In the beginning, there was salt.
It hung in the air like unfinished scripture,
gathered in the throat of the sea,
waited for a mouth dumb enough
to mistake thirst for an invitation.
Then butter,
smeared on the void like gossip,
greased the dark’s knuckles
like an understudy,
taught the abyss to melt.
The first sound was not speech—
it was a swallow,
a hush,
a crack of cartilage between molars.
We spoke in reductions.
Grammar dripped from the bones.
On the second day, teeth—
tiny altars lined with nerve—
ground memory into ashable pulp.
Pomegranates burst like promises.
Figs cloaked their apples in lace.
By the third, we named what softened.
We named what burned.
Built ziggurats from rind to rind.
Wrote psalms in onion skin.
The fourth hung hunger in the firmament—
a constellation shaped like mouths
mid-ask.
On the fifth, we forgot the recipe
and mourned it like a god.
By the sixth, we’d tongued every fruit
that offered a rumor of sugar.
We learned:
the mouth is a beast with no leash
and excellent taste.
And on the seventh, we lay full and feral,
belly to sky,
licking
the holy oil from our fingers.
Categories:
ziggurats, allegory, extended metaphor,
Form: Free verse
The Mesopotamians,
The birthplace of writing, building the ziggurats and palaces.
The Greeks,
Warriors and philosophers, diverse in their ways of thinking.
The Romans,
Masters of conquests and destruction.
The Egyptians,
With creative minds and architectural prowess.
All are different and diverse.
But they still all believe that they are the one.
They believe that they are the protagonists of our world.
Portraying their stories in their own immaculate light,
Shining in their versions of stories mixed with lies,
As the centre and hero of the story.
Categories:
ziggurats, conflict,
Form: Free verse
I
I am not BIRD
Yet in the Word
I am often eagle, winged
In strength, your protection
And so, Let there be Light
(versus Love) is no oversight
Because my light is fraction
Of my love in action
Not just fancy vocabulary
Missed by all, and the seminary
2
I began creation in love and light
Only one you see, without insight
My son chose, "Son of Man,"
But told religion, "I am"
(8:58 in John, and seven others)
He also is First among sisters, brothers
Yet that True Vine, ensuring they fruit
Father God, is husbandman, not root
Yet the triune root exists
We are one in aim, objectives
There is no rivalry, jealousy
We are the first Community
The communion and union
Our Love is not thy love, til glorification
3.
I am the gate, Jesus said (John 10)
David called me Good Shepherd, 23 Psalm
I am not these, yet I AM
Can you try to understand?
You personify me, First Person
O vocabulary is nice and cumbersome
I want silence, too, communion
Humanity give me things, my own creation
Since temples, ziggurats, pyramids
I want to be in thy midst!
That's my Creative Love
You'll know if you come above
Categories:
ziggurats, bible, christian, community,
Form: Personification
her finger to his lips,
the mood like an eclipse.
she’s set the bed so it won’t quake,
not yet.
her satin gown shifts slowly,
like accentuated snowflakes.
the moon illuminates the hallowed place.
she flickers with the candlelight,
bare feet on rose petals, her wrists
orchestrating the space above the clouds -
a tender dance, sans music.
she needs him to hear
the deafness of the night,
then she can make love to him,
as if he knew
a world where only lightning can succumb
to the pitter-patterless rain; noiseless crackle,
the ebony sky with plumes of ziggurats.
afterall, she’s wont to create fireworks
in the marriage bed; roman candles,
catherine wheels, head over heels
in love with him,
and he hears her.
she kisses his tears.
he hears her quiet heartbeat.
the ornate swan and royal blue,
her charms,
the twining of vanilla and rose...
the honeymooners in vociferous throes.
this night of nights — the chamber undulates
as her spouse embraces the storm.
he craves fidelity*, her infinity.
6/25/2020
Sensuality Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
*state of being faithful; accuracy of details
Categories:
ziggurats, sensual,
Form: Free verse
Charts and scope compose a vision,
Trumpets and guild proclaim the plan,
Stone and skill bring forth a notion,
That towering ziggurats attest is grand.
And spires persist where else has crumbled,
The ones were forged from noble quest.
A hope for man of journeys greater,
Immortals freed from chains of sense.
When we embark upon the mission
To raise and island in the sea,
We know our leader’s brazen vision,
Will lead to shores where all are free.
The vision is what most allures,
And makes us rise to greater heights.
The grids and lines of tomorrows living,
As mapped with a transit clear and bright.
Categories:
ziggurats, deep, leadership, people, philosophy,
Form: Rhyme