Monthly Archives: September 2013

“Forks in Friday’s Froward Firth”

traffic

“Forks in Friday’s Froward Firth”

Forks in Friday’s froward firth
On eight-lane super highways to hell and back, in both directions;
Safety cones strewn about the yellow brick road; indiscretions;
No raucous radical, no geometric formulæ, no mystic mirth
From de facto maps of undistributed middle turns in the present tense:
It’s Friday afternoon, and no stacked chairs
to reckon the week’s rally’s  slugs and snails.
How, sir, from where I was did I get here? Sure, boss! “Meet ya there,”
And anywhere’s better than being hedged in by headlamps ‘cross the middle rails,
Hip hop braying radios, dragons’ tails red and amber, weekly visitors in dusts
And exhausts, but I am not deceived: the idylls’ horns are two in number,
Left confirms the wildebeests in search of Friday’s former wonder;
Right leads to peace and comforts in so little news, no wanderlust,
“Do not pass Go!”, no quick collection fixed in prepaid credit lines, cash
Flows and yellow ribbons strewn about the highway on a another Friday’s crash.

traffic1

“Thursday Nights”

Stressed Over Money

“Thursday Nights”

Thursday nights we cull the whole damn lot or leave ’em be;
What remains of this week’s haul exhausts itself. At least
It tends to hit the sack a little early and as for me, it’s just past
Ten o’clock, when all that is is but doesn’t matter anymore. We’ll see
Some snags and hooks in all these hours till the magic hour tomorrow afternoon,
When what-the-hell is sent to hell, returned to sender as the cheque comes in.
For all that, sin and scales will tip so slightly, gratefully toward the weekend.
Thursday’s ripe for paying bills and calls for loose ends that soon
Stretch too far into the deficit of the night for comfort or written off without
A breath however token, howsoever small, a just little social elbow grease
To ease the list of “Things to Do” that clear, released,
A hill of sums to creditors and friends who bid to pout
Because they swear you haven’t been the same of late and called;
This Thursday’s what it is to reconnoitre weekly chits so easily dissolved.

“Wednesday’s Right”

a.baa-Art-with-boulders

“Wednesday’s”

Wednesday’s right on time; momentum tends toward cheers
In arteries and fuel for the soul. Experience; I embrace the fray
And thank God That Wednesday’s just another day
That somehow, back in the saddle, here am I. Nothing’s left to fear.
Perhaps it’s always in me or could it be that what comes round at last
Has been the simple sound of minds surrounding me. It’s true,
Of course, the buck stops here and only here, and with so much to do
And weekly meters running, little’s left of fevers from the past.
There are choices. Three hundred and sixty-six degrees against prevailing winds,
Some three hundred and sixty-five and one more to soar
To where it was that I began while I lack nothing, need no more
Than minimal light to navigate the same old rocks, the odds and ends
That move somehow or have they always moved before?
…pebbles née boulders roll from a Tuesday’s gloom
But not to worry; clues attend patiently for Wednesday’s mighty noon.

Pebbles

“Tuesday’s Down”

pinocchio

“Tuesday’s Down”

Tuesday’s down; minutes squandered squat like folding chairs
Against the wall; so many fresh wounds to lick
From what didn’t happen yesterday; what, the salient prick?
To set it squarely upright, what’s to know’s to know it’s theirs,
Not yours. Upright, and walk on through the mess, address
The flaws in the design, redress glitches in the former ego’s nest
Catalogued and properly fed, a paragon of the robust, the test
When all the dross accumulates as sediments in the head and chest.
“Just this once,” they say. They lie, of course; nothing’s fair.
Don’t stand and stare; pack it in tonight. Wednesday’s always there
And what’s a Wednesday for? Tuesday’s goal’s were neither here nor there,
So get it together in the next round; forget the lift, and use the stairs;
It’s time for afternoon delights, an early dinner? Yes, perhaps, a sweet
Drop kick on all options; chuck it all: read it all and reap.

“Monday’s Up”

My beautiful picture

“Monday’s Up”

Monday’s up, the milk train’s crawling
through early morning hours that tend to wander,
Neither first nor last, plundering passengers and cargo—
blocks of time—with just another
Week to rack ’em up. The weekly slow train weathers
all aboard toward the blunder
Or the prize with not so much as gender on the platform to squander,
whither’s nothing left to wonder:
So, what now? From what direction comes an early sunrise? Survive
The dawn and make the pledge, “I will return to where I slept last night.”
No doubt in this at least for now, and in the slack of planning and life
Between the closet and the door, “Am I forgetting something?” To arrive
He must begin and so he settles his affairs, forgets his fears
And glances at this morning’s star–Jupiter still rises in the south. Countdown;
Routines set–“I forgot my coffee!”–all toll booths and bridges bleed, his run
No further goal than this. Little thought to prayer just now, the roads are clear
And no one scores but early birds on such an average Moon Day’s morning as this.
Up and out! Swallow complaint, grab the keys and blow the past a kiss.

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

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather together this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset to commemorate
the First Day of the Month of ‘Izzat…

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


Judge well, my friend, adduce astutely;
perceive the might of any man,
By salutation there above it all, crowned,
a tarnished name become a lyric,
A word in apposition to the current legend; manipulated Pyrrhic
Hero whose deceiving ears–offending, apprehending what demands
Command the poll and elevate a fleeting circumstance and fame;
Even the rose is granted for the sake of a specific hour, a simple song
Fossilised before the melody has ceased when so easily as on
A clouded noxious day, all verbs clot and pronouns reign
In arrogance as thoughts turn to vapours and yesterday’s gilding
Rise and fall. With nothing distilled from achievement
For want of aging, accidents deemed bold distraction
spend themselves in vain
In youth while untried strength
sustains the untended pun
Of forgery and fortune. But see this blossom
in the deepest well
And dying sees his heaven
while he knows he lives in hell.

–Once

…from: A Raison in the Sun, Act III by Loraine Hansberry

…BENETHA
Love him?
There’s nothing left to love.

MAMA
There’s always something left to love.

Have you cried for that boy today? Not for yourself and the family because we lost the money. I mean for him. And what he’s gone through. And God help him. God help him, what it’s done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When he’s done good and made things easy for everybody? That ain’t the time at all. It’s when he’s at his lowest and he can’t believe in himself because the world’s whipped him so! When you starts measuring somebody measure him right, child. Measure him right. You make sure that you done taken into account the hills and the valleys he’s come through to get to wherever he is….

“Too Few”

This isn't me II

“Too Few”

Too few willing hands extended
From the right to left from what aesthetics
Pose as grave necessities: youth seems void of ethics
In the run from pillar to posts upended,
Weaving final straws, in reality
Yet the amputée’s words for bigotry and oppression.
His hands are mortified, suppression
Of familiar gestures favour finality
In the next young man―his father’s futures in arrears.
Phantoms of his mother’s milk are fears
Of yesterdays and something they forgot to mention―tears,
Sir, f course. There would be tears, there are always tears
And now in nightly memories I see it was their sacred task
While they were here to be the answer to all it was I asked.

“Sooner No Souls”

Talisman_de_Charlemagne_Tau

“Sooner No Souls”

Sooner no souls may be found
Who run a single path, a single route
Toward the simple present, blossoms of a single fruit.
Who comes more than once; who goes down and in what round;
What bell spells victory, what the breath of death itself? First
And last are silent, syllables that form the final word.
Joy at birth, solace in passing, yes! There is hope and this is heard
As urgency, longing, and common thirst,
As great for one as the other, the haunting melodies
Of crowns and pariahs, exit signs—shadows,
Merely—resilient along the Salsabil among the hallowed
And tried, maladies of the novice that elude security.
This talisman is nothing more than what we cannot not see:
The certainty that what is now does not deserve eternity.

“That I Saw This Latter Night”

nilhilism1

“That I Saw This Latter Night”

That I saw this latter night
Blanketed in queues and styles when I was young; I thought
I’d die—nor wise nor foolish, wished I could—but I was caught
In swollen updrafts, yesterdays where nettled, wind-torn birds took flight.
Surprised, emerging sunlit days led me to believe I’d be
Raised above the clouds to see the many haloed patterns in yellowed suns,
Bluest moons, lightning sapphired mists in cumuli, the staggered sums
Of every dust-born shooting star that ever paused to think on me.
In prolixity, beginnings, upraised, I bore the finite misappointed days,
Integers of nights, withstood the stench of dawns and dusks, and more rains
Than I could reckon, read, or hear in all that thunder. I drained
my open wounds, applied the ointment to ease the growing pains
Those many mighty nights enclosed, dreaming of more than I could pay
For, blessings both from suns and moons—the very breath I drew—to cast
The bones of furtive futures through to ever-present pasts.

nihilism

“She Asked Me How I Knew” ,,,

…back again by popular demand…

“She Asked Me How I Knew”

She asked me how I knew, and all I knew,
And all of this in less than what it took
To give a sign, and say, “What floor?” It shook
Me up a bit, to tell the truth, but then I view
These close encounters in the light of years
These days, and find that nothing sways me so far off the path
That I’ve lost sight of who I am, and how to laugh.
And so I answered her, I did that thing. And then the tears.
The double-arched eyebrows, the look of terror in her eyes when I
Suggested that between our floors the elevator flies
Too quickly for a studied answer, but not to worry, I’d
Be willing, yes, perhaps, someday on some long train to try. .. .
She took a rain check, though, and said she had to go;
And, when she asked my name, I knew she really didn’t want to know.