Thousands of miles above water
Lies a marvel too holy
To name
And too beautiful to deny
Carved from rock, a city of faith
Where hands of devotion shaped stone
Each church a whisper of eternity
Each alley a hymn in shadow and light
Pilgrims tread the worn paths
Their prayers rising like incense smoke
Windows frame the sun’s gentle kiss
On walls that have held centuries of hope
Lalibela, where earth meets heaven
Where history sleeps in quiet majesty
And every stone speaks of a people
Who dared to dream with their hands and hearts
Here, time bends,
And the soul remembers
That beauty is both sacred and human
And wonders are born from belief.
I find you beneath an ancient tree,
in winter your names I cannot see;
I think fall is the nicest time of year,
for the watercolor hues in my mind sear.
I come with flowers on a pretty day,
following a winding pathway;
then, for days I dream at night,
with tears until morns first light-
Soft is the call of the night
She whispers to me in the rustle
of leaves ‘neath an ancient breeze
For time runs headlong into the chasm
~ lunging at moments already passed
In scales of steel, the city sleeps
Where dragon laws in darkness creep
The streets are veins of ancient stone
Where freedom's blood has long been flown.
The towers pierce the smoky sky
Like claws that grasps and never die
The people move with careful pace
Under eyes that watch each secret place.
Through gates of fire, the rulers pass
Their shadows cast in endless glass
Where every breath must be confessed
And dreams themselves are put to test.
But deep within the burning core
A spark remains that dares ignore
The chains of law, the weight of might
And whisper still endless light.
Ancient poems resurrected and recited
From the murky depths of history,
You hold, against your breast,
The fresh warmth you now perceive.
I tell you tales of my youth
Of day and night, dawn and twilight.
Alive still in my beating, aching heart,
And now held in my hands to reveal.
You ask me to start from within myself
As I recite these vivid scenes.
I feel still, loneliness when you don’t notice
I’ve shared my sacred dreams.
Sitting here with the wind,
as it swats at my hair.
The sun dancing with clouds,
with them our part will share.
The interplay of light,
that decries nature's sway.
Holds too the lost secrets,
of a more godly day.
From afar came the gods,
to plant the seeds of time.
Where desire can be king,
and a common man shine.
History will point out,
the man with iron will.
Who comes with a mission,
for a god to fulfill.
The ancient dark drama,
where a man has to choose.
from having everything,
when his life he must lose!
oh
Lord
our
black
skin
is
a
blessing
from
God
within
only
because
we
are
the
ancient
children
of
the
sun
and
God
said
that
is
good
Rain falls softly on the purple flower as it swings to and fro
in a field where everything blooms according to nature's will
Steadfast and strong the morning sun rises in the East
upon a lush carpet of grass soft as the ancient winds of time
Light piano keys caress my mind as I close my eyes and enter
into a reverie as bright as the orange tulips that seize me
Ferns and chanterelles bathed in beams of pure light
I am part of and whole of, this amazing greenish forest !
Rivulets of quiet waters glide through the sun kissed earth
aerial slides from eagles and other winglet creatures of sky
Loyal and faithful mother earth is constant with her affection
in this solitary paradise made of *****sapiens of every kind
Stunned into silence I inhale the chirp of the dancing bird
exhaling into the pinery the offspring of my very soul
I cup my hands and drink from the river, a thirsty fish
longing to finish the journey I began, oh centuries ago.
Metaphor and simile have been with the human race for thousands of years. This is my English translation of an excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem estimated to be around 4,000 years old:
Excerpt from "Dialogue of a Misanthrope with his Soul"
(ancient Egyptian poem circa 2000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death lies before me:
like a sick man’s recovery,
like entering a garden after an interminable illness.
Death lies before me:
like the fragrance of myrrh,
like sitting beneath a billowing sail with a favorable wind.
Death lies before me:
like swimming in the course of a stream,
like a man’s return from the slave-galley to freedom.
Death lies before me:
like the sky when it clears,
like a man's longing to see his home after countless years of captivity.
Keywords/Tags: Egyptian, translation, dialogue, dialog, misanthrope, soul, death, illness, sick, sickness, recovery from, myrrh, sail, wind, freedom, sky, captivity, slave, slavery, soulmate
For Sir Brian Strand's 1397 Poetry Contest
18 July 2025
green scales on water
__ __
___ / o\~~~/o \___
/ \__/ ^ \__/ \
| (oo) (oo) | watching and waiting for prey,
\__ \__/~~~\__/ _/
` ----.___.-.___.--'~
bite of primal might
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There is something so
sad about fireworks.
They're so flashy,
pretty, and exciting,
but as they fade it
makes you feel sort
of lonely.
Afterall, they're
nothing more than
a semi-permanent
spark intended to
entertain for a
semi-permanent
moment.
The people that
come into our lives
are a lot like the
fireworks:
flashy, pretty,
exciting.
Then
we blink,
and they
fade.
There is
something so
sad about fireworks.
And there is
something so
lonely about being
forced to participate
in an event that you
know isn't going to
last forever.
Bittersweet flash,
bittersweet fade,
bittersweet everything.
Many paths lead away from home
but only one leads back
as the years sit salted upon the rack
you find the path home has narrowed and
turned from gates of iridescence
to mirrors opaque and black-
you arrive with exhaustion on your boots
a feast of favorites on a favorite plate
go upstairs to your yellow crib
have those unreachable dreams again\
things are slightly slanted the faces changed
some are missing all together
some are fresh but you don't know their names
to soon it's time leave and spar with devils again.
Home is where you lick your wounds
stay in tune with yesterday
then one day that nest
has completely blown away
nobody knows your name
you are a graying orphan
a gasoline splashed stray
and the whole world plays the jester
holding a piece of ancient flint.
Pharaoh Akhenaten liked his potbelly to show
He told the artists to draw him Rubenesque without woe
An Egyptian monarch with confidence back in the day
So, the skilled artesian painted Akhenaten exactly that way.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye
is that one of those ruined effigies
is a fair facsimile of myself.
He (a god/king of some minor something),
looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly
his sour mien.
At last, I am processed meekly
back onto the tour bus, where predictably,
my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
In Enugu, where coal city dreams rise,
Beneath Nigeria’s sun, under African skies,
Hills whisper tales of Igbo grace,
Ancient spirits dance in this sacred place.
Palm trees sway, red earth hums low,
Nsukka’s wisdom in breezes flow.
Markets pulse with kola nut’s cheer,
Okpa’s warmth draws loved ones near.
From Awhum’s falls, where waters sing,
To Udi’s cliffs, where eagles wing,
Enugu binds the heart with pride,
Nigeria’s soul, where hopes abide.
In Africa’s embrace, her story’s told,
Of Enugu’s light, vibrant and bold,
A land of love, of strength, of song,
Where roots run deep, and dreams belong.
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