“A Splice”

A splice–a thinnest notion
Separates the light from fire, determination from desire
Without from something swimming deep within.  Awesome times admire
Uncertainties of dangers in the undertow, the swelling of the ocean
As it seeks the moon–no hope of union
There, above,of course–a subtle breath of mitigation by disaster, mists
And darkest moulds in what the night sky insists
Is yesterday’s irrelevance, contaminating illusion
Of the present smiling on the past: we must move forward.
Notwithstanding, neither more nor less, in spite
Of evidence to the contrary and well beside the point. Insight
Dictates needs that lean towards or leave behind rewards
Of unknown futures veiled, obscured, preferred at last
Above the sanctions of the status quo and the energies of the mass.

…thanking everyone in advance for sympathies, best wishes and prayers before the storm…

–New York City

“Nakedness”

Nakedness marks itself in age; comments are ends
Infirm; naïveté estranged is all but gone;
Brightnesses on brilliant surfaces blurr along
The way .Volition evaporates. Where means were, now are friends
Addressed as anticipations vanish while the veils are rent..
Wonders laced with repetitious evensong
Silence memories in chorus. Host to throngs
If not multitudes to deal with what is spent
No longer expected, witnessed only if in another lifetime.
There is no sure repose within a posse in martialled sally
Down the foot-sculpted steps that undermine the slopes of Holy Mountains
Chosen not by ambition in men nor piety in pilgrims but endless fountains’
Futile babbling from the masses, swamps and natural brine,
Subtleties of light upon lights on summits knowing nothing of valleys.

“The Cello Hours”

The cello hours born in satisfaction’s flowering
Struggle for the taste of sunlight ambered
Quotidian pause between the yellowed evening hours in the embers
Of any passion’s flames, a body’s needs, so immediate, so towering
In the vertical for lack of space to run;
Steeper slopes too raked, some desperation’s blotting out
What memory’s suns’ refuse to yield–the stout
Resolve, the countenance of all volition’s fruits undone
By now and all but totally forgotten in the dying folds of coals.
We rush from one safe haven to another.
Absurd, but on this earth tectonic shifts that smother
Linger in the soul and while all the world’s aglow, the body sees but single goals
In search of yearning for the satisfied in every earthbound swarm:
“Touched or touching, now I tell you friend, I must be warm!”

“You Say You Want to Make a Little Something”

You say you want to make a little something on the tide,
Secure some Appalachian dinghy on the sly
For days when you and she or he or they are all so tired
Of cut-and-run through the mire and desire

For all you say you don’t believe in.
The moon’ll dim, the stars’ll manifest their spell
While Johnny learns to read and write
For number one or possibly or
a nice crisp “two”;

A grocery list, a delivery note that says:
“Tonight you’re mine; back in five
To take it all,. . . .or whatever you’re delivering…”
While yet another apple falls on Humpty Dumpty
or slips on down the drain,

But nothing puts you back again,
And by the time Ol’ Humpty figures out the route,
It’s time to lick the thumb and turn the page and scout
The TV Guide for better pastures, “fresher deals”
They say; we’ll steel what’s left of your last breath. You’ll see; you’ll feel
Nothing on this prescription, no regrets and if the casual fool inquires,
or cares to ask the price, you tell’em, “first one’s free but not the last!“

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening and tomorrow within the First Day of the Month of `Asmá [Names]

“Double Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of ‘Asmá [Names]“

Greatness, the gulf of differences between
Recipients of names and the manifestation of the same
In full blown vain imagining; objective oversight’s the flame,
At least the spark any given second. A constant stream,
The crown of transformation comes in time to weave
A gravity within the press of what is never really seen.
Within a name resides a hidden thread that only seems
The confirmation both of life and being—in bas relief
Or so The Buddha warned—that holds a lethal trust. Between the name
And its receipt abide the seeds of pernicious doubt and protestation,
Manifest but without form, no timely attestation,
More an emanation than anything in revelation. In every atom reigns
The distance and sweet velocities of change. The many tools
Of blind belief in Adam’s gift seek rest somewhere within reach of fools
Embracing blasphemy in luminous dichotomies, dilemma’s
Punctuation marks’ delusions born of natural sedition. Litanies–
The beads of faith and understanding–are crystals of epiphany
Drawn from rich deposits deep within the endgames of enigma
And paradox serving providence and the farce of perpetual plebiscites;
Their greatest honour, servitude in service
To unnatural homeostasis between justice and integrity, yearning
And the One for Whom all yearning stems to transcendental heights
Born in mortal time of He from Whom all virtues flow.
And when denial and prayer are in arrears,
When needs and resignation outweigh a sum of means;
Words gone bankrupt erupt and deeds are stripped of fat and lean,
As hopelessness finds redemption in an average skein of years,
With all that overwhelms the truth at sunrise
In redemption in the simple phrase, “I’m still alive!”

“Twice Two”

Twice two or three more icons at the table: twelve,
Yes, of course, the guests; the audience, unprepared, is screened
Some few short lines before the festivities begin but barely seen,
In all that wine; some one of them has gone and leaves no trail to dwell
On lethal details; who keeps score? Yes, of course, the blessing,
Words but softly spoken yet incredibly relevant, and who is more
Who bears the weight of adoration–Whose welcome’s scorned–
And none of them the wiser in the stay of execution; who’s guessing
Who’ll be next, and who will never make it to the door.
Come Sunday morning and the consolation prize will out.
The forthright, forced frenetic paces run riot through the dining room. Shouts,
Hosannas for the One Whom he denies so erstwhile vague before the war.
How sweet the hour and guests, how drawn the face of him whose plate
Is empty; as we meet tonight within the Cave, God help him who hesitates.

“Bitterness”

Bitterness serves the servile senses; malevolence the brine
Payed out to loams in newly flooded fertile delta soils.
Where there are no antidotes, no alternatives, no holy oils
Can soften evidence. When the flesh is spent the rind,
Manure to tried and tired conscience dried, provides desire enough to find
The seed gone stray, some few limbs, fibres of miracles for future coils
Of awe and circumstance. Pick up the rake, then, the hoe; gather roots to boil
And treasure newly welcome honest broth, the meagre rendered never-mind.
The taste is saline, yes? So much for what we cannot say before the hour turns
Sour, the afterthought enshrined within the hourglass that soon enough restores
Its natural balance in the night. A hint of moisture overrides the will at dawn,
Some confidence to see what’s left exceeds what’s been withdrawn.
Odds are that even in the ashes of denial nothing’s left to burn;
Where there is no decision, interest is the fruit that’s rotted to the core.

…in interaction and appreciation of the poetic words of Alexander M. Zoltai…

“All is
Lost but the
Chance to
Lose it
All.

…in interaction and appreciation of the poetic
words above of

Alexander M. Zoltai…
nfaa.wordpress.com [wordpress.com]

Aptly expressed; a delicious thought, actually.
There is unequalled truth to this, the bailiwick
of those who know no doubt that blessings and curses
of this life are in fact inexhaustible, inextinguishable.

What is left then, but Creation, itself? What courage
does it take to approach all aspiration and consummation
in the ashes? Every planet’s doom is reunion with its star;
every star, its own appointment with the beginning

and the end of all that matters and energy’s just what’s left over.
And perhaps this is, after all, the raison d’être
for the inexhaustible,
the indivisible, inextinguishable

pain or sorrow, joy or bliss
within the mansions of this world.
If it is of God, it will last beyond leaving,
and as the longed for inauguration into the Next.

Be it the either which, expressed quite simply,
the Heavens and Earth may cease to exist–
in fact must in the end expire–but His Word
will never pass away, and neither the one

privy to Its existence;
and like all that is, we are in the end,
indivisible, inextinguishable.
Whilst we breathe, so, too, breeds our sacred company,

so, too, our own clear magnification in direct proportion
to recognition of one another and in the reality
of His oneness, our own dear being,
indivisible, inextinguishable.

“No Longer Middle Ground”

No longer middle ground since we crossed the Rubicon to Oz;
Middling, yes, but Ozymandias has not been seen since 1818
Save for one split second threading hairs through the seams
Of two or more zeitgeists along a grey-walled trench, a cause
Of parallel joy for some few hours of silence when a clause
Or two was formed within a certain fecund corporal’s dreams
Of death, transfiguration and some place in line that seemed
To say that true results are neither here nor there; the law’s
Delay will save the day and if we’ve been fêted in a fetid trench
For now, we’ll soon be surfeiting beyond the need of bread and butter,
And on to caviar and champagne. Let it rain today; suffice
To say whatever comes to mind will serve a dying virtue or a certain vice
With no one left to gainsay what despite the stench
Is after all to victors, spoils, to prey what words are left to mutter.
What must be must come with no one left to guarantee—
Entitlements be damned—if better souls are weakened, powerless-
Ness succumbs before the righteous face of bribery and cannot guess
Who’s come to dinner than what’s behind the silver screen
Sufficient for all that’s supposed. In the end, we’ll euthanise the trees’
Supplies, the reams of notes and asterisks to history in digests
Bound in leather, all that might have served to lay to rest
The licentiousness of blame, contrition in arrears for what we leave
To broad imagination. History takes effect in tomes of admonition
With healthy tongue in cheek; the hornet’s sting can be fatal,
True, but then there’ll always be survivors and who’s got time
To reckon loss when carillon bells take their sign
From foggy memory and devastation indicative of wholesale attrition:
Who’s left to pay the bill; who discerns from death the blessings of the cradle?

……A deed without a name….

…in recognition of the dark events that presently becloud the entire spectrum of world events….

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me….
…Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I’ll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that distill’d by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion:
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
He hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy….
… Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble…… By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes…
… How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!
What is’t you do?…
.…..A deed without a name….

…by William Shakespeare [1564-1616]……
… A writer without a name….

….or at least, he let us think his name was thus and so and that he lived in Stratford once upon a time….