An Egyptian Hunt

Je me souviens

I am more convinced… more
Prone to stop in my walks,
Staring at lone blades
Of grass. I

Will stop.
I will scratch
My mind and toss
Time to canopic jars. Yes,

Canopic jars I
Pick up and rearrange,
Pick up and rearrange, placing
Some behind chairs I
No longer sit in, down
Hallways I am too afraid
To walk down…
Just past that door
I used to push open
Into our rose garden.

Some I put in purses.
Hide in the soft felt lining
Of fur coats for
For safety. But,

The jars, no matter
How secretive how
Wild, pass and
Repass through
Vague secrets of lost time.
Moments by ponds –
Past seconds measured out
With spoons on mornings
Too early for rising –
The dawn crisp.
Almost disconcerting.


I would like to take
My canopic jars and plunge them
Under a tepid pool
Of pale water.
I would work at them
With rough hands, twisting
And twisting… the clock
Breaking from the water
I push up
From my tub. Then,

The top is popped. I
Squat to the floor
And listen, expecting
A heartbeat.


The jars only hold so much.
I think they are full
Of mystery, of some
Sacred second trapped
Forever, like little worlds
Of water and snow
Picked up on long forgotten

I shake and I shake.
I turn the jars over
And pound them harshly
Against the floor.

Jars of sunshine
And snow, of
Days ticking beyond
That precise pounding
Out of time. Days
Of moments. Days
In the rain during an afternoon
Walk in Ayutthaya –
Mists among
The ruins.


They are the smell
Of nights before rains.
They are the sounds
Of midnight thunder.
The hush before a storm.

I hold them close, these
Canopic jars… the paths
I take and took.
The routes to towns
I got stuck in…
If only for a little while.

Posted as part of Poets United Poetry Pantry


The old and gray mists
Of an evening drive –
The road, the ruts,
The rain.

Eyes that look
Around bends.

Rising before dawn and
Riding great lifts up
Swiss slopes. Frozen
Ice clinging to cliffs –
Dark blue. A bruise.

Eyes that flinch
From bright light.

A drive and a stop –
A view down a valley –
Distant, long gone

Eyes that think
Of sweet smells…

Riddle’s Hand Poem

Editor’s Note:
I do not know for certain if
This is an actual Riddle piece. The
Subject doesn’t fit. Why hands? But,
I did find this among his papers
After he died. By the markings on it,
I think he wasn’t quite
Finished with it.


An extreme beauty.
Would say?
Is found,
In the fingers,
Of age.

Withered –
Wasted by wear –
To the meaning
Of the matter.


Yes, details,
Dead, excesses,
Excised… and
What is left,
Is pure,
Is painful,
Is true –

A pair of hands,
A bar of chocolate,

The End

Odd, extremely to
A degree that he
Died in a bunker in
Barren Berlin.

A capsule. A sudden
Shock and
Darkness. Darkness.

Away. A man so
Minotaur-like and so
Subterranean. Lost and
Chasing balls of twine
Around broken corners that
Lead to rooms that lead
To rooms.

A sudden shock.
Darkness. A

Man, away. Turning
Off lights down
Dank corridors of…


Posted as part of Poets United Poetry Pantry