Waiting. Waiting. From where I sit
I see but platitudes of prepositions in multitudes in wait,
Rapacious greyhounds―verbs and nouns cut off at the gate—
While dangling snails modify themselves in the gambit
Toward their verbal soup seeking refuge.
What’s quick and nearer are the terrors
Writ and easy abscess to blatant errors
In the long run baked in the heat of subterfuge:
Aye me! What act that roars so loud and thunders in the index?
Yet pundits scream and stream the name of truth
With the watchword “Breaking news!” Abstruse,
Perhaps, yes! Obtuse and perpendicular to a blatant text
Announcing nothing more than ounces first, then gallons
Of bile and holiness at the claw and retribution in the talons.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, News Media, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“Yes, of Course”
Yes, of course, it’s in the silences, the gaps; what isn’t there,
A kind of saving grace. Yes, it’s in the wrist and more, a second
Maiden voyage. The news announces daily the Titanic’s jocund
Journey redux, greater for revision less the ware
And less absorbing in the loss of souls from rarer thinner air
Brought faithfully to task but mind you nonetheless a reckoning
Within a construct; no! an edifice of remembrances within the seconding
Of resolutions that determines Elliot’s wave within the self-defining stare
Of relative modernity; but one tsunami in eternity amid the voids of space.
The promise of redemption’s found in balances of degrees
In praise of beauty in the sun spots’ mighty aura, the aurora in the fray
Of loose inebriating Northern Lights–try distraction while you pray–
Try the Northwest Passage in the making high above the Arctic’s former grace
Notes, rhythms in the writ, a metaphor in G, perhaps, but played in C.
“There was peace and the world had an even tenor to it’s way. Nothing was revealed in the morning, the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event, that not only made the world rub its eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since, with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15, 1912. – Jack Thayer, Titanic Survivor
Posted in Affirmation, Ôm, Balance, Certitude, Chaos, Civilisation, Cycles, End Times, Eternity, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Ships, Sonnet, Zeitgeist
Tagged End Times, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Northern Lights, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sun spots, Titanic, Tragic Flaw
“Imagination Styles the Face”
Imagination styles the face that solves a thousand wrongs,
While no one’s guessing what’s behind the door.
Better yet, the portal to escape closes just behind him; gore
And all that glitter exposed, moments redux of the earlier morning songs,
Playground glories among the boys and toys, seasons to declare
His eminence–petulant and sulking–ever short of rule, ever cool,
Who stalks the school yard–recess, lunch, and after school.
And preys on younger lambs who cannot see nor dare
To think beyond the present teacher and the class
To one day leaving what was never meant to be
A permanent abode but stepping stones to what only seems
To be a day’s delay to graduation fantasy, and one more hall pass.
“The blame is his,…no hers! No theirs, but never mine,
so why should I remain behind the rest?
I’m not the only one!” he says,
“But, then again, I never meant to study, people!
I never meant to pass the test!”
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
What? could they not wait? Justice always outs in time;
What? since Abel, not enough blood? Soils do not leave
Themselves a choice in these matters; mothers grieve
As doctors weave solutions; where once their limbs aligned,
They are no more. And, for a bowl of soup this Esau
Yields at ought his heritage? Who isn’t fooled in the dimming eyes of Isaac
In the aftermath? Reconciliation, you say? Can a Caveat
To destiny be forgiven, and where the wound is raw
Can any skin but the tougher scars be grown from what is sown?
And when the perpetrators contemplate their last actions,
The rupture of the children; the bodies, the lasting hideous imagination
Of that day along the Ides of April for which no religous idyll can atone.
O Crimea now, O Syria then, O America ever vigilant!
O streets and markets free but never far from the malignant.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged America, Crimea, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Syria, Tragic Flaw
“And When He Looked Again”
And when he looked again, he saw the two suns
Rehearsing illusions in the river’s voice, the highest good,
The other lost within himself; the tidal mirror could
Not bear separation from the source, one
In signs, yet silenced, ever flowing in what it did
In passing. Crudely graced, seducing visions perfectly,
The first declared itself a certainty,
Its faith a recreated memory, its secrets hid.
In less than seconds, there was nothing of the rival left
To view. A single pebble and the river, too deserted,
stretches seamlessly, the cleft
Between the golden orbs become a prism,
the heavens suspended twice, the right, the left,
The recreation of creation, binding immortal mortalities,
void and substance bereft,
The heavens and the earth; breathless, lost within a common interlude
Where visions set themselves through perpetual accident and certitude.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
The cul-de–sac within a maze does not wait
For introductions from the chair but bends the warp in time
To suit the labyrinth of audience, tempo and subtle rhyme
No greater than space required for one more trophy, a gilded plate
Or just another knickknack on the shelf; the current season’s wake
Allows so little time to plan for sudden guests whose line-up
At the door’s so crudely cumbersome and misaligned
That any gust of wind or shallow breeze contemplates
An exodus and the elevation of a queue to the rank of stampede.
No, we need no fire to raise alarms and no petrels to sing
The hourly anthem. Still it’s not so much what is, but what’s developing
That throws all order to the winds and what’s believed
Trumps what’s been gained upstaging all former rectitudes
And satisfaction, leaving grace disgraced and little left but platitudes.
… painting by Antonio Fontanesi…
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“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.
Posted in Age, Certitude, Death, Delusion, Detachment, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Idolatry, Illusion, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Immortality, Infinitity, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Relativity, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Art, Death, Delusion, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Limbs, appendages, extensions, sinew stretched
Across the chasms, voids, and axles
Of Creation, forms to occupy the mind; cosmic jackals,
Vain imaginings sprung from fractals, etched
In plaited mesh and skeletal remains combine
To people thought and populate scenarios.
Nothing ever quiets the machine, the interim’s need will borrow
Legitimacy and gravitas from life’s single habit, refine
Its use for lifetimes, the penultimate line in verses
Penned to presage the tentative, the simple strokes of time.
Transition’s in the air, my friends, and next in line
For what’s about to come to pass might well be curses
For the speed with which the world embraces in exchange for its mistakes.
Only the Creator weds the art of accident to apposition for its own sake.
Posted in Astronomy, Change, Existence, Experience, God, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Relativity, Religion, Sacrifice, Samsara, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality, Stations, Universe
Tagged Change, Evolution, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Winter’s Nod to Season’s End”
Winter’s nod to season’s end and something’s changed, but he has
Fond remembrance in his veins and what remains of velvet skin,
Elastic reach, and exultation ever on the rebound; that once mighty fin’s
Bent perhaps to one side or the other with the tides. He’s come in last
Again; there’s no more north to his days; his dorsal sags–
One of many signals. What was wont to win against the odds
In all winds, all waves always gives sway to simple treasures. The pods
Have someday left him, or is he merely leaving? Here he lags. He’ll find sad pleasures in arenas, nearby bays, or just beyond the nets
Where all the lessers still pay for what they find. His presence draws
But cannot make a living. There comes that sundry sudden pause
Too many, and he’s trapped within an unforgiving inlet,
Or soon will be. He’ll not heed the signs, he cannot feel the warming;
Friends and family call to him but he can not hear the warning.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset within the First Day of the Month of Bahá [Splendour], the beginning of the first month of the Bahá’í Year, the arrival of Naw-Rúz, the Bahá’í New Year, the Spring Equinox, the first day of Spring.
A Happy Naw-Rúz 171 B.E. to one and all!
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Bahá or ‘Splendour’”
What greater splendour can there be in all creation
Than that the spectre of creation, the lightning’s grace,
A recognition of the Face
Of He Who in the blessed moment of elation
Outs form and substance to recreate stations
Of the greatest and the least, the favoured
Favouring within a regenerative sphere? Savoured,
Refined, bestowing rank and attributes to nations
And a crown to every whole who owns both fate and destiny:
Light-born spirits hear the cry
Throughout the world that yet another soul is signed
And welcomed by the denizens of heaven within the nest of He
Who made the Matrix, Who knew from time and dispensations immemorial,
In the ancient eternity of His Essence, His deathless spring, His Gift primordial.
Posted in Bahá'í Months, Bahá’í, Bahá’í Faith, Lyric Poetry, Naw-Rúz, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Bahá, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Light-born spirits, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, poetry, Sonnets, spirituality, Splendour