely. Amongst the many faces of the world, beware of these wearing sheep’s clothing. They’ve stripped Mother Africa of her identity and buried her alive, Brothers and Sisters, Nubia and Kush. I trip on Azania and her density burning in silence, oh my blisters…not another Minister media pushed. That’s why you have to be my winning goal in this game defense, call her crazy because her Name deepens, But that’s for those not willing to know where they came, Princess...
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:59 AM UTC
To craft a poem
is to carve a small wooden figurine
of an Arabian horse
out of a redwood tree—
a trinket
whose sole purpose is to gather dust.
And when comes
the boa constrictor of slow sleep,
you, young author, will have this poem
as the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt
had their treasures—
beads, idols, canopic jars—
accompanying them in their tombs
like a crowd of onlookers
surrounding the silent scene of a car crash.
Novelty items, family members, memories—
words to be whittled down
into useless artifacts.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC