Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Kamál [Perfection] to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Kamál.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Kamál or “Perfection”
Perfections and brief mortality lag for moments in a guarantee
Beyond the waiting grave; even in the womb, fluctuations
At the departure gate defy instinct and extinction in comic reproduction
Of the maelstrom. Carnivores in chaos renew the glaring tragedies
Of immortality as does sleep, a nightly purgative to all dreams.
Propinquity reviewed in bold idyllic matter turns matter to energies
In physical perception, penned at the pleasure of humanity–
The beverage curious and exotic–the poets’ ink ensuring every species’
Flourishing beyond the naked flesh of bodies in the simple rite of birth.
Apoapsis and the periapsis of the peoples’ need from the outer steppes
Of gravity and evolution to the thing desired,
re-created, wild and sculpted blossoms
Of the promise of ends in all beginnings,
millennia, themselves but steps
beyond the fallible suspicion of man or book,
the good shaman’s vain and futile search.
Yet even here, the contemplation
of a bowl of hemlock, perhaps to think:
If I fast forever, so will I dream as long;
and if I thirst forever,
Then, as surely I will someday drink.
Posted in Beverage, Birth, Blossoms, Carnivores, Chaos, Dreams, Evolution, Extinction, Fast, Grave, Gravity, Hemlock, Idyllic matter, Immortality, Ink, Instinct, Maelstrom, Millennia, Mortality, Naked flesh, Perfection, Poet's ink, Poetry, Propinquity, Purgative, Shaman, Thirst, Tragedy, Womb
She’d doubted little but that she’d seen
The years erode her apathy; her reticence,
The lofty presage of an onslaught of age and common sense.
Few could guess, of course. They’d cauterized intentions
and but for the rising of the occasional dream
In time might well have known her fear but then she’d met herself
And found the chance encounter oddly pleasant.
He’s elevated loneliness–a badge of honour in youth–an essence
Among the many rites to be stacked neatly on the shelf,
And in time finds no lasting nights, no respites sealed; revealed prayer’s the thing
Retained between the shadows, stale, perhaps, at times like flowers
Pressed between a journal’s soulless leaves, natural powers
Collapsed within a hidden room where only sunbeams and dustbunnies sing
Anywhere but in the rain.
Banalities whispered endlessly, axioms, hesitation,
Then, between the beads, metered patience dwells to the side of resignation.
Patterns, tedious to the casual connoisseur of callow circuses,
Whose aunts and uncles–convalescent cynosures–apply the appliqué
That bests all daily bread but adds nothing to the liquor save signatures
That serve as ligatures and borders between circumstance
And disingenuous serendipity, floral blooms of in between,
And on the other side of propinquity and wider welding weeds
And creeping things visible for moments past the age of puberty. Seeds
Of adolescence are careless where they land, despondent with obscene
Displays of natural righteous rage at opportunities of eternity and propagation.
It is just so with common inmates as well those in military congregation:
Universal laws claim exclusive rights to the infinitive in subjugation
To principles set down by God-knows-what the conjugation.
We witness, then, in every accident a circumlocution of the spheres
What flowers, tadpoles, insects, and the whole of mankind fears.
“Who Denies the Virtue?”
Who denies the virtue of a single act
Of charity and thoughtfulness, or instinct
crowned by mindless bigotry at the going rate?
Is there some subtlety, some sardonic smile,
some eleventh hour of business while late
And grainy nights come out to play that shares aplomb
while force-fed deadlines prove lethal to the facts?
Witnesses rush to queue the feeding gate;
The talk is endless, stale and flat, debased debates
That lap up honesty and truth as hostages to obfuscate
Collusion in the elect? “One moment, please!” contumely before one’s fate
Is ever known. Comes a jaundiced breeze that begs the gangrenous thought:
“Shall I do myself the honours, or shall I wait?”
Fools enough will bid for time designed to waste
The troubled waters in the rush to publish what’s been bought
And what’s been stolen. “But, there’s the rub, the standard, is it not?”
A man will broadcast expectation in a polished mirror of himself and rot.
“So damn the polls,” say sentinels on molehills; as nightly scenes
Of raucous petrels in profusion draw the strangest notions.
Propinquity in multiples of flawed emotions
Nominate the place, and no one weeps
For them because they are too small
To ponder. Inflection will pursue
A difference here and no one wonders notwithstanding revenue
Against expenditures what weighty enterprise. They’re all
About their their fathers’ business whether in stampede
Or at a crawl or motionless in the hall. They will what they will do
To some determined end that in the esoteric eye
Of the beholder need not make a lot of sense.
“Are we not but squirrels?” they query on the defense
Keeping watch for enemies with eyes that never leave the skies.
“And we are here as on a darkling plane,” recites the leader
While the troops remain at full alert and no one reads the metre.
Posted in Act of charity, Aplomb, Aura, Bigotry, Contumely, Deadlines, Defects, Eleventh hour, emotions, Enterprise, Expenditures, Eye of the beholder, Facts, Fate, Feeding gate, Fools, Gangrenous, Hate, Honesty, Inflection, Instinct, Late nights, Mirrors, molehills, Notions, Petrels, Polls, Propinquity, Revenue, Sardonic smile, Sentinels, Squirrels, Stampede, Subtlety, Talk, Test, Thoughtfulness, Truth, Virtue