Category Archives: Time

“Silversmiths”

“Silversmiths”

Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Gyres in the waters;
determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets

Along the instrument mould the

shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.

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…

“Take Nothing”

“Take Nothing”

Take nothing from nothing lightly.

His own sprites, infants

Of Providence from voids, nurtured, cradled, reborn as instants

Above the need of time’s pieces, time beside itself, timed slightly

To the skyward―Fate and Destiny merely fashions, statements in spatial nights

Of fire.  Engines of the commonweal may not easily be ignored

As antipathy gainsays grace and sue the flowers of “Might”

And “Maybe” as with all other litigants in the pond.

The cultured and the coarse and those who are not born

In affirmation’s garlands are worthy vesitutures but wisely worn

For what and who they were not what they are, held well beyond

Distractions the eye; reality rarely takes a mistress.

All that is cannot be penned and has no vested interests.

“Furtive Futures”

“Furtive Futures”

Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles,  a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to  the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course;
witness, yes, but still  he is both what he is
.
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest.

“Blighted Cabinet”

“Blighted Cabinet”

Blighted cabinet of offspring: the misbegotten seated in the loge
And they’ll none of it; she bids them seize the handle, hold their sign
And they respond with such dreadful imposition as to realign
The concourse until he cannot reach them. They suppose
What they cannot fathom; they’ve loosed the measure
Of their steps as if Arachne were their goddess locked within a wager;
Their tapestries will anger no one; no epic chorus lingers,
in space no longer dangers.
He’ll have the penultimate word; she, the first and last–a treasure
Hidden in enigma–and while she plots and dreams,
They wander far beyond the Tree than ever they before:
There are no impediments, no warnings at the door.
“They are loosed again!” he cries, and this is what she means
To see. But, what the gain
when cosmic waves decayed are rotten;
All this in intervention, laurels in revenge:
she, forgotten; –they that are his children, time begotten.