Category Archives: Change

“So Easy to Feel”

“So Easy to Feel”

So easy to feel, to seem to be, to know at last propinquity
As if the light declares the coming glory of the sun at daybreak
Redundant. But as that disk cannot be seen for more than seconds, I take
That certainty of coming morning within me,
Knowing that midnight’s richest prize in ivory
Is forever fixed as is the station of the sun; the moon an intimate
In someone’s flight, perhaps, but even so, as she reveals herself in states
And phases never hers, agitation gains nothing in the motion save in memory
And affectations of the sea within me–force upon another force,
Measured consequence of a functionary that renders boundaries
Of continental pride and the ocean’s doors
Cast aside in the riot of the tides, a natural stampede, no more
Than thresholds of natural accident, the stream and river’s course
Now rising, now again a swelling to apostrophes, eternal inertia born of gravity.



Kinesis for
The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.

“The Recipe”


“The Recipe”

The recipe for change is simple: depth of thought
Weathered by the tethering fires of wizened time. By depth
Is meant profundity, the weight of steps
Experienced wholly without cessation before the juggernaut
Or that sweet transformation in unctions freely caught
As thoughts of separation from necessity, and in the run
Of things, events and visions—all that comes
Within bailiwick of justice. Objectives sought
Will in their natural way become the irrepressible root,
The seed made manifest in shoots and further outgrowth of the thing
Until it simply wants to be. Expect and measure nothing in the spring
But in its summer seeing argument and premise rendered moot
Before the gravitas of what has lasted after all and what has grown
From doubt to certainty, what conviction must produce if wisely sown.

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening and tomorrow within the First Day of the Month of `Asmá [Names]

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening and tomorrow within the First Day of the Month of `Asmá [Names]

“Double Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of ‘Asmá [Names]”

Greatness, the gulf of differences between
Recipients of names and the manifestation of the same
In full blown vain imagining; objective oversight’s the flame,
At least the spark any given second. A constant stream,
The crown of transformation comes in time to weave
A gravity within the press of what is never really seen.
Within a name resides a hidden thread that only seems
The confirmation both of life and being—in bas relief
Or so The Buddha warned—that holds a lethal trust. Between the name
And its receipt abide the seeds of pernicious doubt and protestation,
Manifest but without form, no timely attestation,
More an emanation than anything in revelation. In every atom reigns
The distance and sweet velocities of change. The many tools
Of blind belief in Adam’s gift seek rest somewhere within reach of fools
Embracing blasphemy in luminous dichotomies, dilemma’s
Punctuation marks’ delusions born of natural sedition. Litanies–
The beads of faith and understanding–are crystals of epiphany
Drawn from rich deposits deep within the endgames of enigma
And paradox serving providence and the farce of perpetual plebiscites;
Their greatest honour, servitude in service
To unnatural homeostasis between justice and integrity, yearning
And the One for Whom all yearning stems to transcendental heights
Born in mortal time of He from Whom all virtues flow.
And when denial and prayer are in arrears,
When needs and resignation outweigh a sum of means;
Words gone bankrupt erupt and deeds are stripped of fat and lean,
As hopelessness finds redemption in an average skein of years,
With all that overwhelms the truth at sunrise
In redemption in the simple phrase, “I’m still alive.”

“I Seek No Time”

Seven Willows1

“I Seek No Time”

I seek no time whose velocity does not rhyme
With direction  expressed in effortless comfort sufficient
To the task and a coronet to any living witness—the coefficient
Of the two signals of perspicuous justice—through fruitage and signs
Of God and intercourse with both we are confined
To all corporeal division in the Orient
Of our rising and again at its Occident
As all our suns are brought low, immortals resigned
To mortality in stations and trajectories, gilded symbols and silvered alibis,
Powers of change adrift, erudition in the withered rinds of every nation.
Still we stand and stare for generations sowing auras and auroras in  stations’
Bright collectives in the zodiac, litanies of proofs and idols, beacons that testify
To all that is, not to what and where we are but shy to why we all have failed.
Rebels rant and fools respeak change while God and His Creation are motionless
in every age and era save for an occasional Luther and a well-placed nail.

Seven willows

…photographs by above by Seven Willows…

“That We Fall Is Natural”

“That We Fall Is Natural”

That we fall is natural; that we rise, elephantine.
The elemental flow of oceans cannot be
A thing so scripted in the stones nor greater than it seems,
But ever-striving, ever-writhing, natural peaks declining,
Irreconcilable in their conniving, twice and more desired falling
In or toward Themselves, the Mothers of all Waters, yes. Rivers
Die and are reborn at once–revivals in their streams and noted divers
Books, catalogued as tributaries and watersheds–calling
And recalling from a moonstruck swollen pinnacle
even to the least and last most holy drop.
Confucius* said it long ago that greatest glories
Come not so much in never falling, but in histories
Of revision, sublimes in tectonic prodigies at the mountaintop.
Little wonder save to mortals what the matter is;
energy is the bright selective gleam
Of noble souls who
like the stream, the river, the brook,
must at last rejoin the sea.

*Confucius B.C. 551-479



Hesitation stains the simplest decision,
Pollutes the act, shifts from inspiration to simple change
In channel, certitude to hope for better days. The range
Of possibilities is moot whatever the vision,
Redeemed as ancient memory of former families
And tribes, the atavistic residue of where the birth
Took place and who was there and whose the girth
And majesty of just another baby born. Anomalies
Aside, the most of us are prey to our own crowns,
Accidents and interjections owned
Alike by all who claim to be the authors of life. What credits honed
In tight and manicured bouquets, these clubs, these ancient mounds
Of rust whom spades erect in the wake of hoards that diamonds
And hearts evoke and to which they pander as they might while
a wounded earth supports them all in silence, ironic in demand for answers
Where there are none; pressing the fruits of satisfactions
Where arbitrary rule and random infractions
Decree egregious loss to one and rampant cancers
To the other. Future’s fortunes cloud the present
Before its suns have risen and well after they have set.
No substitution, no antidote, no fond expectation met,
The spectre of foolishness binds assent
To retribution and beginnings to the covenant’s
Descent. Turn away, then, from the brilliance of a single moon
And face the day’s most patient sun, the countenances of June
In the deeps of winters’ vast eternities. With sun and moon now relevant,
Every least affinity leads to forgone closure and the sometime petitioner to rest
With his secret ever esoteric in this world and patently obvious in the Next.

Sculpture by Diane Neglio…

“Eliminate Dissatisfactions”

“Eliminate Dissatisfactions “

Eliminate dissatifactions in the path and grasp
A moment’s truce; given’s celebrate the certainties. Providence and proclivities
Provide a shroud to glory in memorials. Revision lines the summer’s festivities,
Dilute predilections and call it ever autumn; and, as the ever-present asp
Among the figs will play its rôle, so, too,  the ass will have his tour de force.
But, ponder: dichotomies are means and never ends for pure and simple
Truths against the backdrop of change, reactions robed in dangling participles
Camouflage themselves as fortune and pollute the soul in doldrums in the course
Last-ditch hopes for busy minds for recipes for the common pundits thought.
Secluded in the country”s veins seasons’ haloed garish city lights
Are ceilings formed of stars immune from politicians in their circus tights.
Our Ferdinand will not be compromised by matadors who line the Spanish streets, nor did Socrates lay down his last drachma for one more round brought
Low in mass hysteria while sitting bulls emasculate
their sacred bovine rites in corrals designed for vicious virtual gridlock.
No, both prefer to smell the flowers, graze bucolic fields, and tend the herd,
their rule, anointed bulls for all the cows within their sheltered stock.Eliminate redaction of glyphs and scrolls, runes annotating greater lesser conduits and ask
Who, then, it might have been who wrote the given’s, the certainties;
Who salutes entitlements and rites, and myriad  raucous destinies
Of personal perception that turn all certitude to doubt? The ever-present mass
 For figs will play its rôle, of course,
But, ponder and reflect on simple
Souls! Against the grain and contrary to all public thought and principles,
What we call fortune does not favour the cheap, the shoddy, the coarse
And rampant office and  audience of jaded channels caught
Rather in the main away from city lights
And all the progeny of  media’s circuitous flight
Through superstitious commercial  margins fraught
With cold corrosive gout. Of course  the many will provide the locomotion
And the force of mighty change howbeit  living souls require no self-promotion.

…a revision of the poem…”Swept Aside”

…a revision of the poem…

“Swept Aside”

Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.

*The word is ilunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.

When there is this, that is.
With the arising of this, that arises.
When this is not, neither is that.
With the cessation of this, that ceases.

His Holiness The Buddha



Quietus on the ramparts, days are calm;
Some business among bees. Their range,
Their commerce gives no hint of change
That’s coming; gravitas and ancient gravity,
daily prayer and psalms,
And possibly a pause from labours of the dawn
Take full advantage of the fair exchange
Between future morning’s innocence
and the last evening hiatus of an age.
The former, order; the latter, industry,
what’s concluded, however, resolves
All profits greater to the glory of the queen exceed in sums
Of lessers than the whole in time; fractals in the seeds,
Satisfaction measures well in conjugations
that outlive the tyranny of verbs; the simple basis
Of natural order is perfected in the jewel of the species;
there is homeostasis
In what’s past and all that will be
and nothing in between may cease within the run
Of all indicative histories and subjunctive prophesies
as sure of eternity as the sun is guaranteed.