“My Presence Ominous”
My presence ominous is the Ôm in me and not the audience to what I am;
Not I, but all mankind stakes this same claim. Prophets have declared the same
When once the cup of endless Holy Names is drained
Because He loves what He has made and writes it freely in the sand.
That I am not what I seem proves meaningless within the vain
And easy afterthought that vanity within is altered in the end
By every creature known to me. I am blown by every wind
And feel the breath of everyone I’ve known. I mirror that without that aims,
That feels, that sees, that barely hears the cacophony withal.
Syllables of thought from random scenes and primitive perceptions
Bond evenly in every waking dream, and sleeping memory. Keen receptions
Held together by the same cement are cosmic answers to all such calls.
From without. And I am here with you though fractured present all the same,
If faithfully you know who He is and always was and ever will be,
at once you do and will know who I am and that with you I’ll remain.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Certitude, Death, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Relationships, Wisdom
Bahá’í’s throughout the world gather today to commemorate the First Day of the Month of Masá’il [Questions]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá’il or `Questions’”
Of sons, divinity required sacrifice;
Both obliged presented gifts, yet one
Found pleasure in the Judgment, son
And God were pleased; but, that the sacred rite
Eluded what was offered by the second
Brought an anger and a fire in Cain,
The fruit of envy, rancour, and desultory disdain
To both the elder brother and the God-reckoned
Greater of the two. Asked the Light,
“What hath made thee wroth?” silence was the answer.
The question posed, there rose no reply but cancer
Deep within the marrow of he who in his flight
Deduced the primal human action of the will:
Unbridled passion and the naked urge to kill.
Posted in "Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá'il or `Questions'", Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged "Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá'il or `Questions'", Certitude, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
“The Weathered Branch”
The weathered branch in winter’s weariness
Knows whereof it yearns, and just so its certitude and hope;
The blossom finds no time to contemplate, its cope
And mitre, all its careless beauty reigns in azure consciousness
That time and the occasion are not long
Its beginning nor end. All its cries are ice
And burdens in the grip of midnight’s once and only vice
And heard no more. What requiem in its song
While strength in twigs and heavy motherlode
Abides in faith despite its wretched state,
A one in many who live when storms abate
Producing yet a greater majesty despite the deadly cold.
Which melody is heard, outrageous anthem moot
Within hours or living centuries made manifest in the root?
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Wisdom
Yes! And, whether in the present or in latter worlds
Hereafter, we’ll own nothing of what it is we think we’ve missed nor seek
A separate peace, nor cause at all to stand and stare in disbelief:
I simply always am and ever be while all else is cold calamity. The turn
Of seasons, monoliths of months in stacks, my Book of Hours glows
Though presence at the banquet here is moot. The call
Toward the Centre as with all most sacred rites makes little sense at all.
Delight me, then, in invitations only. Journeys through all rôles
from perfection to perfection puts all yesterdays as tomorrow’s dread—
The subjugation of the will to its appointment. Still, what is read
In casual events will quicken life with blessings for the living dead
And raise both death and dying to a point of pure liquidity. We are led;
We do not lead. Wait, my friend, we do inform ourselves, the eye
And heart assume new forms and places that no soul may easily deny.
Who here rises, the dead, and who here descends save the living? I ask
And whole generations flee from me. Beauty drains beneath the sun; my walls,
My will cannot contain quantities of qualities; my heart cannot recall
So much: a single letter; a word; a sentence incomplete; the task
Transcends the discipline of syntax. Yes. I dwell on mountain peaks
This side of fascination—in and of myself a centre—a light so blinding
That senses—gifts within me—must capitulate in time, the blinding
Never seen by others and not at all so broad, Enough! Containers leach,
Constructions of the minute hand do not survive through time’s evation,
Tears and laughter wanting waste the night. My flight’s elation,
The length and breadth of all I see, and nothing in me speaks
To this. I leave it where I first beheld it, glory
So intense that who it is and who saw it first no longer read the story.
…painting by Mario Gruber…
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Double Sonnet, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
“You’ll Find King Herod’s Tomb”
You’ll find King Herod’s tomb beneath it all, and Cæsar’s not far
Behind buried in debris not hitherto imagined nor have the Magi ever seen
As much though restless centuries’ search, redux reckoned countable as has been
Adjusted by the market honed of hubris born of Ptolemy’s predilections, dwarfed
And all but swallowed in the squalid synecdoches of all economies; schemes
Asserting prescient views in years despite their slumbers
Solvent in the past and future well beyond prognosis and the numbers
Used to fund their offices and humour all humanity. Their smiles seem
To reach for meaning in the fireplace, they sift the ashes of the kiln
And pyre and dote on what they think they’ve found as if confirmed
Not least by carbon’s ancient age and not at all by what is earned.
Admire the Chinese while they rise, ballast for the Pantheon of what fits the bill
And never mind the unseen sacrifice and all that slavery, monuments to reigns
As numberless in catalogues as blood stains
in a Holy Land of boiling clouds and endless pain.
Posted in Caesar, Herod, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Caesar, Herod the Great, Hubris, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Market, Mortality, Pantheon, Ptolemy, Sonnet, Strife, Synecdoche
These ends, pedestrian beginnings clearly seen from bloated pasts and miles
Expressed in days as chapters’ peopled souls I never meant to meet
And whom I surely will forget. These months must end as presently they greet
Me as this last one has as even now their coming cousins swell in all my trials
And comforts in these last days of the year. Destinies in time are worn. Surely,
Material brick and straw of yet another era’s eulogy, some stillborn edifice
To be erected howsoever in the coming hours’ awakened, duly braced
To house the maidenhead of still greater powers and accolades. So purely
These and those before provide a common pageant as prologue
To my latter verses, carefully revised, well advised, and those
That in the worlds to come will never end nor nor close.
I engage them all with me today, their homeliness and fragrances, simple songs
Hemmed in soft refrains. Their flavours form the coronets of current themes,
Embroidered borders of what it is I seem to be and what cannot be seen.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Separation, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
Vapid movements, the moth descends and finds his pain will cease
But only as he ascends with no complaint as food of spiders, seed of birds.
The journey’s appointed end comes with no sound heard.
Scarlet warnings of darker wisdoms breed
A pilgrim brought to naught when only light attracts
This mindless wandering epitome of ease,
A drawing to what he cannot use and which he cannot even please.
The question’s not been asked, it seems, the simple act,
The noble task, the trek from nothing to the summit’s
Glory proves the goalie’s goal―to annoint an apex as in an art.
The point of vanishing desire’s the only worthy arc
And comfort in this world; its prisms’ glow, the slow attrition in the wick
Embracing richest flow in moments here sans thought to hesitate;
Forever’s soon enough, the pas seul reveals itself but far too late.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Death, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Vapid, Vapid movements
“Held in Audience”
And from the micro to the macro, we come to points of rising suns
That bring catharsis to the eyes, buds burning of pure numinosum
Held in audience, thrall from so much beauty to be gleaned,
Heard among the many who have come
To see the dance, the movement, all that is a simple evensong.
Well, who can hesitate with so little time to breathe? After all,
They are so clandestine and yet so publicly installed
As when in the course of minutes, experience—no mere trophy of the wronged—
Grants extreme unction to what they want because, recalled
To life en masse, their tastes and knowledge equal—the one,
the other—here at once; the celestial rotogravure
Ensures that no soul remains aloof from beauty’s torments’ burned
Doubtless in doubt but that one has the wherewithal to withdraw
From propriety in favour of purpose in such polite society. Yes, well ,
do you really think the Buddha took the night off
From time to time to shake down bread while His saints soared aloft?
Posted in Buddha, Lyric Poetry, Macro, Micro, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Buddha, Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, poetry, Relationships, Rotogravure, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw, Universes
“And Who Is He?”
And who is he if not an image in the hall
Alone with nothing but the furniture—
A stick or two—perhaps a glass of pure
Remorse for what’s past, and then the call
To what may just begin to reappear,
A possibility for some few hours in the sun?
The measure of a man is not his run
Of fortune nor a portion of a clear
And fruitful day among the multitudes,
But what he must achieve when face to face
With his own image and position placed
Before the judge of judges in the crude
Efficiency of gazing in the mirror all alone:
A man in crowds is not the man he is at home.
Posted in Anagnorisis, Anguish of the night, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Projection, Samsara, Self realisation, Sonnet
Tagged Certitude, Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Self realisation, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
Bahá’ís throughout the world celebrate this day [beginning at sunset] as the Day of the Covenant, the Celebration of the Eternal Covenant between God and Mankind through His Manifestations and Prophets, eternal in the past, eternal in the present, eternal in the future:
“His Holiness Abraham, on Him be peace, made a covenant concerning His Holiness Moses and gave the glad-tidings of His coming. His Holiness Moses made a covenant concerning the Promised One, i.e. His Holiness Christ, and announced the good news of His Manifestation to the world. His Holiness Christ made a covenant concerning the Paraclete and gave the tidings of His coming. His Holiness the Prophet Muhammad made a covenant concerning His Holiness the Báb and the Báb was the One promised by Muhammad, for Muhammad gave the tidings of His coming. The Báb made a Covenant concerning the Blessed Beauty of Bahá’u'lláh and gave the glad-tidings of His coming for the Blessed Beauty was the One promised by His Holiness the Báb. Bahá’u'lláh made a covenant concerning a promised One who will become manifest after one thousand or thousands of years. –`Abdu’l-Bahá, Bahá’í World Faith
“As the Sea”
As the sea swells, so the Covenant remains, promises fulfilled.
Through Abraham the Friend of God, and Moses, Giver
Of The Law; fruited and confirmed in Jesus Son of Mary given
In His Person more–the Love of God–and through His Will,
Submission under God in Hijáz through Muhammad, Seal of Prophets;
From the East, Lord Krishna of The Three, The holiness of Buddha in Purity;
The Fires of Zoroaster from the mountain; security from casuistry
Within the Witness of The Báb, and Justice in Bahá’u'lláh
`gainst the nursery rhymes of sophists
And the worship of Creation over He who did create
The whole with but a single Word, “Be!” Hosts exclaim and expiate
Their cavils at the Word through numbers, and the terror of the tribes.
Their synergies against the tide of history, bow the knee to what they rape,
And call it truth. By God! The earth is weary of their weight.
The Word alone remains; the Covenant alone withstands this dreary freight.
Posted in Bahá’í, Covenant, End Times, Hope, Lyric Poetry, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Bahá’í, Covenant, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Infinity, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet