Category Archives: Youth

“Dark Witnesses”

“Dark Witnesses”

Dark witnesses record with eyes that never were
When I was young and only dreamed of what was left
In life to me out there, some single beauteous breath
Of God’s own living spirit; and as I recall we all were sure
Of it, and not at all concerned as days flew passively
Away and left us glued to what was here and now.
We saw no further than what was just beyond the bow
Of some shining barque, stillborn, sailless but massive
Still. And as I gaze today on all that came eventually, I think
I saw where I would be one day, and in these latter hours smile
On what that meant and whose small eyes were set so many miles
From where he sat amazed. My own children’s children sink
Their eager toes so deeply now into the sand and squeal in praise
Of joys I knew I’d never know in what remained of all my days.

“Briefer Images”

“Briefer Images”

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 peoples,
Then, and still I stood to hit the queue  to see her eyes.
Distilled prayer beneath the steeples,
Midnight trains and feeble seats in Greyhounds,
uses of the every highway dedicated to gemutlichkeit
And the momentary! 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  The 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.

“In the Fifties”

“In the Fifties”

In the Fifties all the wonder of pastel was “in,”
The funds so well arranged in bank accounts
Left dormant through the War. Largesse, secured amounts
Were stored, but goods were spare and produce thin,
Production not yet shelved to compliment the newfound peace.
The Sixties featured families rounded off from nine to an even five;
The troops were home, chariots had fins, and promises alive
Throughout the world to put such potential in the fleece
As might be had for children in the doxology to provide
A balance, a nom de plume for a strange apology
For the deprivation of Depression and the horrors of the War Years. Anthologies
Replaced by catalogues from Sears, recruits were down but churches thrived
And so did freedom, and to the sirens of liberty went the clear-eyed youths
Who loved at will and, sur le pouce, found themselves
in the Seventies illumined in haloes of hair and something to close to truths.

“Fear of Mirrors”

Mirrors1

“Fear of Mirrors”

Fear of mirrors does that, you know…
Disturb the pool and the image ripples.
The Persians say, “shave the head, the hair will triple!”
And so the child’s affectations grow
From infancy to childhood. The woes
Of weaning from the weary nipple
Through to youth—while the spirit merely trickles,
Even disappears within the spectacle and show
Of outward gain and inward trivial pursuit—
Place all things within the silken seasons’
Circumstantial winds’ mirages to lift high above
The nest the eagle and overshadow fears in the dove.
Still to see one’s self in someone’s glass renders progress moot:
To see ourselves in this disguise dissolves the stain of simple treason.

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Izzat or ‘Might”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather together this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset to commemorate
the First Day of the Month of ‘Izzat…

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Izzat
or ‘Might”


Judge well, my friend, adduce astutely;
perceive the might of any man,
By salutation there above it all, crowned,
a tarnished name become a lyric,
A word in apposition to the current legend; manipulated Pyrrhic
Hero whose deceiving ears–offending, apprehending what demands
Command the poll and elevate a fleeting circumstance and fame;
Even the rose is granted for the sake of a specific hour, a simple song
Fossilised before the melody has ceased when so easily as on
A clouded noxious day, all verbs clot and pronouns reign
In arrogance as thoughts turn to vapours and yesterday’s gilding
Rise and fall. With nothing distilled from achievement
For want of aging, accidents deemed bold distraction
spend themselves in vain
In youth while untried strength
sustains the untended pun
Of forgery and fortune. But see this blossom
in the deepest well
And dying sees his heaven
while he knows he lives in hell.

–Once

…from: A Raison in the Sun, Act III by Loraine Hansberry

…BENETHA
Love him?
There’s nothing left to love.

MAMA
There’s always something left to love.

Have you cried for that boy today? Not for yourself and the family because we lost the money. I mean for him. And what he’s gone through. And God help him. God help him, what it’s done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When he’s done good and made things easy for everybody? That ain’t the time at all. It’s when he’s at his lowest and he can’t believe in himself because the world’s whipped him so! When you starts measuring somebody measure him right, child. Measure him right. You make sure that you done taken into account the hills and the valleys he’s come through to get to wherever he is….

“They’re Good”

Canadian singer Justin Bieber performs in a concert at the Atlantico pavilion in Lisbon

“They’re Good”

“They’re good, these kids,” He paused, and then he said,
“At the very least they’re off the street, and they can laugh,
And sing, and play the violin, and act. Our staff
Is tops, and we’ve got over sixty public productions!” And then he read
From lists of student symphonies and plays, and intramural sports,
And everything a public school could want
To please both students and their parents: “And our fonts
Are full, the possibilities are endless, quite the front porch
Place you’d want your son or daughter, niece
Or nephew, girlfriend’s ugly son, or any bona fide teen to find himself; a niche
Protected from the world, an out of sight promoter of the nouveau-riche,
The avant-garde. Our rainbow’s bright, and so’s the pot! The very grease
That’s needed for the Disney wheel of fortune here,
without the ugliness of work they make the list!”
But still it begs the question:
Are they blessed set for life
or simply fodder for the grist?

FRANCE-MUSIC-BIEBER

“Reckon

Coney Island

“Reckon the Weight”

Reckon the weight of moonbeams through a prism’s arc, a vein
Of luck that turns the sour sod from odds to evens; the zealous sun
Retains protective all the world and while there’s time to run
The distance , youthful reservoirs are subtle in their wont to wane,
Or so it seems. Reckon passions the necessities of flight,
Thralls reduced to sprites. Loose and radiant poltergeists
Run rampant in the open day. So spin the ophanim, so please the fools;
So worship powers, principalities, their mantras’ threads on golden spools,
While noxious winds care nothing for the scattered seed
And in the end it is the loss of breath that kills and not the cross that bleeds
Us all to death. Just so tonight, all virtues’ yeasts released in spores
that float freely in the early summer’s musky air,
At least till dawn. You’ll want the world to see your footprint there
And how you moved it all , and how you spread the stuff
Of legends, words made crystal or close enough,
and further, some few diamonds in the rough.

….painting at top by Reginald Marsh…

“Lists”

book-of-kells

“Lists”

But that we are on perennial Lists of the living  dying
And once again flowering on someone’s collective right
Or another’s left, honoured blossoms in the frame and light
And all that can be cherished, remembered, idolising
Polished stones or gilded parchments within perspectives visible, allied,
Augmented and beyond the commonweal or plebiscite,
We worship the imagination albeit inoculated with conjecture’s might,
As legacies to thought and evidence, by youth of course despised—
The seed of tears to those who would have it so—
There comes a balance in justice, impediment to all that builds the blind
To hide while viewing bliss to hearts who bear the weight of manicured time,
The yeasts of arts and sciences of all humanity; choices grown
To what is sanctified beneath as bequests of and to Creation above all texts
Declaring a  clear succession in this life that mirrors what must come next.

Slip not

“They Are Redress”

“They Are Redress”

They are redress to millions, their colours, fear and greed,
And steel gray default within an arbitrary quota,  red, white, and blue.
If there is anasthesia in the operation, it’s local and in itself a semblance of glue
That bonding in the thralls along the wall in line, the call of need,
Desperation, denial, and now and then the expedient seed
Of Cain’s considered bright ideas gained long since that fateful trade, the crude
Supposal of some slight in God’s oversight, rude
Reaction of petulance and ingratitude that feeds
Itself upon the notion that once created, “`twere no request
Of ours for breath or life,” and ërgo ours, and ours by right
To tax  its proceeds, harvested to  excess, forgeting the usury of the loan
And possibly the location of the philospher’s stone, values of a single stone,
The sacred cause, denial impossible effec while straw and stubble deficits
with which to build a pyramid–We’ll rise again; we’ll perogue the flowers
of  our youth in saturaded powers that scratch the surfaces in midnight hours.

“Attention Spans”

“Attention Spans”

Attention spans are short, fuses,
Matchless dangers; no matter–the need for caution
Is the norm in the middling run of things–en masse, a daily auction
In the race and sibling competition trumps the general purpose. Muses
Ancient, gracious and inviable  so often are ignored
In favour of what’s been seen and stored.
In youth, some future use; in age, necessity itself takes the floor
While invention’s mother’s lost and no one knows what for
Except to say that something in the wind’s
Brought something else again and when
The dusts are sifted and settled—so they say—the prairie hen,
The swallow and the bee no longer know where they fit in.
Capistrano weighs its greatest losses, hives their Zen
As power lines and cell phones sunder intercourse to the very end.