Category Archives: Love

“No Need to Ask Who My Father Was”

“No Need to Ask Who My Father Was”

No need to ask who my father was, sir.
You see my eyes, and know my actions plain
Enough. You see him here; as often pains
Come to me I ask his blessings, learned,
And to these wisdoms add what I’ve seen
And failed to see within my own desires–
Cadres of loving sons and daughters–in the fires
That make more than common motes or beams:
Accomplishments are roads away from here for us
And surely paths to what’s out there test both our strengths,
And whet the appetite, the greaters than eternities for what at length
Reigns even now in dreams beyond my father’s father’s trust,
Yet manifest enough—sovereign certitude—
A breath and more beyond this cloudy scope and range.

this, a memory of my father on his birthday, 18 February 1918…

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.

“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.

“Two of Them”

“Two of Them”

Two of them apprised will rise while only one survives;
The first, a germ like any other, in the second,
Excellence as loving makes it so. She reckons
Life in paragraphs and chapters, derives
Pleasure in the phrase, itself–in leisure lies
The notion of posterity, the fecund
Last and lonely station of a book—the legend
More important than the fact, the spies
Than what is spied upon. Where there are three
The Chinese say, some one of them must be a teacher.
Let both in compromise find refuge in the third
That one may truly love, the other form the words
Recording signs and sighs of mystery
And ritual and yet another sermon for the preacher.

—Once

 

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

Gabriel José de la Concordia Garcia Márquez [1927 — 2014 ]
Love in the Time of Cholera

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Jamál or “Beauty”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather together before sunset to commemorate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Jamál or “Beauty.”

AAAA

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Jamál or “Beauty”

Dust from dust, the single particle,
The transformation, rust, the curse and blessings, ornamental numbers
To please the unities—vary weights to settle the matter—cosmic lumbers
Fortified in broad strokes,  letters given seraphs, articles
Of incorporation; yes! but to whom; to what eye or ear? Neanderthal
Or philistine, both regard beauteous bending of the light obliterating
A thing of greater timing than Movement alliterating
This with that, or these with those. The call
For more than senses can tolerate compromises
An abyss of physical multitudes and armies marshalled
To reconstruct themselves in harmonies, arsenals
Of discordant sighs and the mysteries of transubstantiation. Chaos apprised
Is order where there was none, beauty is but a cut, a degree above
The alloy wherein instinct succeeds and fear has turned to love.

…art by Robert Becker

“But If I Loved”

“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,
No suppression
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
I should,
I would.

 

“Sad You Say?”

“Sad You Say?”

Sad you say? I knew you meant it;
Yes, my sadness drained through your fingers
Leaving little more than moisture. Something of me lingers
With you that you own is yours. Summits
Of either joy or pain remain to use the heart, the limits
Of the body—anywhere will do—from head to toe; these, the singers
Intone its presence, equations flatter integers
Enough to anoint themselves exclusive in finite intimates
And variations for the sake of form.  These flights of melancholy
You mistook for yours; as well,  your joys I imagined mine  in the mirror,
And neither of us were the wiser in the final calculation.
If one of us is right, we’ll see our satisfaction and salvation
In what little time remains to us in life; the eternal holy
Light is never long in coming. If one of us is wrong,
…there is no deliverer.

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

Fabian Perez 1967 - Argentine Figurative painter - Tutt'Art@ (34)

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

She drops her mysteries, her veiled hints,
And off! “And I’ll be back,” she says, she will
Return with more. The wineglass chilled,
He’s left to savour what remains, discarded lint
From promises that have no manners. What remains
Is no concern: “We’ll touch on that when I return…”
And in the vagaries of something learned
In all of this lies a pattern, some blue vein
Of thought, a misnomer finely wrought
In filigree though no one really cares to hear the tale. Here,
Perhaps, the story should end, so then of course he waits, preferring fear
To anger in the end to fuel the blight and conjure bitter thoughts
That were the table turned there’d be a fresher start,
A simple dinner leaning more toward matter and very little art.

…painting by Fabian Perez….

“He Savours Moments”

nostalgia___by_Peterio

“He Savours Moments”

He savours moments in memoria:
The heart is sound, the legs still able,
Potentials swell, situations inescapable.
In short, the runway’s clear, opprobrium
And approbation balanced, and once again,
It seems horizons’re reasonably cloudless.
Were he any younger he would see a seamless
Future with every reason to remain
Calm and confident that enigma’s kiss
Had blessed the road and rung the bells
Of something less than heaven and little more than hell.
Aquarius, it seems, is rising, yes, but no guarantee of bliss.
Ignore the flaw in yesterday’s patterns in the weave
And stitch of isolation’s tapestries with passports up his sleeve,
The blossom’re missing, ’twere not the flowers
But the setting; nothing in the fragrance
But the thought puts a rush of ambivalence,
Perhaps a flood, doubtless a surge of  hours
That leave no room for contemplation
But simple interaction feeding on a dream of action
That can not nor ever could bring satisfaction.
But, O such sweet misfires! Oblations
In the last act of living. ‘S true! We only think we love;
So easily we dismiss the warnings of so many lifetimes
Sailing out to seas beyond the reach of actual experience, lifelines
Cast to each of us, an incessant revelation; discovery, the tug and shove
Of pedestrian traffic that tells the heart it’s time to leave.
Ecstasy can wait when all that’s really needed is to breathe.

…painting by Paterio…

“Surprise Her, Then”

“Surprise Her, Then”

Surprise her, then, and leave the rest
To guess what took so long; he waited patiently,
She preferred a mirror; he, a glass of sanctity.
Eternity? He had no time. Her guess
Was lost on both of them; they never cared
To tip the waiter and neither bore the blame
For tastelessness in choosing tables, lame
Excuses mumbled that the appetite just wasn’t there,
And, after all, the glory of a pearl is its frugality
Amongst the gems with nothing wounded on the sharp communal knife.
These holy breads come whole, unsliced,
A lethal wafer, lightly tasted with a toast to purest blasphemy
And one more for the road. Infinities in anonymity are served in double slices
As an altar’s daily sacrifice, eternal virtues
stripped of immortality reduced to vices.