Looping hieroglyphic attire that dressed the miserly in cloaks of fired up brimming pride so catcher does this seeth beneath the sky, sky blue or frilled for venom, which enraptured the hornet as the serpent spent bills oh? Enough of the price? Is the motherly kind word not my own spoken twice?
language — the threshold of the universe
tracing hidden membranes
each word, ganglion
where starlight settles into semantic scaffolding.
we are nerve-endings
where it shivers into tongue
quickening drum of chest.
white space exhales corona-fire
self expands, exoplanetary —
each firing a solar flare
reaching stellar drift
where rift becomes gift.
body tessellates —
flesh dreaming treillage sleep
deep in dendrite-forest
the universe yore-wakens
never separate.
intimacy resurfaces —
lowercase, unannounced
sharp as transistor-click
the universe leans closer —
a soft swirl into wrist and star.
the last synapse
burns backward through fuse
recognition in wristwire
recognition in starlace.
the universe
inscribes first
hieroglyphic axiom.
Hieroglyphic alphabet
Word pictures I’ve never met
Represents an object round
Also, a specific sound
Ancient Egyptians used it
Double birds quite the hit
Letter L is a lion
Ancient writing made for dy’n.
No one can wholly understand love
Love is never what one thinks it is
Love often comes as a snippy surprise
As a starry shock stemming from above.
Love is a hieroglyphic puzzle
Love has the power to muzzle
Shackle, overpower, direct and destroy
Love can be a very volatile or hazardous toy.
As soon as one is somewhat comfortable
Love shows her ugly fangs on the table
Love is not always a beautiful spring.
Love behave like a cunning chameleon
Love behaves like an uncommon phenomenon
No one can completely comprehend this thing.
Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.
The brain is an instrument of improvisation
With its white and gray byways
garnished in electrical blood drops.
Creating refined works, although pressed for time and pressurized.
It suffers in its bone cage.
Like an octopus in a jar, always planning the grandest escape.
It is also a weapon of mass deception
pods of oddness, always plotting.
Endless deep blueness and innate jealousy.
A DNA staircase decorated in ornate self-centeredness.
Prone to God-mocking and demon-envy.
Overall, the brain is a hieroglyphic glass ball.
Bursting with dead-end riddles and black troughs.
Perched on a flint-and-paper faith pedestal.
An impressive temple from times distant past,
passed o'er mysteriously by its tales as we've
weaved via a display of hieroglyphic labyrinths.
Lab prints will be capable of dating the period
The Id, who tends the crew, is at an iconic column.
Call him by his alias, Frank, a senseless soul.
Sole, by choice, as guides speaking aloud,
allowed his ignorance to surface as egos ...
he goes into a trance, acting like an imp.
The neural spark
is ill-defined, a cloud of unknowing.
Nothing begins anywhere.
The tail of the snake
is its neck.
The body grows out of its closed eyes.
An uncertain vapor trail
sheds hieroglyphic fragments,
they could be words,
or only
the residual cooling of a brief potency,
a fast-evaporating speculation
now only a dilatorily dripping
from its dormant inkwell.
You don't know, you just don't get it,
until it takes shape,
then a flint strikes a low adumbrate sky,
only then does meaning arrive
to burn your tongue.
You, (this is your part),
with have to make changes,
fillet out the serpent's pin-bones,
or words will stick in your mouth.
This is how a poem begins.
This is how a poem begins,
not with a thought or a whisper
but with a sly electric slither.
I am
your lilac moon,
cocooned in cashmere wool
of clouds that carol in chorus,
love-sewn
Searching
for life beyond
hieroglyphic fangs
of hoaxed hydrangeas, exiled in
grey moors;
Today,
jasmine stars taste
bittersweet and each tan
twilight reminds me of your scent,
deadly
And no
inked dots align
in intuitions from
constellations of confusion,
again;
So, drink
saturated
misunderstandings as
mist from blood-stained petals like plush
smoked tears
As, hope
has always drawn
me as a chirping flake,
faced like a lonely gold-lilac
luna.
Tattooing scars gives them flare,
stylish make up is what others see;
Sometimes disguised completely
proper angles let old marks shimmer;
Stylish make up is what others see,
perfection glitters at first glance;
Proper angles let old marks shimmer,
past sour notes glow on canvas;
Perfection glitters at first glance,
there is beauty in your mistakes;
Past sour notes glow on canvas,
thus the beauty of well worn skin;
There is beauty in your mistakes;
Soft lines read like hieroglyphics,
thus the beauty of well worn skin;
The best designs the hardest times;
Soft lines read like hieroglyphics,
sometimes disguised completely;
The best designs the hardest times,
tattooing scars gives them flare .
O Scribes of Thebes, take the noose, burn fiercely the words of Aleister Crowley.
For all the wisdom of the hieroglyphic signs lies in union with only one cosmorat-the creator of the tongue of the sun-god Ra and counterpart of Seshat and spouse to Ma'at.
And If a man is double-dealing and his utterance is false, do not trust his utterances, do not heed his tales of woe_ !
In the beginning of creation were hermeneutics, astronomy, geography and medicine
When Thoth was taught the signs of the sacred tablet .
How dare Egypt! How dare Hesert, Abydos, Rekhui, Per-Ab, Urit, Pselket, Hat, Sep, Ta-ur, Bah,Antcha-Mutet ,Talmsis, Ta-kens and Amen-heri-ab Shrines!
Tell you the truth you scholars and believers who dwelleth in these darkest places of Thoth: In Judgment of Monsoon, your souls shall be extirpated from the surface of the Terra Firma.
Men who bow in homage to the face of Adam and mankind,
There's a spectrum of atom, sun, four elements, five saints, dimensions six. Go seek His attributes! But explanations cannot compass him.
Who am I?
I am a lion who comes out as a goat
I am an ocean with waves big enough to drown
I am a child of Mesopotamia
A descendant of Shaka Zulu
Baptized in the Nile
I depict the sword of Mansa Musa
I am the backbone of civilization
An icon of emancipation
I represent the pyramid of Giza
And the lighthouse of Alexandria
A symbol of hope
And an emblem of freedom
I am a depiction of Chinua Achebe ink
An illustration of the hieroglyphic
I am the carapace of Hannibal
And the shield of Tunka Manin
I am a player of the djembe
And the author of Sundiata Epic
I am an inheritor of Timbuktu
A citizen of Kumbi-Saleh
A compadre to Askia Muhammed
And a son of Mansa Musa
A follower of Kwame Nkrumah
And a kinsman of Ahmet Sekou Toure
I am the native son of Gao
A fisherman of Lake Victoria
A Tuareg from the Sahara
I hailed from the cradle of life
I am the black in Panther
And this is really who I am, A black man.
She dug a hole in the earth
& buried her heart where no one
Could find it.
Through my tongue I have dug
And excavated through a person
I thought I knew.
A region I still travel both known and unknown.
Through ancient wisdom & modern text,
A known philosopher of over 500 texts.
Though I read tirelessly, I lost sense of direction
Through hieroglyphic palpitations
Circa the first breath taken in front of you.
She dug a hole in the earth & filled it with dirt.
A language lost and undisturbed.
Her heart a eutopia, massive & hidden
From history.
Through hard dirt and torn tongue
The tip of my tongue struck something soft
& compromising.
Alas, I have journeyed to the center of your chest
& survived.
Through dirt and torn tongue, here we lay
Fossilized in the center of your chest,
Until everything rumbles
& your heart spews through your chest
Like lava.
Only then could we live again in a region
Truly meant for us
the pharaohs phallus
mummified stiff as a board
tut tut naughty boy
By
David Kavanagh
True story this, when they opened Tutankhamuns
Sarcophagus, Imagine their bewilderment to
find King Tut's mummy, and his symbolically
embalmed erect phallus
Perhaps this is what Lord Carnarvon thought
Isis was tired of being all things to all Ancient Egyptians.
Why am I the goddess of marriage, fertility, magic, motherhood, medicine and the dead?
No one had an answer.
I am going to concentrate on one thing, she stated.
Motherhood.
But her brother-husband Osiris was killed,
so she resurrected him instead, so she could be a mother.
They had Horus, whom she decided to guard all of his days.
That surely says something about your skills with the dead, her brother said.
She held the ankh sign up and paraded around the room.
Showing off her crown with the hieroglyphic sign of a throne.
Yes, she agreed to the Pharaoh, but I still want to concentrate on motherhood.
She had no choice but to also show magic, for her mystical abilities were tops.
Better than any other deity.
River Nile revers Queen Isis each year when she floods her banks.
Representing her weeping tears for Osiris before she revived him.
Intolerance weaves hatred in the fabric of our times,
innocent blood is shed in madness, civilizations clash,
tender hearts splinter into disposable debris uncared,
in the psychic grip of insolent stress relationships crash.
Before savage tides surge, let times change the essence,
war-tanks become pianos, guns form harmonic flutes,
nuclear arsenals turn harps, soldiers become violins,
performing in symphony of peace and brotherhood.
Before the hourglass breaks, let times change the form,
contempt turns to flower, hatred to branch of olive,
minds morph into alchemists, making golden threads
that will create the garlands of love for the despised.
If not, let the stubborn times go back to the stone age,
write a new hieroglyphic story on the erased plaque.
July 9, 2020
Contest : Strand Completely New (7), Any Theme Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
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