The Báb [1819-1850], Prophet-Founder of the Babí Faith was the Prophet-Herald of the Bah á’í Faith. The expressed mission of The Báb was to proclaim the imminent arrival of “Him Whom God shall make manifest,” namely Bahá’u’lláh (1817-1892), the Founder of the Bahá’í Faith. [The title "Báb" means "the Gate" in Arabic.] This mission was somewhat similar to the mission of John the Baptist in appearing just prior to the Advent of The Christ. All Revealed Religions have had Precursors like John the Baptist before The Christ or Salmán just before the Advent of Muhammad, Whose duty it was to prepare the people for the imminent arrival of the Prophet-Founders of Their respective Faiths. The Báb, however, was in Himself a Major Manifestation of God and therefore His Revealed Religion an Independent Religion and not a sect, and while His Ministry lasted but nineteen short years, its impact will be felt throughout the world for at least a thousand, if not thousands of years in the future development of an ever-evolving mankind. It is a Bahá’í Teaching just as it is in previous Revealed Religions that as mankind evolves and in capable of receiving greater instruction and guidance Manifestations of God are sent to provide that instruction and guidance as the Mouthpiece of God in Their respective historical periods.
On October 19 [after sunset when the Bahá'í day begins] or October 20 [before sunset when the Bahá'í day ends], Bahá’ís observe this Holy Day by abstaining from work. There are no prescribed ceremonies, but gatherings usually involve prayers, devotional readings, music and fellowship.
On May 23, 1844, in Shiráz, Persia, The Báb announced the impending appearance of the Messenger of God awaited by all the peoples of the world. Following this announcement, The Báb was persecuted by members of the dominant Muslim clergy in what is now Iran. The Báb was arrested, beaten and imprisoned, and, on July 9, 1850, was executed in the public square of the city of Tabríz. Some 20,000 of His followers perished in a series of massacres throughout Persia.
“Because I Am”
Because I am I do not doubt;
I’ve asked the Muses too much,
I find questions only come when answers touch
The one who’s truly asked, a sudden thrall, another bout
Of wonderful from inside out,
More than likely from a shirt I’ve borrowed, shoes and such
Accoutrements as please my ëgo’s crutch,
Evasion and a sense of power dark and sinister with clout
Enough to raise the latter summer’s gnats as armies in profusion
Reigning at meadow’s edge no longer than lightning lasts but flashes.
Yes, I always ran but found my way back home again for more.
In time, of course I’ve found no one knocking at my door or keeping score.
Within such knots I’ve found the food of courage, yes; fusion
When it came left nothing but the need for rain to cool the coals and ashes.
I knew you would not be there;
For you there was no ocean side,
No Qibla further than a certain sweet pride in overdrive
where love subsides and tides
Abate. Never had you inhaled the sweetness of judicial margin, exquisite error
In support of some solitaire, the natural aroma of one last evening.
You never rose with me through the blush of blessings, supine against the skies—
If remission comes it comes too late—you ever cared to look beyond my eyes.
You never saw in me the configuration of your leaving
Nor anticipation, no lighter scent of all that pain you left behind.
Had I been honest, I must admit I always knew it would be so. While
Reticent and cautious, you smiled
On all that came to both of us in all we thought we’d find.
I had the feeling that you’d only blocked a single scene,
Some routine rehearsal while I stood reverent in the splay,
transfixed by what I’d dreamed.
“Messages of Reticence”
Messages of reticence arrive in pedestrian flocks
With evidence of gridlock in the lives
Of more than just the few on line. Knives
And cutlery reign in token motherboards locked
Away with spoons and forks within the ease of metaphor;
They declare that all that can be done is done, the instruments are clean–
Spots, deposits, postings long removed, and still the cleaver gleams.
Iconic algorithms, “Who and what are we?”
Aid raining progenies, the soothing axioms, “But for; what for?”
Provide the loaves that all feed ferial days
of domestic castration timed at regular intervals at the buffet
When terror in the news does not suffice and consequences soar
To targets in some brief auspicious moment but stand ignored,
Pre-empted, no doubt, in favour of a soccer match
or just another day, or worse, a yesterday
Become a siren’s voice of vague regret and ostentatious sorrow
In the wake of an endless rendering moot the cauldrons of the morrow.
The moment’s gladiators honour heinous horrors in the hour;
Lamentations for the righteous who themselves are lost and having lost,
Remove themselves from grief, their leaflets tossed
About the fields in quires; unmitigated pathos, melons soured
Where victory’s sod is red and barren, gardens harbouring shoots
Or several stems grafted as one of station without deciding
What the sunlight, what the shade. Profits riding
High or low-mown in the fields must in the end take root
Beneath the gathering gaze made jaundiced, jaded, blinded
By constant grazing with no regard for moderation, the ears grown dull
With relentless noise that drowns both rhetoric and prayer. In the lull
Between the courses at Thanksgiving, the phatic lists leave no print
and tongues grow mute with issues undecided:
Action and the signs of truth are nothing
in the Coliseum’s oval offices;
Thumbs up or down, it matters little
for wizened mentors or callow novices.
So simple seen at dawn so long delayed, but a sliver of a moon! Brighter
Than I’ve ever seen it, veiled perhaps to purpose
through the willful blindness of my years,
What was it that I remembered to forget? Either eye—when both were clear
And unobstructed—saw visions in the nightly flight to lighter
Skies, at sunset drawn the more to intimate sensations in the rites or
Worshiping the more immediate, stated immaculately, requiring little fear,
An unobstructed view of objects seen as “closer than they appear
Within the mirror?”…or were they ever there at all? I know no delight now nor
Fascination in the company of others of the present stage―
The Illuminati of so many conversations in the next booth just the other day―
before the show and afterward, hushed and heavy harsh realities
Of lamps without their shades, a universal fade to cold formalities
Of “I don’t know, though!” or “Whatever…” from the blossoms’ buds whose age
belies so much gravitas and care.
And whose will does not beget transaction before they’re paid
and praised. Then again, does this ancient luminary care
so long as they’ve been there?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
Abiding cycles, overriding climes in rhymes of violence and certain gain
With equal expectation of loss the dross of equal certainty in successive reigns
Of terror in the skies just beyond the puny girth of earth’s thin atmosphere;
How much it was the same when Cæsar’s designated revisions of the year
Bore both his names and title in the gilded monthly lists in vain
Presumption that the sun, itself, might be detained or entertained
When will and means conspire to light a fire in cold banality.
Idols worshipped through applause and semi-automatic Coliseum cheers;
Cause wolves to salivate in time. Reflect on just how long these weary fears
Have been the seat and capitol of colossal vain imaginings, the necromancy
Of the rich and bloated tales, tools of millennia of astrologies in the armoury.
How often have bucolic Virgils and Octavians stumbled onto history’s
Urban stage, the first to taste the fruits of history’s tired storylines, effacing
Iconoclasts by default and gluttony of hubris at last embraced
as fresh portfolios forged from fatigue and blatant moral bankruptcy?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Octavian, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Virgil
“The Greatest Sanctuary”
The greatest sanctuary saves, preserves, and seals
The last and latest treasure; final fears are entertained
And in the end repeat themselves penultimate in any age
That’s spent with nothing left to say. The morass of months reveal
Themselves as names, the briefer moments cast in isinglass,
And hung above the door as witness to emotions borrowed to defend
The journey of both giver and what it is that’s given–split ends
That pass at times for purity of desire. Consternation, then, at last
Effaced, those few peas remaining within the pod will spend
Themselves while outward bound to what is after all a dream
Or merely someone’s lunch. They groom together–the sheen
Is frayed–delay is shame when every effort to confirm or to renew offends.
Reconnoitred, what were formerly evergreens
disclose themselves as deciduous devotions
That decry their former riverbeds as puddles, watersheds of desiccated oceans
And long dead seas. .
Posted in Age, Aging, Death, Denial, Desire, Double Sonnet, Dreams, Ends, Estrangement, Illusion, Imagery, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Marriage and Divorce, Negation, Ocean, Pain, Passion, Poetry, Samsara, Silk, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Gyres in the waters; determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets
Along the instrument mould the
shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.
Posted in Conception, Cusp, Defects, Destination, Destruction, Determination, Fatigue, Fingers, Fire, Fist, Frets, Hammers, Hands, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Inner space, Inner time, Inspiration, Lyric Poetry, Medallion, Mental registration, Mind, Pectorals, Poetry, Ring, Sign, Silversmiths, Sonnet, Space, Sweat, Synthesis, Time, Waters
Tagged Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Writing poetry
Bahá’ís throughout the world gathered yesterday evening after sunset or today before sunset to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Mashíyyat [Will]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashíyyat” or “Will”
We bear witness to it in the station of a still
And changeless vision, cosine as it is to truth.
Volition reigns with all, and rules
To govern its existence will
Continue till the thing no longer bears its seal,
Its sign, its talisman nor sacred stamp
Of manifest yet hidden Lamps
By Whose Light truth’s revealed or is repealed.
There is no greater will than this. We are
Witnesses, the signatories of deeds
Of lingering motives, contracts, seeds
Of instituted factors in the sole
And universal changeless Will and Goal
Whose pages neither bend nor fold.
Posted in Age, Aging, Bahá'í Feasts, Bahá'ís, Changeless vision, Contracts, Cosine, Deeds, Factors, Goal, Imagery, Lamps, Light, Lyric Poetry, Mashíyyat, Motives, Pages, Poetry, Rules, Sacred stamp, Seal, Seeds, Sign, Signatories, Sonnet, Station, Talisman, Volition, Will, Witnesses
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
There are no lasting accolades for what occurs
Before discovery, precedents to concepts, antecedents to the rank of names.
Armies of delusions gather at dusk or dawn—semi-colons it seems—but the aim
Of all is change and nothing seems more real nor more absurd
Than that the sun simply is and continues to be. Perceptions, artefacts,
A vast compendia of condescending clues confound perfections
housed in all the usual places.
Conceptions rear palatial visions, rise and all but disappear where fear displaces
Inner sight and gainsays personal sovereignty. Look again and act
Upon a limpid canvas, more, a pristine marble so easily cut and again defaced
By innuendo or what pacifies the common view
of every art and all science in the debris of afterglow; if judged immortal,
What, then, of the beauty of a single rose reborn through centuries, millennia, yet reduced, detritus as investment in a single angry fist? The bridge and portal
Through which both eyes view and progress signs can never be erased.
Creation’s grace is testimony to the morning of eternity; oneness firmly grasped
Ensures velocity, immunity, and detachment from all that’s passed.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Change, Delusion, Emotion, End Times, Evolution, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Tragic Flaw