Monthly Archives: October 2014

” Sometimes”



I sometimes think that happiness and joy
Are nothing more than hints of what’s to come,
What floods the mind the minute we are numb
To all this world’s profusion, enjoyed
As hors d’oeuvres that we so urgently demand
These states of being caught within the bailiwick of science,
Or the wider, freer brushstrokes of alliance
With the ego in the arts, and worse. And as we can
Inhale the sundry ethers of the hour’s liqueur the waste
Is in the exhalation and all that can never be constrained
Within the finite body’s workshop, the afterglow remains
To service seeds of fields of suns meticulously refined, the tenuous tastes
Of what lies just beyond the gravitas, the concubines of space and time:
Within that world, bliss; in this, a cosmic door prize for the blind.
Less sincere and not entirely moot,
The thought of what it is the poor
Conceive as midnight’s missing sun―the cure
For every second wicked fear that suits
The howlers that in haste construct from roots
And tendrils of what’s so ironically obscured
By little more than hidden light with pure
Imagination mixed―demur and demons loot
The pitiful remains of hopes and weights
Accorded place and station out of sight
And far beyond the pale of leisure’s stains
Upon a pride of literary lions’ tired and tattered vain
Attempts to survive through pen and page. Pain
Shows deference for justice in the night
Of such an aim because it does not turn
A page or wrestle with a churlish verse
Or if it has, it’s penned but chocolates, terse
And instant, yes, but nothing lasting learned,
And few retain such warmth in merit so taciturn
And brief that in the throes of fever see the breath as cursed
As desire meets the frigid air and cannot bear the worst
And best beneath Orion’s fickle nightly stare. The urn
Or precious alabaster box awaits us all as wisdom
Sees or does not see surprise in purpose for it all.
There must be some judicious gain or helpful word
That grants reprieve or respite from the mold
And model of our outworn lives that decision
Leans toward flight for the many before the final call.

“My, My, So Come Now!”


“My, My, So Come Now!”

My, my, so come now! We’re a busy man today.
Strange to see when, only yesterday I heard you say
You’d turned a leaf or two, induced a change
So greatly you could taste it

You’d packed her bags, and said you’d waste it,
Took a train (perhaps a plane), or took the cure
In no more likely place than tree rings, age,
Withal, sublime, and now the buffet’s on.

. . .You called my name?
You knew your time had come for sure.
You wanted me to take for granted all
Your best intentions, and forestall
. . .some rupture in the waterbed.

Was it something someone said, or were you that disturbed
With smirking, smugness, the perturbed. . . .

(They’d never think of this before
To beat you to the punch to make the score
Themselves before the world, and all that’s holy);

So you were first to burn, the burn so solely
For the good it’d bring in time for auld lang syne,
And all that’s wholly pure and good tonight.

You know, when after all is said and done,

And certain things which must be spun
Restrain the world, there’s yet time to spin
The thing, and youth’s enough to win,
(You must have sown a few yourself and let the rest be damned.)

You do know why you pressed this thing tonight,
This thing you do when fires are boiling light,
. . . come on, you fool!…
Oh come all that’s faithful in the light tonight.

You know you’re on, so leave the wrath
As exposed as stumps and what’s still in the tub, a bath
Or better in the shower. Got a better plan?
Hey mahatma; got a better thing to do than leave?

You really want to lead, and bless the soils with seed.
In an evening not unlike this night there’s yeast this affair.
You want the world to see your hair
And how you move it all and how you salt the soil,

How you shake doxologies, burn incense and holy oils
Replicating earthly cannon till the cows go home,
And once again, of course you’re all alone. . .
. . .did I say that?
. . .did you say that?  Did I say that?

“He Sits Another Monday”

a thought

“He Sits Another Monday”

He sits  another Monday…only smiles tonight. His words are glass,
Illumined, yes,…but no light strikes him and he can no longer see the page.
His hours leased over years yield nothing in eternity but sardonic age,
Invisible, a painted thought distracted by what’s been asked
Of him, years of cold neglect, and all those miles.
Still it’s not enough. If not tonight, then, when?
No doubt in time, but wait! the breezes grow to winds again,
And, where there are currents, other images, other trials.
…the summer’s wounds have found their mark…
Is this the time for words? a second poem? a signatory fire
Lit to get it said, perhaps to induce a faint desire,
Another phrase–there are so many–another cigarette’s arc, a spark
So much to feel, so much to taste when once the sap begins to seep?
Nature’s not so conjured, the outcome’s sealed and in time all thought will cease.

“Let Me Take Those Packages”

“Let Me Take Those Packages”

Let me take those packages for you; better yet,
Let’s open them together for the pleasure
Of the moment in the momentary leisure
Of the spirit of the day. A lapis lazuli. A set
Of microscopic diamonds and a matching pair
Of pearls, perhaps. Or yet again, what flower
Speaks your mind, what rites, what planet’s power’s
Fragrance says it all? What prism’s light binds a lightning strike; what flares,
What jaded talismans; what recommends the treasures that you’ve sought?
You know, we’ll never spend it through the flight, and as the greatest diva said
One January night*, “You may have dresses in the closet, baby, but they’s lead
Will line your coffin and you can’t only wear but one!” You’re caught
Between eleisons, then, and in this world’s final fading hour,
We’ll see what we can see tonight before the wine goes sour.

*Mahalia Jackson [1911-1972] born 26 October 1911, passed away on 27 January 1972 in Chicago, Illinois but it was not until 31 January that I learned of her passing and even then by accident when someone so very casually mentioned it in a moment while I was washing dishes….having no idea just what this Voice meant to me. Some of the greatest pains I ever felt in this world were somehow made bearable at the sound of that single voice, so many hours into the the night, listening to what was for me pure joy, and always, always hope…;it was a benign idolatry that always brought peace and tolerance to whatever the darker, earlier years of my life; massive funerals were held in Chicago and New Orleans, and one Nebraska boy cried that night and said, “Thank you! God bless you for all you gave me all these years!” Until this very day, almost every day, I have made her voice a part of my day…

If you can stand it and have patience with the the exceedingly poor recording, this is Mahalia as I always knew her…

“If Wroth Breathing”


“If Wroth Breathing”

If wroth breathing, there is a need;
If need, then comes the question never spoke
By either brother, a primal continental rift that broke,
A rupture when in that moment, Adam’s seed
Made more than one, difference cedes
A natural shift from peace to war; the smoke
Alone had been enough, but weighted, a stroke.
And from the rapture’s might no longer leads
The sign of truth. “Ask what may be done,” is Abel’s
Cry; “What may not be undone nor forever won,” from God’s domain
Replies, and neither will survive that summer’s day
Within the Garden where truth no longer reigns and envy blocks the rays
Of sun and moon and stars where once their steeds were stabled—
And what may not be undone in angers deep within the heart of Cain?

“Philosophical Principles”


“Philosophical Principles”

Philosophical principles daily posted pass
Me by; I can see nothing. I thrill to what I sense
In worlds beyond the simple physical; I have no defense
For case. The economics of the street come hard and fast
As I am walled out or worse, within. Relationships
Quite simply, cast doubt; I am alone. The trick is in the chip;
I am become obsolete. Psychics set my soul on edge, their tips
Much greater than the check; I get no reading. Doctors seal my lips;
Somehow, the Ph balance in the aquarium is wrong; my fish
Have died and husbandry’s beyond me; I tend to use
A bankcard. Thoughts elect to the elusive next to
Tarot cards there upon the shelf, perhaps a shade above a wish
And whisper, far beyond the random tea leaves that interrupt
My golden mile, and so I drain the coffee, and throw away the cup.

“Sans Setting of the Sum”

“Sans Settling of the Sum”

Sans settling of the sum, no silent night;

The cold and darkest midnight, no brightest sun
Regained upon the freshness of a morning run
From first awakenings to the duties of the light.
Sans route and paths to shorelines, fishermen
Cast no net nor fruit upon the table there
Beneath the candle and the moonbeam; no joyful stares
Of wide-eyed eager mouths to take the bread, no beds
For doting families there to cradle and caress the children;
No willing intimacy in loving parents, no hopeful news.
And yet, of course, comes danger from the sea,
The stormy petrol cries in certain seasons that must be
Harbingers of hurricane and trial, what we choose
To call the birth pains in a loving mother: nature in herself brings waste.
Her ends must come before beginnings, her gifts but ballast tossed in haste.

Bahá’ís throughout the world commemorate the Birth of The Báb Who was born before dawn on 19 October 1819.


The Báb [1819-1850], Prophet-Founder of the Babí Faith was the Prophet-Herald of the Bah á’í Faith. The expressed mission of The Báb was to proclaim the imminent arrival of “Him Whom God shall make manifest,” namely Bahá’u’lláh (1817-1892), the Founder of the Bahá’í Faith. [The title “Báb” means “the Gate” in Arabic.] This mission was somewhat similar to the mission of John the Baptist in appearing just prior to the Advent of The Christ. All Revealed Religions have had Precursors like John the Baptist before The Christ or Salmán just before the Advent of Muhammad, Whose duty it was to prepare the people for the imminent arrival of the Prophet-Founders of Their respective Faiths. The Báb, however, was in Himself a Major Manifestation of God and therefore His Revealed Religion an Independent Religion and not a sect, and while His Ministry lasted but nineteen short years, its impact will be felt throughout the world for at least a thousand, if not thousands of years in the future development of an ever-evolving mankind. It is a Bahá’í Teaching just as it is in previous Revealed Religions that as mankind evolves and in capable of receiving greater instruction and guidance Manifestations of God are sent to provide that instruction and guidance as the Mouthpiece of God in Their respective historical periods.

On October 19 [after sunset when the Bahá’í day begins] or October 20 [before sunset when the Bahá’í day ends], Bahá’ís observe this Holy Day by abstaining from work. There are no prescribed ceremonies, but gatherings usually involve prayers, devotional readings, music and fellowship.

On May 23, 1844, in Shiráz, Persia, The Báb announced the impending appearance of the Messenger of God awaited by all the peoples of the world. Following this announcement, The Báb was persecuted by members of the dominant Muslim clergy in what is now Iran. The Báb was arrested, beaten and imprisoned, and, on July 9, 1850, was executed in the public square of the city of Tabríz. Some 20,000 of His followers perished in a series of massacres throughout Persia.

“No Matter”


“No Matter”

No matter. What’s done’s what
It is; longevity
Leads itself to levity
And gone in less than seconds. The cut,
The rent, the fragmentation of the whole
Begins where even light will bend, and footsteps,
Shadows of what’s behind Goliath affect
Oblique distractions, revisions, histories that alter goals
Reborn and re-created by default in every jaded heart.
The slightest movement in the arc turns every head
In this terrain and judgements haunt the dead
And dying on the spot. Done! No one’s laughing as the darts
Of every man’s affliction seek the vanishing point from which he’s strayed
To face finality, the great mirror in whose image no one is betrayed.


“He Sees the World”


“He Sees the World”

He sees the world before him plump and peopled, stacked,
Ranged, catalogued, rough-strewn about on plates
Afloat on oceans of such magnitude that dates
And proper measurements are daily sacked.
He’s left the bilious tailings of the mind
To complaisant teachers who soon enough are caught
With nothing and even less in the deluge of what is taught
Is given breath for long. Knowledge blinds
When faced with fresh discoveries played
In such a manner that cataloguers pay
Homage to pernicious publishers whose veracity is weighed
In volumes, guarantees and lose disclaimers of the day
That follow close on what were tablets of stone but the night before.
There are no facts but loose allusions, illusions of the heretofore.