Bahá’ís throughout the world gathered yesterday evening after sunset or today before sunset to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Mashíyyat [Will]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashíyyat” or “Will”
We bear witness to it in the station of a still
And changeless vision, cosine as it is to truth.
Volition reigns with all, and rules
To govern its existence will
Continue till the thing no longer bears its seal,
Its sign, its talisman nor sacred stamp
Of manifest yet hidden Lamps
By Whose Light truth’s revealed or is repealed.
There is no greater will than this. We are
Witnesses, the signatories of deeds
Of lingering motives, contracts, seeds
Of instituted factors in the sole
And universal changeless Will and Goal
Whose pages neither bend nor fold.
Posted in Age, Aging, Bahá'í Feasts, Bahá'ís, Changeless vision, Contracts, Cosine, Deeds, Factors, Goal, Imagery, Lamps, Light, Lyric Poetry, Mashíyyat, Motives, Pages, Poetry, Rules, Sacred stamp, Seal, Seeds, Sign, Signatories, Sonnet, Station, Talisman, Volition, Will, Witnesses
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Take a Number”
“Take a number,” someone whispered in the night,” any one
Will do!” and come to think of it, it happened to be true..
They’ll dine in or out or perhaps linger in that long blue
Moment in the atrium, or then again, they’ll take the sun
At midnight or take the stairs and skip the banister. They’ll taste
The wine gone flat; and why not? That is, of course, unless they’ve read the signs
In time to outwit the posse just a little forward in the line
From where they are to where they’re surely going. The race
Is on, you see, to falter willy nilly at the altar, to settle the bill,
Unzip the lining of the thing, pick up the ball
And run like hell through the side booth in the kitchen, down the hall,
Turn and cash in their chips on the spot. The cogent thrill
Is gone, perhaps, but not the will, and if they’ve read the bulbs correctly,
They’ll never reach the pantry door directly.
Posted in Altar, Atrium, Ball, Banister, Bill, Booth, Bulbs, Chips, Kitchen, Lining, Long blue line, Midnight, Numbers, Pantry, Poetry, Race, Stairs, Sun, Thrill, Whispers, Will, Willy nilly, Wine
Tagged Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
Bitterness serves the servile senses; malevolence the brine
Payed out to loams in newly flooded fertile delta soils.
Where there are no antidotes, no alternatives, no holy oils
Can soften evidence. When the flesh is spent the rind,
Manure to tried and tired conscience dried, provides desire enough to find
The seed gone stray, some few limbs, fibres of miracles for future coils
Of awe and circumstance. Pick up the rake, then, the hoe; gather roots to boil
And treasure newly welcome honest broth, the meagre rendered never-mind.
The taste is saline, yes? So much for what we cannot say before the hour turns
Sour, the afterthought enshrined within the hourglass that soon enough restores
Its natural balance in the night. A hint of moisture overrides the will at dawn,
Some confidence to see what’s left exceeds what’s been withdrawn.
Odds are that even in the ashes of denial nothing’s left to burn;
Where there is no decision, interest is the fruit that’s rotted to the core.
Posted in Bitterness, Conscience, Decision, Delta soils, Denial, Desire, Fruit, Hoe, Hourglass, Limbs, Manure, Miracles, Odds, Poetry, Rake, Rind, Rotten fruit, Rotten to the core, Seed, Senses, Will
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets