Monthly Archives: December 2013

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sharaf or `Honour'”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Sharaf [Honour]


“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sharaf or `Honour'”

Not that what is in my soul is pure, nor are my eyes
In proper shielded, buttressed against what should not be seen;
No, would it were not so, my thoughts are not so secluded from my dreams;
These, the ears, are not immune from babblings
of my brothers’ bathos on the sly.
My hands at times are placed not so firmly where they should not be
Nor to my taste the glories of my food. All
That modesty and honour require are no more than the call
Of truth intones without duplicity and from the centre of my heart’s alacrity.
These infectious imperfections gain election every day before my face
As in each hour may balance, in all, yet another blasphemy
salutes this world with uniformed joy in grayest
Glory, a plethora of pleasantries and follies strewn
through remaining weighty hours’ providential tally of rainy days.
I am never far from falling short of my own metaphors—similitudes and grace
Mirror whom I am in perfect cynosures,  refractions of the stolen lights
of all whom I am not—yet as I continue on
With what remains a Melody, a Meadow of Virtues not yet fully explored
is ever open to my gaze and ever honoured, never fully abdicated;
somehow in the end of days and with my latest last breath,
I am become the lyric of its eternal song.

“So…I Think I’ll Stir Fry Tonight”


“So…I Think I’ll Stir Fry Tonight”

So…I think I’ll stir fry what I do tonight.
I want so much, and nothing in itself
Will do, but some specific combination felt
Somewhere back in 3/4 time, perhaps. A noxious numbing notion fights
For my attentions and I feel quite close to ripe for what may fall
A little off the screen and to the right, but not so far gone
That some sweet portion of the song
No longer speaks to me—a surprise, perhaps—if only I could find the ball
I lost―whatever that might be―and walk
Straight on without a thought to just how much
I could retain if I could reach some vagrant soul to touch
The thing, inhale the fragrance, strip the gears to all my faults
While I am oh-so-slow just now and running low on fumes.
But I’ve so few seeds left tonight to dwell on faulty memories and ordinary clues.

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Maya Kokocinski Molero (5)

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Don’t get me wrong, nothin’ personal in this:
I turned to you; you said you had to think.
No resistance here, take your time, and while I sink
Into your memory, I’ll just mosey on, and kiss
The future for the two of us and by the time you land
In glory you can tell me how you missed me
And all we’ve seen together. Yes, of course, “We’ll wait, we’ll see!”
You won’t remember how we both have outlived our fans,
And verily vowed we’d meet again to celebrate
A victory together. Ah! But we both know where
Where this is leading, and perhaps, just possibly we’ve fared
Too well on separate roads to make it so. What we calibrate
Today cannot survive another round. No feeble memory outlasts
Efforts growing thin; we must simply believe it now, and let it pass.

…painting by Maya Kokocinski Molero…

“I’m Told”

After The Rain

“I’m Told”

I’m told that wells within some few
Of us contain the purest beverage, powers,
Potent afterthoughts of light in consequential showers;
Spirit butterflies, random valleys’ blessings’ dews.
There’s no subtlety in this, but some
Confusion insofar as water has no colour,
No perfume but the inverse of its catalyst, the sure
And lasting remedy that comes
To all who ask, and cannot be ignored.
And when the letters of the common drink
Address the eyes, the spelling links
The abstract ciphers to the concrete word for evermore:
I speak of shame and effects that stem from reason;
Not all possess this gift, but save for the sun
there are no changing seasons.

“These, My Words”


“These, My Words”

These, my words, will not endure; they dwell
Within a canvas stretched taut by hand, writ with blood
That has no patience in its present station. The cud
Is there, perhaps, and what is felt
May be forgiven its fibres.  Thatched roofs and hives
Yield similitudes and some passion, a slight nod,
Perhaps at best, a stay of execution but sans lightning rod,
A tool, a catalyst with which its throne and queen survives
The movement of a story ere the day they find themselves alone.
Something ever lacking in the honey. Light needs reveal their secrets
In the rough draft as natural tides recede in time in egress
From the scene; but what? What remains in the station of a drone?
No progress is forthcoming in the champions of an age
Where the presence of the tides means a mere turning of the page.

…painting by Zao Wou-ki…

“I Was In Search”


“I Was In Search”

I was in search of some imperfect blossom to spend—
Conspicuous consumption, yes! I know—when of a sudden came
A single bloom meant for you but sent to me, and in that same
Bloom were riots. No soft word, no single sheaf of grass that blends
With other garden desperations, no zephyr’s nightmare from your heart
To mine and parts beyond, but in my mind, a perfect syllogism,
A blind inducement? No, but nothing less than prism’s light imprisoned,
Bound and binding, sleek and swift, a deadly dart
That deftly wounds but does not kill. I would die for this
Were I you, but in the pedestrian tyranny of birth, certainty, a blessing
That no shaft of steel knit of finest prose nor poetry, no guessing
At the mark and meaning, no juxtaposition; no hope, no risk
To overcome so short a space and time as this,
Another dispensation in the folds of all that’s lost in all that is.

“As Stations Mingle”


“As Stations Mingle”

As stations mingle, friction’s knife
Hotwires new doxologies, raw mean scores
Of tomorrow’s fossils in the race to conquer even more,
To insinuate, to probe further into space and time with strife
The irritant in collusion with raw invention; but not to worry.
Though scars and bruises in the centrifuge cannot be
Denied, there is a price, a cost, a casualty of penalties
That plays this hand. Pulchritude and its natural fury
Produce progress in the blessèd and propinquity in the course of rhyme.
Prognosis, here, is no rocket science, but seekers redefine
The times and logic, the fresher prepositions of the condign
Evolution of those who strive within a conscious interaction, sublime
To him who is content with what it is he is and what he does
As both destiny and fate confirm what he will be and what he was.

“Well Naturally”

“Well Naturally”

Well naturally, it’s on the house!
As you attend to things
And I the mice and the menagerie,
Some someone lesser waters weeds
And feeds the cat while you’re away.
It’s got to be this way, so soon, so little left to say.
Nothing’s well that ends well here. When you return,
In measured measures, tell’em all to hang, let’em burn
What’s left to rearrange exactly what it is you like: those weasels, toads,
And folios and some strained poesy for perpetuity, and as it were
Some few dear items stored until the day you tire of tinsel,  earaches,
And all that breaking wind to trump the tempests–
You will, you know you will, and then what?
Where’s the bottom, where the arbour hole,

…and who needs all those nuts?

“You Tell Me, Then”


“You Tell Me, Then”

You tell me, then, what’s so important here,
Your yesterday, your sweet mañana, what?
Your last romance, your latest hit, the spat
You had last night while bringing up the rear?
And when the flags are down, the spit’s been turned, what dreams
Have so much weight that while you burn you’d love to chat?
But you’ve got more fat to chew and so we’ll hit on that
When you get back? Perhaps next week? You’ve reams
To read, and by the time you’ve circled twice a globe again
You’ll have another stack to seed your wanderlust and goals
To recreate themselves from quires of penny stocks to solid bars of gold,
And you’ll be asking me to hold that conversation in the pouring rain
As if it were our first. But that’s the point, my dear, the die is cast,
That first egregious rush of joy turns out to be your last.

“Faith Is Free”


“Faith Is Free”

Faith is free, of course, a property of all alike, the bailiwick
Of the interrogative with as many illusions guaranteed
As can be found in Stations of the Cross, the clock, or compass in degrees.
Memories are given domicile in a wilderness of thought transfixed
And sanctuary in subtlety and commonality. This much
Is certain. What we expect to endure is exploited, full blown
Through reticence acquiring rule in habits as home-grown
As planters’ warts, or crabgrass, mental errors in such
Enigmatic rude profusion that in time, although forewarned,
That fearsome self-inflicted rage from which only fools recover
Or escape–and even so as if by accident–cannot discover
The disease in time to flee where the Philistine attacks in swarms.
Questions, then, provide the yeast of faith and yet another queue for treason;
Answers, delusions, if caught in time; but certitude, eternal cure in any season.