“She Knows What I’ve Been Thinking”
She knows what I’ve been thinking, Joe.
She thought I’d be straight shot through
You know, and what’s more, she knew–
They always do–that in the end she’d show
Me what she thought her best side was and let it go
At that. It might just be she’s a little tight, but if
She takes a second look around, she’ll skip
The show, forget the curtain calls, and roll
The footage from the credits to just about
The point she crossed the line and blew
It all by being what she dreamed she knew
Was me but turned out to be just a light excursion, a heavy bout
Of thinking, a frame without a painting, a horse or two without a cart
Which in the end was neither positive nor very smart.
“Yes, of Course”
Yes, of course, it’s in the silences, the gaps; what isn’t there,
A kind of saving grace. Yes, it’s in the wrist and more, a second
Maiden voyage. The news announces daily the Titanic’s jocund
Journey redux, greater for revision less the ware
And less absorbing in the loss of souls from rarer thinner air
Brought faithfully to task but mind you nonetheless a reckoning
Within a construct; no! an edifice of remembrances within the seconding
Of resolutions that determines Elliot’s wave within the self-defining stare
Of relative modernity; but one tsunami in eternity amid the voids of space.
The promise of redemption’s found in balances of degrees
In praise of beauty in the sun spots’ mighty aura, the aurora in the fray
Of loose inebriating Northern Lights–try distraction while you pray–
Try the Northwest Passage in the making high above the Arctic’s former grace
Notes, rhythms in the writ, a metaphor in G, perhaps, but played in C.
“There was peace and the world had an even tenor to it’s way. Nothing was revealed in the morning, the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event, that not only made the world rub its eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since, with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15, 1912. – Jack Thayer, Titanic Survivor
Posted in Affirmation, Ôm, Balance, Certitude, Chaos, Civilisation, Cycles, End Times, Eternity, Poetry, Samsara, Ships, Zeitgeist
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Northern Lights, Sonnets, Sun spots, Titanic
“Where there is an audience…”
Where there is an audience, the verses do not fail;
Where there is goodwill, each least syllable ascends
The heavens to return a wondrous tale…
And so the cycles of the writers’ pens are worlds that never end.
“They Have No Shame”
They have no shame, no tracks are hidden
The reds, the blues, the right and left;
The balances of power, laws bereft
Of common sense are disobeyed
before they’re written.
It is as if the litany of litanies of the whole
Demands intimidation of the sum,
not so much in matter–
Brains and beard, heel on up the ladder
Through the aurora to the poles, glacial melting for show
And tell; plumbing in seas with no drain, drilling stalled
But not for long– equities defined as winners in the chat box, scattered,
Anointed virtues virtual with no defense as charity declines
and as our beloved Scrooge resigns,
His slogans braying: “Are there no border guards, is there no bottom line;
In the event of volcanic ash and oil spills, the market’s doomed to fall?”
Ignorance is bliss as blogs and blarney multiply;
the tallies shake and confidence is shattered.
“We are encouraged to spend money we don’t have, on things we don’t need, to create impressions that don’t last, on people we don’t care about.”
Professor Jackson, a member of the Sustainable Development Commission of the United Kingdom, made his comments at a panel discussion held this week in conjunction with the current session of the UN Commission on Sustainable Development.
The Baha’i International Community cosponsored the discussion, titled “Rethinking Prosperity: Forging Alternatives to a Culture of Consumerism.”
Countries are being driven further into debt–not to mention potential environmental catastrophe–by levels of consumerism that do not contribute to sustainability, Professor Jackson said.
Posted in Bahá’í, Bahá’í Faith, Civilisation, Denial, Duplicity, Ecology, Economics, Energy, Hubris, Materialism, Poetry, Politics, Survival
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Scrooge, Sonnets
Gaea’s stations to the stars address her griefs, elations,
Prayers and growth, itself, her moment. She cannot rest;
Veins are clogged, marriage to a host of willing guest’s
Become the crucible to her common sense and revelations
Give her angst amid the luxury of her snows. She must think
But cannot; moves, but pursuit of progeny defies death,
Itself. In time, of course, she’ll find her goals in retrospect
Through cycles, time and space and she’ll drink
Deep the healing waters of reunion with her own, her proper self
Wherever ever lies–with minions, elves,
So many rites and spirals crude and rude, perhaps,
but ever pointing to the skies;
She weeps and rivers flow: the moon, his mystery, his mistress;
the stars, her loyal spies.
Mars ever declares himself the victor, always;
True only to what he is and what he feels
and common sense; zeal
Is passion unabated in the haze; the phrase
Is justice set above all love or hate
That cannot truly satisfy. The abyss, my friend; he stands and stares.
Who sees the ends before beginnings will not pay the fare
And will not hear the pebble drop. Too late,
It seems, he draws the line with single eyes
Or hairs removed and split from heedless heads.
He wills and the wine is crimson, so it’s said;
He loves himself and all who love him; he flies
From those for whom he’s longed and denies he’s ever erred.
Impertinence, sweat upon his brow; bile, his denial that he’s ever cared.
“He Ponders Little”
He ponders little because he sees no sequel;
Within a yawn, and from his belly births
Unnumbered, cataclysmic spirits
collapse within his girth;
And he is cognizant of others, sees no equal.
Sheer enormity and magnitude anoint him;
–”if he but blanch” we know our course–
And he is known by none of us and cannot force
As others who would be known; his limbs
Themselves a universe, his crimson boil a storm
Of such proportions as house nests
Of would-be planets, the paradigm lest
Any seek to be seated at his table. Paragon of space and form
Made captive by His Light: it is the Sun that gives him grace;
A measure, a single orbit, a weight within itself that is this place.
Blighted cabinet of offspring: the misbegotten seated in the loge
And they’ll none of it; she bids them seize the handle, hold their sign
And they respond with such dreadful imposition as to realign
The concourse until he cannot reach them. They suppose
What they cannot fathom; they’ve loosed the measure
Of their steps as if Arachne were their goddess locked within a wager;
Their tapestries will anger no one; no epic chorus lingers,
in space no longer dangers.
He’ll have the penultimate word; she, the first and last–a treasure
Hidden in enigma–and while she plots and dreams,
They wander far beyond the Tree than ever they before:
There are no impediments, no warnings at the door.
“They are loosed again!” he cries, and this is what she means
To see. But, what the gain
when cosmic waves decayed are rotten;
All this in intervention, laurels in revenge:
she, forgotten; –they that are his children, time begotten.
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Bahá [Splendour], the beginning of the first month of the Bahá’í Year, the arrival of Naw-Rúz, the Bahá’í New Year, the Spring Equinox, the first day of Spring “Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Bahá or ‘Splendour’”
What greater splendour can there be in all creation
Than that the spectre of creation, the lightning’s grace,
A recognition of the Face
Of He Who in the blessed moment of elation
Brings forth form and substance to recreate the stations
Of the greatest and the least, the favoured
And the favouring within a regenerative sphere? Savoured,
Refined, bestowing rank and attributes to nations
And a crown to every whole who owns both fate and destiny:
Light born spirits hear the cry
Throughout the world that yet another step is signed
And welcomed by the denizens of heaven within the nest of He
Who made it all, Who knew from time and dispensations immemorial,
In the ancient eternity of His Essence, His deathless spring, His Gift primordial.
Atoms breathing throughout the sky; these winds, my spies.
I am the Azure One turned ruinous green from patrimony’s rust,
The curse of progeny and betrayal of a trust
In endless repetition written in the crystal inks of compromise
And back again to mark the Zugzwang of my prescience
Everywhere condemned to see what is not there.
My blindness, an abyss, the scent of mists
In Chaos, the script of the Sybil as she shakes her fists
And in her ranting shrieks that there
Among countless in children I will find
Impertinence and turbulence, and arrogance as the cradles rise.
I took no heed at first but as not every planet evades my stare,
I may not always strike; I alone am thunder. Comic weights dividing,
Tragedy’s tears will people space while mine are turned to lightning.