Tag Archives: Sonnet

“Disconnect the Vowels”


“Disconnect the Vowels”

Disconnect the vowels, then.  Glory in what’s left.
Within a simple strophe leave
Judgment by the door. Wear no sleeve
No packaged thing to sign a sentiment or star the shibboleth bereft
Of common sense, urgent cause
For precious ointments long ago
Nonplussed and unfit for use. Justly, as it should, in isolated slow
Progress through generations, the hoary stories’ pause
As literary cusps on scrolls between cycles’ broader strokes
To stoke what it is we think we know, or what all know as lies.
The verdicts will, of course, disguise themselves as scripture in the eyes.
And do you think so handsome gilded spokes
Of wheels as cycles’ pillars, circumferences to cover centuries of tears
So fragile that words ascribed to Lear can touch the hearts and quell all fears?

“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.

“Make No Mistake”


“Make No Mistake”

Make no mistake, choices present
Themselves in simple lives’ pursuit of complex
Revelations to ignite a present circumstance; one reflects
On powers of the tongue, the joys of pleasant
Intercourse and periodic forays into conflict,
And again, the peace of simply being here or better, no more
Here than there and having no idea what for.
Knowing begs remission to be a common asterisk
On someone else’s ledger, or possibly a footnote
To the reason why it all came out this way.
But one decides not so very much on what
Must come to be as whether to acknowledge or withhold the vote
On what in fact is and settle on what of course exacts
A fee but is at best an accidental abstract or but a figment of a fact.


Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi


Weep for they whose righteousness consists of lawlessness and celluloid.
A sardonic moon signs mayhem and havoc to the eyes
At rising, a potent rift between what is and what only seems
To be and we its tools allow for fancy as it deems
Fit to be within a mystical early pattern of the evening skies.
How meet and seemly must it be for the dedicated blind
To allow such flights of visual savagery to arrest
All logic, moving as it does to attest
What truly isn’t there at all. How like denial, refined
Anticipation in the night of our modernity
To grant such majesty, so great an urgency
As a behemoth moon as raw imagination cedes
Nothing to the truth but flaunts its strange lucidity
In increments that must eventually crown itself the liar.
Fully risen, there it is: what’s begun must in turn expire
shedding neither light nor fire.

Remembrances of that morning in 2001…”My Eyes Looked Up”

Remembrances of that morning in 2001…

“My Eyes Looked Up”

My eyes looked up and what I saw was more
Than they could bear; a rushing through the halls
With the roar of sorrow in the ears; I heard the call,
A warning, a deafening “Danger! Be reminded here before
The fact that what’s been said will never
Be unuttered; fractures in the zeitgeist, ciphers of a shrine
To endless days of contemplation, meditation in the marrow, brine
And bitter herbs will be the fare from this day until the day of rest; if ever
Was a day of mourning this one is!” Students
In the classroom all abuzz and even verging on a levity
–They had so little to employ their hours–proclivity
To expect experience on a screen or in the rubrics
Of the media, always in the past and never present in the sixes and the sevens.
Another trumpet, another decade, and another word for it: ubiquitous now as “9/11″!

“Occam’s Rasor”


“Occam’s Rasor”

Occam’s rasor, yes, perhaps, but what else is there
Between stepping-stones, zeniths, the nadirs,
Putting aside in-betweens, shafts of spears—
Another road less taken and that one trampled—toxic airs,
Steps that lead in either direction, fares
Compared to desiccation, dreams that disappear.
Sooner than later as choice replaces truth, fears
When hybris meets hamartia? Where tares
And thistles abound, rents, ashes, the cardinal numbers
Spread themselves among the ordinals and seem to sin no more.
Even so? What of these, the inevitables, these inescapable nemeses?
Step forward, then. Discover the reason for the second step; where emphasis is on the first. The second? A third? Awake, the final unction’s found in slumber; Asleep, the hours promise the penultimate hour, remembrances of the final door.

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather tonight and tomorrow within the First Day of the Month of `Izzat [Might]


“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Izzat’ or ‘Might'”

Judge well, judge fairly, judge the might of any man
In salutations there above it all, crowned, a name become a lyric,
A word in apposition to its legend; manipulated Pyrrhic
Hero, all ears offending, bending ciphers in the sand,
Commanding others in a fleeting circumstance with undisputed fame,
Raw powers granted for the sake of another hour, perhaps a day, gone,
Fossilised before the melody’s reached the page when so easily as on
A clouded noxious day, his specious honours clot, his reign
But vapours. What remains of yesterday’s effaced from buildings,
as from his body, plaudits once ubiquitous, become but shadows of the sun,
A nothingness distilled from arbitrary fruits of moot achievement
here and there among the shades. No lasting shame nor is there blame,
Nor action, bold distraction, no final satisfaction spent upon itself in vain
Parsed  from first to last so long as youth and strength sustain the every run
Through forgeries and fortunes. Judge this man when he is in the deepest well,
And buried sees his heaven while he knows he lives in hell.

“Seek the Lighter Hue”


“Seek the Lighter Hue”

Seek the lighter hue in pastel conversation,
Hoards of daily mass conversion
Of the every act to some point in time—a little light diversion;
A mirage, an art for just a little while. For the mind a choice illusion,
An arbitrary sunset clause for replenishing, a flag unfurled
In the early hours of mint and red carnations in the dawn’s early munch
To satisfy a need to fill a shallow hour’s shadow before we lunch.
She knows she needs but say the word
—I’m gone—with no one near enough to hear her scream.
As in the downshift, here fickle seasons deem
It time to shrink all auspicious moments to a tight knot. If the Gorgon stays
She’ll have her way with nothing left to say.
Did she really think it wise to mitigate the circumstance of every rule
With aphorism stitched on store-bought linens primed for workmanship on
Cloth, the only real estate, the final use for all those golden spools?

“What Cannot Cool”


“What Cannot Cool”

What cannot cool and wills it so is justice.
Love notwithstanding—volition’s stains
Whether long nor short are perennial, the certain gain
And loss, effusion and delusion of yet another solstice;
A cosmic second and another generation lost amid an armistice
Between the running ulcers of epochs that in the very quick of veins
Within the seas and continents bind mortal immortalities reducing rains
To harbingers of cancers from the rivers to the ocean floor: avarice
In nature is moot. So much rests on that noble brow,
The cut of cheek to chin and back again, upward the temple
Blessed with grace and manifest declension of the rib
And thigh of Adam, though the eyes of life within the crib
Were opened before he rose, resigned to visions of the sacred cow
That cannot justify a mother’s milk: behold the man and tremble.

“These Sonnets”


“These Sonnets”

These sonnets do seem at times
Something like aspirins or vitamin C;
You know the old stock remedy
From doctors that used to say,
“Take two of these tonight
And call me in the morning.”
For me, at least, the effects of writing
And even reading some of them
Are much more potent than their actual content
Since life, itself seems to demand from me
In the ordre of any given day
Oof effects than the actual content of any twenty-four hour period.
It’s not so much what I did today, but rather that I was alive to do it.