I am

I am the clay of the Euphrates
molded by Sumerian hands
pressed by a sharpened reed
preserving in cuneiform
the epic Ballad of Gilgamesh.

I am the pith of papyrus
washed in the Nile waters
hammered into a scroll
touched by the black iron ink
of Akhenaten’s Hymn to the Sun,

I am the hide of a horse
cleaned and dried with lye
etched with words of Latin
by Titus Lucretius Carus to wit
Epicureanism, De rerum natura.

I am the goat skin parchment
stretched tight as a drum head
scarred with metaphysical reason
as Cynewulf suffered in hand
The Dream of the Rood.

I am the revolutionary paper
touched by the hands of greatness
written by candle light and quill
setting down the right of freedom
in The Declaration of Independence.

I am the flash of digital images
scripted on a charged screen
preserving the joy of expression
in a collection of files
displayed on a WordPress blog.

I am all these things humans do
from the beginning of recorded time
the art and dance of thought
spoken or written or sung
the fulfillment life’s poetry.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne

Words, mumbled in fits of lucidity,
Words, poetic crumbs scattered,
The paper ash burnt, wine stained.
What was she, whore, free spirit,
Thighs brimming with creation?
Tattoos as multicolored flesh brands.
Did they make a statement or condemn?
A volcanic pleasure of congress,
That sexual upheaval of satisfaction.
The play was sweat and scent beneath,
Licked erotica sucked into nostrils.
Inhaled as life, tainting olfactories,
marking the soul with winters need,
clasped in warmth creating a summer gift.
In the light of a full August moon,
She cried with a wail that shook
those granite halls of manhood,
Broke the iron stones of desolation.
From her prostrate body in fluid
flowed a man child of wanton desire,
an innocent marked with the label.
She ignored the sire, his craven distance.
Ignored the condemnation of the ignorant.
The scepter she cradled in her arms
Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne.
Relief to the masses a chaste and pious king.
When they came for the man child,
Swords unsheathed, hearts of stone
Solicitors of death and evil,
She hid her babe in swaddling,
In a reed basket and cast his fate
Upon the soul of the ancient Nile.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour