“Gold Bars Soar”
Gold bars soar that may or may not be there as dollars rise and fall
While doves and hawks lose feathers and the bourgeois stain
Their corporate tablecloths; numbers genuflect as mortgage rates
And candidates trade places in the spin. Who sleeps in the caterwaul;
Who stampedes for attention in the networks’ nightly call
To arms not heard since Boston; whose cotillions root for the notorious? Bait
And bombast never fails; the remedy is ever there and altogether late,
Meticulously timed by someone out to fill the stadia and malls
With never ending seasons’ greetings and wherewithal
To keep the vital signs of spinning polls and sardines at the gates,
Martin’s dream is deemed appropriate for the calendar and numbers integrate
The use of steroids and youthful thrall so no one drops the ball.
Who needs another change for heaven’s sake as one size fits all:
…And who really gives a damn with elections in the fall?“
Posted in Change, Dollar, Dross, Duplicity, Fear, Gold, Hubris, Idolatry, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Inflation, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Media, Morality, Obama, Poem, Poetry, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Business, Dollar, Gold, Imagism, Immortality, Inflation, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Kalimát [Words] before sunset to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Kalimàt.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Kalimát or “Words”
The Word illumines surfaces in the soul;
Not so the mortal eye, my friend–they who dilate
Earthly limitations know the truth–they violate
The the borders of the pupil to include the accents of the dream. The flow
Of images beneath the lids so often bound, so ever-weathered
Couples with the muse, crowns cosmic winds of aromatic lustre in the ether,
Clouds–the afterthought of action forged in fires of hubris–either
Lust or fear, the pilots in the paths of all dust: and both are witnesses. Tethered
Wonders, perceptions of the lens, veined, suited in appearance; perceptions
Of an ancient mountain’s bile or gleaned from its seed, diamonds from the sun
Are death to those who negate. Just so say Prophets in the Sealed Writ or sung
Beyond capacities of the ear may hear when spoke, pronounced and uttered
Only once in pre-existent natural form. Seized,
the Word is cut and polished in the tailings of the present.
The Holy Word defines the substance of the raw material of divine parsimony
cut and spliced in sacrifice, rendered gems from ore of human ignominy.
Posted in Bahá'í Months, Bahá'u'lláh, Bahá’í, Bahá’í Faith, Dreams, Dust, Fear, Hubris, Lust, Muse, Poetry, Words
Tagged Feast of Kalimát, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Perhaps Too Obscure”
Perhaps too obscure, absolutes, prerogatives, profits,
Relatives, feathers of the phoenix–costly downs for pillows,
Materials for bedding–indeed the silhouette
Of controversy in the bower prohibits
Poesy from kneading souls and seeding requisites
For immortality with mortal flaws and fatal shallow
Pools designed for poets such as these that wallow
In the larder oblivious to dangers, intrinsic
Natural blinds to tar pits where only fugitives
Attempt to flee from what is evident in destiny.
Notice neither freedom for the bird nor fish
To feed them gather here; unheeding species. Lavish
Ignorance and wanton lust are lost on adjectives
Whose ontogeny merely seeks but life and progeny.
Posted in Ignorance, Immortality, Lust, Mortality, Negation, Obscurity, Ontonegy, Phoenix, Poesy, Poetry, Poets
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“The Greatest Sanctuary”
The greatest sanctuary saves, preserves, and seals
The last and latest treasure; final fears are entertained
And in the end repeat themselves penultimate in any age
That’s spent with nothing left to say. The morass of months reveal
Themselves as names, the briefer moments cast in isinglass,
And hung above the door as witness to emotions borrowed to defend
The journey of both giver and what it is that’s given–split ends
That pass at times for purity of desire. Consternation, then, at last
Effaced, those few peas remaining within the pod will spend
Themselves while outward bound to what is after all a dream
Or merely someone’s lunch. They groom together–the sheen
Is frayed–delay is shame when every effort to confirm or to renew offends.
Reconnoitred, what were formerly evergreens
disclose themselves as deciduous devotions
That decry their former riverbeds as puddles, watersheds of desiccated oceans
That long since disappeared. Yes, we’ve seen this rain before
and now we see it every day;
Umbrellas up, umbrellas down, yet these expose
Themselves as useless as the refugees keep running, hoping, close
To bolting at the slightest sign of teardrops in their pain.
And what is gained in either case, the with
Or the without? The question here is moot.
Is moisture poison to the man who values silks in suits,
Or to the woman bound to shake her fist
At every incident that renders hairspray a total waste?
But these are questions for the sophist’s notepad and fodder
For prevarication while what is relevant to the journey, a blotter
For veneers of life are disclaimers and discounts which so easily make haste
To negate what is evident in a common tin of oysters or a jar of lox:
The end of every one of us is six feet under in a box.
Posted in Age, Aging, Death, Denial, Desire, Double Sonnet, Dreams, Ends, Estrangement, Illusion, Lust, Marriage and Divorce, Negation, Ocean, Pain, Passion, Poetry, Silk
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
Briefer images at dusk along the street and wonders
In me–who is that woman? Street lamps, yes, the moon
Or worse that slaps us both; tarnished, and in a tangent off some June
From long ago, memories in a travel log of time when I still blundered
Through the odyssey of all my fears and slumber seemed forever light,
The blush and dimming of the spots somehow pleasing to so many people,
Then, and still I stood in line to see her eyes.
Distilled prayer beneath the steeple,
Midnight trains and wornout seats in Greyhounds,
uses of the every highway dedicated to gemutlichkeit
And momentary glory! More, a never-ending wanderlust and steam
To drain the festering boils of youth in rhymes of two dimensions:
Points from “A” to “B” to “C”, perhaps to “D”, and mention
Here and there of this I saw or that within what dreams
Concealed in endless intercourse in the night and I so moth like in the rites
Of great mahatmas in repose amid the golden spinning wheels and kites.
“I See no Quiet Here”
I see no quiet here but qualities designed
In favour of the best the litter and line will offer,
The latest of dynasties of inertia, coffers
Open without the slightest cover charge, signed
In classic calligraphy with what hovers in the herd.
Dressed to kill to take one’s fill of benefits
And freebees, clowns and frowns and shoes that fit
The going price, sound bites to the latest word
From centres deep within. Commitment to yet another holy empire
Risen high above housed buttressed in steel and glass
And all that lasts beyond the skylines but to the limits of the present past,
And futures giving voice to promise and advertisement that inspire
Confidence and, ultimately, perhaps, yes, another royal firm
Or two to add to those that must germinate and cheat the pedestrian worm..
Posted in Lust, Matter, Passion, Poetry, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Separation, Stations
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“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.
Posted in Addiction, Delusion, Denial, Desire, Infinitity, Love, Lust, Marriage and Divorce, Passion, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“‘Oh, My,’ She Said”
“Oh, my,” she said, “I don’t mind!” and
She didn’t! The problem was that it was I
Who minded, and I should have let it slide,
But, no! I just had to let it land
On “One More Time!” I crossed the line
To bring up all our history–confusing it with prophesy–
To her, of course, it was all the same. It’s lost in me
The way I misdirect my plans at times;
She shouldn’t look that way of course, but blind
Men come to life when in the presence of the fine
Soft petals of a rose sensed with more than eyes.
It falls to me to meet the heights of these illusions, find
The nexus as with all familiars fortified with brew distilled
From grains of intuition and wine from simple grapes of will.
“‘Twas the Blueberry Pie”
`Twas the blueberry pie, you know; `twas
That pie as odd as that may sound, and I
Was hungry in the afternoon and spied
Her house―I’d come that way because
I had some several sundry savoury things to do
Along the road that day―and following my nose
A stronger apparition there within me rose,
And she was at the door in no time! Courage grew,
And she was quick to ask if I would chop
Some wood, and surely this was not beyond
My time and energies to spare? “The farther pond
Has deadwood there already cut!” The stop
To gather wood? No problem, ma’am and no delay!
T’was the pie, my son, and that’s precisely why you’re here today!
“It’s As He Told Her”
It’s as he told her, he always hurts the ones he loves.
Believe him when he tells you what he’ll do.
He’ll signal truth in words, explicit clues
To what his will intends no matter the subtleties above,
Below, or the quality of the clay. Fine attentions to the salty lioness
Are not always at the kill, yet in the afternoons,
The evenings or lights of several suns and moons
Appearances there are before the moment the scion
Lifts his head, a certain sign, a succinct rhythm
In his blood’s begun, and someone here must die.
In that split second, confirmations reign; he did not lie,
And as in the beginning when he sat with her before the schism,
Miles and distances between the warning and the fact;
Hours and days pass but memory deceives and hides the lethal act.