Member Poem

It pays to entertain a rattled Sphinx
whose limestone paws lie buried in the sand,
to slumber in his shade. Thutmosis,
weary from the hunt, lay down and dreamed,
then woke, the god's instructions tolling in his ears.
It does to shovel hard, or relocate,
like Hannibal, who heedful of his friend's
advice soon pitched another tent.
For even if no link with Egypt's royal line
or judges fleeing from a slayer's sword
now seems apparent, heaven has a mind
to reach the common soul. And I have heard
a broken wife can yet become a queen.
That there can be a stele where silt had been.