Category Archives: Poetry

“My, My, So Come Now!”

masques

“My, My, So Come Now!”

My, my, so come now! We’re a busy man today.
Strange to see when, only yesterday I heard you say
You’d turned a leaf or two, induced a change
So greatly you could taste it

You’d packed her bags, and said you’d waste it,
Took a train (perhaps a plane), or took the cure
In no more likely place than tree rings, age,
Withal, sublime, and now the buffet’s on.

. . .You called my name?
You knew your time had come for sure.
You wanted me to take for granted all
Your best intentions, and forestall
. . .some rupture in the waterbed.

Was it something someone said, or were you that disturbed
With smirking, smugness, the perturbed. . . .

(They’d never think of this before
To beat you to the punch to make the score
Themselves before the world, and all that’s holy);

So you were first to burn, the burn so solely
For the good it’d bring in time for auld lang syne,
And all that’s wholly pure and good tonight.

You know, when after all is said and done,

And certain things which must be spun
Restrain the world, there’s yet time to spin
The thing, and youth’s enough to win,
(You must have sown a few yourself and let the rest be damned.)

You do know why you pressed this thing tonight,
This thing you do when fires are boiling light,
. . . come on, you fool!…
Oh come all that’s faithful in the light tonight.

You know you’re on, so leave the wrath
As exposed as stumps and what’s still in the tub, a bath
Or better in the shower. Got a better plan?
Hey mahatma; got a better thing to do than leave?

You really want to lead, and bless the soils with seed.
In an evening not unlike this night there’s yeast this affair.
You want the world to see your hair
And how you move it all and how you salt the soil,

How you shake doxologies, burn incense and holy oils
Replicating earthly cannon till the cows go home,
And once again, of course you’re all alone. . .
. . .did I say that?
. . .did you say that?  Did I say that?

“He Sits Another Monday”

a thought

“He Sits Another Monday”

He sits  another Monday…only smiles tonight. His words are glass,
Illumined, yes,…but no light strikes him and he can no longer see the page.
His hours leased over years yield nothing in eternity but sardonic age,
Invisible, a painted thought distracted by what’s been asked
Of him, years of cold neglect, and all those miles.
Still it’s not enough. If not tonight, then, when?
No doubt in time, but wait! the breezes grow to winds again,
And, where there are currents, other images, other trials.
…the summer’s wounds have found their mark…
Is this the time for words? a second poem? a signatory fire
Lit to get it said, perhaps to induce a faint desire,
Another phrase–there are so many–another cigarette’s arc, a spark
So much to feel, so much to taste when once the sap begins to seep?
Nature’s not so conjured, the outcome’s sealed and in time all thought will cease.

“Let Me Take Those Packages”

“Let Me Take Those Packages”


Let me take those packages for you; better yet,
Let’s open them together for the pleasure
Of the moment in the momentary leisure
Of the spirit of the day. A lapis lazuli. A set
Of microscopic diamonds and a matching pair
Of pearls, perhaps. Or yet again, what flower
Speaks your mind, what rites, what planet’s power’s
Fragrance says it all? What prism’s light binds a lightning strike; what flares,
What jaded talismans; what recommends the treasures that you’ve sought?
You know, we’ll never spend it through the flight, and as the greatest diva said
One January night*, “You may have dresses in the closet, baby, but they’s lead
Will line your coffin and you can’t only wear but one!” You’re caught
Between eleisons, then, and in this world’s final fading hour,
We’ll see what we can see tonight before the wine goes sour.

*Mahalia Jackson [1911-1972] born 26 October 1911, passed away on 27 January 1972 in Chicago, Illinois but it was not until 31 January that I learned of her passing and even then by accident when someone so very casually mentioned it in a moment while I was washing dishes….having no idea just what this Voice meant to me. Some of the greatest pains I ever felt in this world were somehow made bearable at the sound of that single voice, so many hours into the the night, listening to what was for me pure joy, and always, always hope…;it was a benign idolatry that always brought peace and tolerance to whatever the darker, earlier years of my life; massive funerals were held in Chicago and New Orleans, and one Nebraska boy cried that night and said, “Thank you! God bless you for all you gave me all these years!” Until this very day, almost every day, I have made her voice a part of my day…

If you can stand it and have patience with the the exceedingly poor recording, this is Mahalia as I always knew her…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdbQm8YCybU&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-O5hz5KnSdc

“If Wroth Breathing”

Expression_Of_Anger_by_MyBurningEyes

“If Wroth Breathing”

If wroth breathing, there is a need;
If need, then comes the question never spoke
By either brother, a primal continental rift that broke,
A rupture when in that moment, Adam’s seed
Made more than one, difference cedes
A natural shift from peace to war; the smoke
Alone had been enough, but weighted, a stroke.
And from the rapture’s might no longer leads
The sign of truth. “Ask what may be done,” is Abel’s
Cry; “What may not be undone nor forever won,” from God’s domain
Replies, and neither will survive that summer’s day
Within the Garden where truth no longer reigns and envy blocks the rays
Of sun and moon and stars where once their steeds were stabled—
And what may not be undone in angers deep within the heart of Cain?

“Sans Setting of the Sum”

“Sans Settling of the Sum”


Sans settling of the sum, no silent night;

The cold and darkest midnight, no brightest sun
Regained upon the freshness of a morning run
From first awakenings to the duties of the light.
Sans route and paths to shorelines, fishermen
Cast no net nor fruit upon the table there
Beneath the candle and the moonbeam; no joyful stares
Of wide-eyed eager mouths to take the bread, no beds
For doting families there to cradle and caress the children;
No willing intimacy in loving parents, no hopeful news.
And yet, of course, comes danger from the sea,
The stormy petrol cries in certain seasons that must be
Harbingers of hurricane and trial, what we choose
To call the birth pains in a loving mother: nature in herself brings waste.
Her ends must come before beginnings, her gifts but ballast tossed in haste.

Bahá’ís throughout the world commemorate the Birth of The Báb Who was born before dawn on 19 October 1819.

IMG_8973

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

I am

“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”

IMG_6942

“I Knew”

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”

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“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”

sliver moon

“So Simple”

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?