“You’ll Find King Herod’s Tomb”
You’ll find King Herod’s tomb beneath it all, and Cæsar’s not far
Behind buried in debris not hitherto imagined nor have the Magi ever seen
As much though restless centuries’ search, redux reckoned countable as has been
Adjusted by the market honed of hubris born of Ptolemy’s predilections, dwarfed
And all but swallowed in the squalid synecdoches of all economies; schemes
Asserting prescient views in years despite their slumbers
Solvent in the past and future well beyond prognosis and the numbers
Used to fund their offices and humour all humanity. Their smiles seem
To reach for meaning in the fireplace, they sift the ashes of the kiln
And pyre and dote on what they think they’ve found as if confirmed
Not least by carbon’s ancient age and not at all by what is earned.
Admire the Chinese while they rise, ballast for the Pantheon of what fits the bill
And never mind the unseen sacrifice and all that slavery, monuments to reigns
As numberless in catalogues as blood stains
in a Holy Land of boiling clouds and endless pain.
Posted in Caesar, Herod, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Caesar, Herod the Great, Hubris, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Market, Mortality, Pantheon, Ptolemy, Sonnet, Strife, Synecdoche
“Amazing Grace and Little Wonder”
Amazing grace and little wonder who
It is that for a bowl of soup will squander future space and sovereignty
For a moment’s roaring respite; whose the chilling ring of casuistry
Devours precious primetime dinner hours on fecund ferial days. Few
If any fruits are plucked as potpourri for monumental business gambles
Gaining mastery of the blinding present, yes! perhaps, but whose the futures,
Fortunes and logistics strewn throughout the Milky Way with vouchers
On the run defined by wine and fine cuisine served with soundbite scrambles
In code for ever-mystic fiduciary streams, desiccating brooks
At source that damn the costs and swelling columns in the ledger?
Preferences, then, will legislate toward the whim; they pleasure
In the hidden barb, the ensemble, the purple caveat; the subtle lethal hook,
The crocheted will and hubris that, matched with folly,
supports acquired taste in all-consuming pain;
One need not wonder when and where the markets’
blisters will amaze, but if the boils’ll ever drain.
Posted in Ephemeral pursuits, Federal Reserve, Fiscal cliff, Imagism, Law's delay, Licentiousness, Lyric Poetry, Mammon's glory, Market quotations, Markets, Materialism, Pedantry, Peter Principle, Philistines, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Sonnet
“Comes Glorious Thought”
Comes glorious thought between the cracks most often while trapped
In routine places; in the shower, on the bus;
In waiting rooms for doctors, sunspots serviced
At a corner station while idling at a red light. A single meme’s tapped
For what it’s worth in step and governed by the gleam of strict rehearsal
Focused on a single thought, the requisite hook
And lynchpin readied, saturated with a glance or two, the look
Informed, the message scribbled on the wall: “We will not recall
Again, or see another day’s sun regained!”
The view is altered now while bending low to fetch
A napkin dropped from off the kitchen ledge–
No moment to remember in the reign
Of satisfactions, but nonetheless a score–a hit, the subtle sting
Of truth, and what is rumored in the yeast while the telephone rings.
These ends, pedestrian beginnings clearly seen from bloated pasts and miles
Expressed in days as chapters’ peopled souls I never meant to meet
And whom I surely will forget. These months must end as presently they greet
Me as this last one has as even now their coming cousins swell in all my trials
And comforts in these last days of the year. Destinies in time are worn. Surely,
Material brick and straw of yet another era’s eulogy, some stillborn edifice
To be erected howsoever in the coming hours’ awakened, duly braced
To house the maidenhead of still greater powers and accolades. So purely
These and those before provide a common pageant as prologue
To my latter verses, carefully revised, well advised, and those
That in the worlds to come will never end nor nor close.
I engage them all with me today, their homeliness and fragrances, simple songs
Hemmed in soft refrains. Their flavours form the coronets of current themes,
Embroidered borders of what it is I seem to be and what cannot be seen.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Separation, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
Beauty’s reticence has no alibi,
No longing year-end wish pursued
Through the New Year, no final cryptic interview;
Absence like the shadow has no definition. The lie
Is gently raked, inclined toward a simple quotient, a goal
Known only to fools or Prophets.
Urges toward the froward ascend for yet an hour’s solstice; epithets,
Then, and envy, raw ingratitude in Cain whose sole
Remorse is that he lacks and displeases God,
That he is no longer chosen and therefore set adrift. Apart
He reveres his own creation high above all others in his heart
And so, too, the truth, the one true God.
Stations, then, are forever sealed, the exile plods
Through warnings from the wind flower, hidden flaws within the seed;
When asked, “What ails thee, pilgrim?” Comes the answer, “Basic need.”
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Affirmation, Cain, Certitude, Delusion, End Times, Existence, God, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Negation, Relationships, Tragic Flaw
Vapid movements, the moth descends and finds his pain will cease
But only as he ascends with no complaint as food of spiders, seed of birds.
The journey’s appointed end comes with no sound heard.
Scarlet warnings of darker wisdoms breed
A pilgrim brought to naught when only light attracts
This mindless wandering epitome of ease,
A drawing to what he cannot use and which he cannot even please.
The question’s not been asked, it seems, the simple act,
The noble task, the trek from nothing to the summit’s
Glory proves the goalie’s goal―to annoint an apex as in an art.
The point of vanishing desire’s the only worthy arc
And comfort in this world; its prisms’ glow, the slow attrition in the wick
Embracing richest flow in moments here sans thought to hesitate;
Forever’s soon enough, the pas seul reveals itself but far too late.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Death, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Vapid, Vapid movements
“Held in Audience”
And from the micro to the macro, we come to points of rising suns
That bring catharsis to the eyes, buds burning of pure numinosum
Held in audience, thrall from so much beauty to be gleaned,
Heard among the many who have come
To see the dance, the movement, all that is a simple evensong.
Well, who can hesitate with so little time to breathe? After all,
They are so clandestine and yet so publicly installed
As when in the course of minutes, experience—no mere trophy of the wronged—
Grants extreme unction to what they want because, recalled
To life en masse, their tastes and knowledge equal—the one,
the other—here at once; the celestial rotogravure
Ensures that no soul remains aloof from beauty’s torments’ burned
Doubtless in doubt but that one has the wherewithal to withdraw
From propriety in favour of purpose in such polite society. Yes, well ,
do you really think the Buddha took the night off
From time to time to shake down bread while His saints soared aloft?
Posted in Buddha, Lyric Poetry, Macro, Micro, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Buddha, Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, poetry, Relationships, Rotogravure, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw, Universes
Little significance on whose lips reaction calls
The truth or what the colour of the robes of those who pause
To listen to the calculated mumblings of the laws,
The cause that measured adhans’ five-fold mantra from the minarets draws
Upon the Great Announcement, Who it was Who met the woman at the well
And told her every last thing she’d done. It comes to me
That in the raising of a cabbie’s meter or the parson’s purse to ease
The laboured journey of prisoners in conspicuous living hell
That crop the weeds of Georgia’s highways for some small
Offence that no one in the highness of Tibetan caves
Would notice raises splendid intercourse at tea
for spinsters in Vermont who salivate
In guarded whispers, salacious odes to grease the priests whose caterwaul,
Recalls the muezzin raised above it all in shibboleths of mitigated light
Through synagogues, mosques, and churches clothed in antiquated rites.
Bahá’ís of the entire world mark today as the Anniversary of the Ascension of `Abdu’l-Bahá. The passing of `Abdu’l-Bahá, the Centre of the Covenant, the Exemplar of the Faith, Son of the Prophet-Founder of the Bahá’í Faith took place at about one o’clock in the morning on 28 November 1921; Bahá’ís commemorate that Event at about one o’clock in the morning and have been doing so since His passing in 1921.
The Passing of `Abdu’l-Bahá
The news of `Abdu’l-Bahá’s passing on November 28, 1921, was received by the Bahá’í world and the citizens of Haifa with profound distress and grief. The Holy Land–a land all too frequently convulsed by religious conflict– witnessed an unprecedented event of unity and collective emotion in the aftermath of `Abdu’l-Bahá’s death. Jews, Christians, Muslims, and Druzes, of all persuasions and denominations; Arabs, Turks, Kurds, Armenians, and other ethnic groups were drawn together in mourning His passing and in sharing their common loss.
The funeral of `Abdu’l-Bahá, “a funeral the like of which Palestine had never seen,” drew “no less than ten thousand people…representing every class, religion and race in that country.” “A great throng,” the British High Commissioner wrote, “had gathered together, sorrowing for His death, but rejoicing also for His life.” The Governor of Jerusalem at the time also wrote in describing the funeral: “I have never known a more united expression of regret and respect than was called forth by the utter simplicity of the ceremony.
“And Who Is He?”
And who is he if not an image in the hall
Alone with nothing but the furniture—
A stick or two—perhaps a glass of pure
Remorse for what’s past, and then the call
To what may just begin to reappear,
A possibility for some few hours in the sun?
The measure of a man is not his run
Of fortune nor a portion of a clear
And fruitful day among the multitudes,
But what he must achieve when face to face
With his own image and position placed
Before the judge of judges in the crude
Efficiency of gazing in the mirror all alone:
A man in crowds is not the man he is at home.
Posted in Anagnorisis, Anguish of the night, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Projection, Samsara, Self realisation, Sonnet
Tagged Certitude, Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Self realisation, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw