Monthly Archives: May 2013




Precedence in expression comes as an attack,
Frontal to anyone whose inner eyes are closed or dim;
Signs of deep betrayal camouflaged in subtle gestures, slim
Effort to disguise emotion in its many bodies will not back
An image or conclusion reaching out from the abstract of the soul.
As in the end, beginnings broadly drawn and crudely etched
Within the memory yield stem cells for vanity and little but stretched
Canvases-in-waiting for raw imagination. The lotus cannot unfold.
Rarely mentioned are the consequences in the general rounds;
The finite mind will dictate penalties and fees. Internal purities
Direct themselves from what is sensed in cropped mantras as securities
In souls who support but single syllables uttered as their universal sounds.
So, what’s the currency? By definition, art, and all recorded moments despise
Realities beyond the theatre of the mind,
and in the end, expose themselves as lies.

Phillip Harris

…painting by Philip Harris…

“A Sonnet for the Azurose”


“A Sonnet for the Azurose”

Their powers gained, they linger, lighter, bend
Their glories casting shadows where they’ve leapt,
The riotous, the upward, carving downward energies that’ve slept;
Egregious splendors piercing what in orisons were there; they send
This soft geometry. These whispering slights delight
In passage, corners, shapes and purposes, and now
Forgotten swollen floods with dappled, light-sourced nuances allowed,
Foment joy in shivering through hearts whose habits put to flight
Such forms that in their slightest change inform
Joy, those states as take their time in being what they are―
Side effects and icebound accidents, and diamonds traced in fire―
Wondrous gifts to bluest eyes who share their beauty; alarm
To those who bind to closets what jealously they find:
Respect what Azurose bestows; receive such ecstasies in kind.

The very best to Bahá’ís throughout the world as you commemorate the Ascension of Bahá’u’lláh…

The very best to Bahá’ís throughout the world as you commemorate the Ascension of Bahá’u’lláh…

Bahá’ís gather throughout the world have gathered at 3:00 a.m. to commemorate the Ascension of Bahá’u’lláh at that hour on 29 May 1892.

Six days before [Bahá’u’lláh] passed away He summoned to His presence, as He lay in bed leaning against one of His sons, the entire company of believers, including several pilgrims, who had assembled in the Mansion, for what proved to be their last audience with Him. “I am well pleased with you all,” He gently and affectionately addressed the weeping crowd that gathered about Him. “Ye have rendered many services, and been very assiduous in your labors. Ye have come here every morning and every evening. May God assist you to remain united. May He aid you to exalt the Cause of the Lord of being.” To the women, including members of His own family, gathered at His bedside, He addressed similar words of encouragement, definitely assuring them that in a document entrusted by Him to the Most Great Branch [‘Abdu’l-Bahá] He had commended them all to His care. —Shoghi Effendi,  God Passes By p.222

“Humour Me”

Humour Me“Humour Me”

Humour me, if only for a while;
You’ll see how little differences divide
Us; you’ve walked the miles, declined
The host but took the wine and you’ll laugh, and smile
At yourself somewhere in scenes you’ve  found
Within a café barely breathing while you took
A single Turkish, milked cold within a corner nook
In which you styled yourself, ignored a round
Or two of philistines, and simply read
Some little volume―veiled the lids―and fed
Allusions circling freely in your head,
And, oh! So brilliant, so vague that tome you scan as dread
Of failure keeps you busy. The coffee’s old, the creamer sours
On the table as the ashtray fills with dusty benchmarks of endless hours.

Tigran Tsitoghdzyan

…at bottom, work of Tigran Tsitoghdzyan…

“To Think On It”

…most of the following I wrote some time ago;  something about the last twelve months, however, has caused a revision…

…Faith will wither gracelessly
in the face of gentle certitude
Just as knowledge falters helplessly
in the presence of wisdom’s rectitude…


“To Think On It”

To think on it millions, treble double billion
On some crust of earth strive each day to breathe, somehow to strike a balance
Between tendered moments and cultured despair. The trip from phallus
To the womb and back again suffices sirens’ closest communion
In some myth of progress here–a world fixed among the countless there
And while we stare, we hear no greater melody than our
Own fears within an inner ear. Such songs exceed the number of the flowers.
We know we are no better than symphonies in the air;
We hold to breath, each inhalation satisfies moments left to us
In some sweet hour knowing no delay, no passing thought is lust
The less for having nothing so concrete. No lasting trust
Will occupy the heart and mind, and while the engines’ thrust
We are rent from God knows where to not that far from where we began,
Stations crystallise as gems of endlessness from crusts of  life’s élan.

“He Knows So Little”

Mike Ossur

“He Knows So Little”

He knows he knows so little, fewer see,
Or should the inverse serve the model, magnify
The sight, and keener, still, pursuit, the urge to fly
Intentions, goals, and abstracts launched in fleets.
The questions rise, but this man cannot rest;
There’s always more. Questions spawning questions will
Suffice for future’s tests and contexts for all still
Small voices just as surely as bells from Hell will drown a lion’s roaring texts.
There are, of course, no ready answers, waxed or in the natural form,
For sale in the offing here; he merely asks, his interrogatives seine
For truths amid an ocean, or more correctly, knead the strains
Of cold cognition, yeasts in turn to breads of thought more easily absorbed.
Within these shifts and ships, his visions firmly moored;
This one boards himself, and quietly absorbs.


…model by Mike Ossur…

“She Rests”


“She Rests”

She rests a little while, no need to take a number,
(No one’s in the waiting room) and there’s no line,
No reason in the recipe, no season in the rhyme.
Her spices whisper balances and spells and wonder:
her documents remain unsigned.

She’s not brought you to this moment bearing
Gifts, providing counterpoint to what is naturally defined.
No mystic declaration, no pieces placed to catalogue;
No salamander nursing smouldering fires, mystic fogs
To move the marker trifles to the left; she aligns
The edges, rescues symmetry from chaos in the thing,
Declines to offer comment while she muses on a mood ring.

…sculpting at top by Sheila Œtinger…

“To Him, Rebirth”


“To Him, Rebirth”

To him, rebirth, balance, and the beauty of the signs
Equal in their fixed or roughly chagrined interpolated worths,
The grain of this and that least overweening truth: this moon and that earth.
These gaseous rhymes are Newton-ruled through arrogance in lines
That, for the gilded moment, govern. Gather, most that were so coldly sown
And chissled in stone and flown on blackboards aptly still remain as fact:
The frills, the bold enlightenment of Eighteenth Century racks,
These, the royal bulls grace all present tables; theorems known,
Conveniences; axioms,the decoration; forms, merely shibboleths
To bide the hour until such quantum quatrains as minds today divined
To be but little more than kin and less than kind
To the going price of Uncle Tom’s Axioms and flat-out relatives to what are sets
In living energies or mass in someone else’s inbox. But, breeding need in speed
And what effects in temperature, induce the seed, belabored elements to bleed.


…at top, lyre discovered in the Royal Tombs of Ur…

“What Granite Does Not Break”


“What Granite Does Not Break”

What granite does not break with the whisper of a reasoned word;
The season’s seed, what now were germ and planted long before
This station’s great arising at its first summons, atoms adorned
With struggle? Bruisèd sure, but upward blown the rumbling’s heard,
In lightning etched on thunder fractured walls, the cavern’s core,
And from that cradle’s mooring at the second call, the earthen floor
Of all that is this quest for drops condensed from prayers unfurled,
Whose form defies all reason. Time—a span of life—is all
There is to conquer else be swallowed in such storms devised―
As phantoms’ appetites for vanity, illusion, and the self and styled
To try imagined strengths and arrogance
before the third and last, and thus, the final call;
Recalled to life, and lives eternal in the
endless treasured journey-schools,
With opened ears, triumphant flight, and all despite
the earthbound croak of self-imprisoned fools.


“Une Cause Célèbre”

Honoré Daumier

Une Cause Célèbre

Une cause célèbre is safe from harm and free
From all love’s pleasures earned, enjoined,
Apprised; he treasures peace purloined,
And surgically removed from hosts’ relief
From aristocracy’s hypocrisies through deft
And public disclosure in the motive; sophists sigh
That virgin sensibilities, blatant lies
And all that wisdom drained  (effects of theft)
No longer fools the wise, nor warns the fool:
He simply walks away, displays no sympathy;
For wounded pride, antithesis, antipathy
For suckers born each day. His embers cool
Within the semblance of truth: dismay,
Reaction realized, the catalyst will steel away.

…painting by Honoré Daumier…