“I May Fast”
I may fast from time to time but I will have my way on this and every day
Through matins in the news broadcasts and other phatic mine fields
drawn for the evenings that were formerly childhood’s greenest pastures.
Rising triumphs of élan in the latest Tahrir Square, the courtesy
of urban gangs and spores of tribal Libyan disasters,
Countless are the trenches, pits and pitfalls, splays
And watersheds, the concentrated concerts of twice-born
living peoples sharing wealth in every breath.
Billions, humanities howsoever here and there
within the outer and the inner spheres
Of feigned insurgencies of federated feudal laws―occult
to feckless millions in the West―there come such neo-modern seers,
More recent wizened feral stocks and bursaries
to serve the ends of both the many cursed and newly blessed;
Sharecroppers, landlords, purveyors of speculative imagination
festoon the gilded monarchies above the Persian Gulf. Oh, yes!
Here along these ancient oriental paths are pipes to play
And canvases on which to paint the now-naked past. Fiduciary aims may
Expose themselves within their pious domes of blue and marble blocks.
I’ll carve my own best
Misbegotten marks and credos leaving
fragments, chisels, well-worn Transylvanian stakes
For later souls to ponder while I gather what I can,
and as I am always early, posterity’s always late.
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Double Sonnet, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Persian Gulf, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw, Urktaine riots
“Imagination Styles the Face”
Imagination styles the face that solves a thousand wrongs,
While no one’s guessing what’s behind the door.
Better yet, the portal to escape closes just behind him; gore
And all that glitter exposed, moments redux of the earlier morning songs,
Playground glories among the boys and toys, seasons to declare
His eminence–petulant and sulking–ever short of rule, ever cool,
Who stalks the school yard–recess, lunch, and after school.
And preys on younger lambs who cannot see nor dare
To think beyond the present teacher and the class
To one day leaving what was never meant to be
A permanent abode but stepping stones to what only seems
To be a day’s delay to graduation fantasy, and one more hall pass.
“The blame is his,…no hers! No theirs, but never mine,
so why should I remain behind the rest?
I’m not the only one!” he says,
“But, then again, I never meant to study, people!
I never meant to pass the test!”
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“But If I Loved”
But, if I loved, there’d be no stumbling here,
No word, no moment spent in canvassing;
No south-bound sound, no! no jaundiced ring
Tone, no telephone—assuming no fear
No understatement—pressures here applied
To maudlin tracings follow no trump, no expression
No! no consummation in the passive key,
Of fact, no fire in hyperbole, nor just plain lies.
Then I’d be forced to die, or something close
To leaving if I could:
But, I’m not made to feel so good;
I only wish I were; and just suppose
Posted in Age, Aging, Detachment, Imagery, Love, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnets, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
A respite in the air today and news,
And down the chute comes something nice,
Some piece of fond assurance, the sweetness of advice
To justify past days and weeks of toil and views
Obscured by all that’s loud and cumbersome above;
Below, scenarios of arteries and paths
Through streets on seamless days. No dragons’ nostrils’ wrath
Knows no better than to lie between the wings of doves
Or gentle nestlings in the palms of all the psalms of fortune.
Today a gentle width in avenues and boulevards
And all the right-of-ways are opened wide, the gloss of plastic cards
In bank machines, the brighter melodies of shallow i-Tunes
Whistled in the mind on buses at the hour of noon.
A mystery witnessed in the heart, eternity cut short too soon.
Posted in Closure, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Moon, Poem, Poetry, Respite, Rest, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Moon, Poem, poetry, Respite, Rest
…recollection from a day of teaching some time ago….
“I Found the Little Girl Alone”
I found the little girl alone, a leaner ladybug
Forlorn and crying in the cavern of the Cafeteria quite late
One afternoon; she sat with lunchbox and an empty plate.
“What brings you here?” I said. She just shrugged,
And said she didn’t know. I asked if she shouldn’t be
In class, and would she like some help to find her way?
“Oh, no!” she said, and then a lengthy silence. “I have to stay
And hurt a while until I’m done!” To me
She looked so small so delicate, and worn, so “Why the tears?
“My best friend hates me, and I don’t know why.”
“Well, what, then,” made her think she couldn’t try
To ask her friend just what she’d done? “That,” she feared,
“Will make it worse! She told me she’s got another friend at home
And now she took back her ring, and I’m here all alone!”
…I managed to walk the little girl back to her classroom, and in she went apparently in a kind of daze. A few weeks later, I saw her in the playground laughing and seemingly happy as a lark, but from that day forward to the day she showed up in my senior English class, whenever our eyes would meet from time to time in the course of years of crossing paths and there was always a kind of sobriety in her glance that expressed thanks for having heard her and again, for having never mentioned that afternoon again.
Posted in Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Aging, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife
What? could they not wait? Justice always outs in time;
What? since Abel, not enough blood? Soils do not leave
Themselves a choice in these matters; mothers grieve
As doctors weave solutions; where once their limbs aligned,
They are no more. And, for a bowl of soup this Esau
Yields at ought his heritage? Who isn’t fooled in the dimming eyes of Isaac
In the aftermath? Reconciliation, you say? Can a Caveat
To destiny be forgiven, and where the wound is raw
Can any skin but the tougher scars be grown from what is sown?
And when the perpetrators contemplate their last actions,
The rupture of the children; the bodies, the lasting hideous imagination
Of that day along the Ides of April for which no religous idyll can atone.
O Crimea now, O Syria then, O America ever vigilant!
O streets and markets free but never far from the malignant.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged America, Crimea, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Syria, Tragic Flaw
Bahá’ís of the world commemorate this First day of the Bahá’í Month of Jalál [Glory] after sunset today or before sunset tomorrow.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Jalál [Glory]”
“The Dread of Moments”
Dread potentials, moments in the mould,
Images of nascent idols set to polish, so the keeper at his ease
Recalls; the times are shorter now; is not urgency greater than needs
Concealed within in a stamen that cannot yet unfold?
Nothing enters, nothing leaves this place, nothing’s free.
There are fears that in the groaning, smoothly flowing
Movement, here to there, the fruit and flower growing ever knowing
Unities of purpose, oblivious of confidence in returning delicacy.
Potential glory for the anther in the night,
auspicated but veiled in atavistic fate.
From here to there spells a restive, wearied state
In seconds–hours, really–and the weighty knowledge
that what augurs beauty pains in coming ever slightly too late,
“. . .And I’ll be going, now!” The pistil whispers thus: “I too am late!”
The stigma argues as the fruit becomes too ripe,
as aspirations of modernity expose their flaws
At dusk or dawn as substances within themselves
scribble all their glories in the name of natural laws.
Posted in Botany, Flowers, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Anther, Bahá'í Month of Jalál, Existence, Feast of Jalál [Glory], fruit and flower, Glory, Jalál [Glory], Natural laws, Nature, Pistil, Sonnet, Stamen, Stigma
“In the Fifties”
In the Fifties all the wonder of pastel was “in,”
The funds so well arranged in bank accounts
Left dormant through the War. Largesse, secured amounts
Were stored, but goods were spare and produce thin,
Production not yet shelved to compliment the newfound peace.
The Sixties featured families rounded off from nine to an even five;
The troops were home, chariots had fins, and promises alive
Throughout the world to put such potential in the fleece
As might be had for children in the doxology to provide
A balance, a nom de plume for a strange apology
For the deprivation of Depression and the horrors of the War Years. Anthologies
Replaced by catalogues from Sears, recruits were down but churches thrived
And so did freedom, and to the sirens of liberty went the clear-eyed youths
Who loved at will and, sur le pouce, found themselves
in the Seventies illumined in haloes of hair and something to close to truths.
Posted in Age, Decades, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Nostalgia, Peace, Poetry, Sonnet, Youth
Tagged 50's, 60's, 70's, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“He Passed the Bricks”
He passed the bricks he lived in once today
And for a second felt the loss, a certain regret
For what was then and is no longer. So wet,
So green, so full of hopes and dreams delayed
While he was arrogance, itself, and barely free from teachers.
So full of what it was he thought he was, he married,
Had a son, found his breadth again, and carried
Balances forward to the point he found he could not reach her.
Separation’s not so facile as inevitable,
Again a second house and this of straw, a second child
As though he gave a damn and still he could not reconcile
What differences it made. They deemed it irreconcilable,
The either of them undeniable and so they parted as they could.
There is no safety from the wolf, you know,
no magic castles built of brick nor straw nor wood.