Scarab Scorcher


Slam–trickster whose speed revealed freestyle
immediacy that stung languid and bitter
in durable repertoire of master.

Eternity’s envoy —
at the state of Clio — convoked his soul,
invited to invent imperial riddle.

Time melted commission’s material:
all of kingdom’s silver quality–sterling
into a moment at his disposal.

The elements were silver–caught.
So, in slam the poet talked
with local gods who presided at their quarries.

Trickster, convoked and chosen cynic
left behind his riddle —
returned to gothic rings and diamond things
and gemstones for hearing angels.

Death pulled a riddle from the joke.

To component–lion, Sphinx put out a call:
Body is forming, the time is here.
Commendable Cub, you know who you are.

Death had pulled a time–locked riddle that no one could solve.
It rolled the land far–over but, it would not evolve.

Met in bow symmetrical
to one paw outstretched,
all prides’ representative
and Imhotep.

Wisdom Walking

Sekhmet resurrected sand cats when she desertified the land.
Eyes shaded, Bastet had painted on their bands.

By shaking–trees, some had been deceived.
Tin–toys toppled from a box
to be clear–seen on mountain–tops.

Pit is what is coming,
when by your senses you are led in a line.

Earth–wall what is waiting, when you are in with the blind.

When on one knee, song knelt down,
helped logos stand to kitten–call.

In eastern skies, the Twins seen rising,
glad desert–apparition — tall and slender wisdom walking:
Thoth come to give Tefnut a talking.

The drought: her cubs who run arid land
she will call them back with upright reason
when a whip has been left in the umbrella stand.

Horse was an ash–shadow mare in 4/4–gait
coming by fox–trails of a sage–green dream,
rocking mist into angular pines.

It does not stop, it has adapted its walk;
wound its canter to a pace for soldiers.

A legion sparito, brought–down at crossing creek’s curve.

For reflections, their women all searched the murk
but, waters showed only trees as runes–in–reverse.

Spoke the Mountain

They were the keepers of shot–down stars:
wanderers come–caravan,
who collected comets when they entered fields
and traveled with a box of stary jewels.

By moon, their parking timed to crescent.
Music of fiddle, of lute, of lyre
strummed always to their night–arrival.

They came when stars fell, in the summer
and stayed through hot months of emperors.

Tails of some comets ended
between lazy legs of long–horned cattle.
Day was of the cow’s horns, night was of the tail.

Change undulated fields, dynamic.
On those waves set the song
sung when seaports–distant join together–choired.

You can lasso the Moon, they deducted.
It was said the travelers knew of ocean.

Cast nets deep–sky with generous intentions,
pegged at cornerstones of the heavens.
Proceeded skies by points of cairn,
on a path we learned never ended.

Metal affirmed its presence, by form of standing–obelisk.
Island — spoke the Mountain,
on what they say is done–and–written:

A time when our grandmothers were all women–of–letters
and their grandchildren: intuitive spring–moths,
to our sisters, telepathic in our flocks.

Dance and music are the transportable arts,
carried in the blood to be performed from the heart.

Caravan bleeds music until its scab–dances scar.

Keeping the anklets, dance–steps and the sandals,
bird–peck–cloth retains rooster–crest pattern.

As serpents, they rattle lines to the old plays, by heart.