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return

This reflects on my first time looking down into the Ukiah valley. Though I had never been there before, I knew the place somehow as surely as if I had been born and raised there. It was like coming home. And every time I return, it is like coming home again.

return

foliage rises up the mountains
clouds amass upon the eastern ridges
i am home, finally i am home

my feet grew sore in the desert
my back stiff on the plains
like gusts of wind, i could not rest

rivers wandered their courses
stars glittered from the abyss
starved and alone, i followed them

one day i crested a ridge
and cradled there in a valley
a hamlet lost from the world

this place i had never seen
yet what my eyes never knew
my heart somehow remembered

in the world i was tossed relentless
storms passed to leave me in ruin
but here i am an old oak firmly rooted

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Noise

Inspired no doubt by much of what we hear in politics, the news, and from “experts” in the arts.

Noise

Meaningless words accrete relentlessly,
Growing in their conceit relentlessly.

Bright words with meaning, swallowed in the storm,
Simply cannot compete relentlessly.

Like sands on thrusting winds that pelt and tear,
These empty words entreat relentlessly.

Weeds grow enmasse throughout the spanning fields
And glowing words delete relentlessly.

Are truthless proclamations reified
Because the words repeat relentlessly?

Zahhar’s own words, though lost in rolling din,
Will not stay in defeat relentlessly.

This is my 42nd ghazal.

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English Ghazal

I later rewrote this ghazal under a new title, “Ghazal to the Ghazal”.

English Ghazal

The soul its depths may know within the amorous ghazal
So poignant as it may within the dolorous ghazal.

What forms with simple ease in languages of the East
Stands impervious to English, the onerous ghazal.

Dare not disgrace the history and beauty of its form
With bold attempts to reinvent the canorous ghazal.

Well before the very first of English words were formed,
A wonder spread by poets was the prosperous ghazal.

This heart had lost its aspect in the dismal realms of grief
But found its shape anew within the rapturous ghazal.

In time a stone shapes well within the sculptors mindful care;
As such, the mind is honed that works the rigorous ghazal.

Blessed profoundly is the heart and all its depths fulfilled
That strives to form in English mold the decorous ghazal.

The ghazal’s essence flows within the spirit of Zahhar;
Let this be an example of the flavorous ghazal.

This is my 41st ghazal.

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Rarity

I only saw her maybe three or four times total at a Denny’s Restaurant where I used to hang out into all hours of the night. I never spoke to her or made any attempt to introduce myself, but clearly she made an impression since I was thinking about her when I wrote this a few years later.

Rarity

The supple wonder of her grace is art,
And how the heart responds in pace is art.

With windows to a peaceful golden soul,
Her gentle, loving, tender face is art;

In picturesque perfection lost in thought,
Her careless gaze across a space is art.

One could not dream of sculptures finer made—
Her aspect to its faintest trace is art.

A glowing warmth as from the sliding sun,
Her fragrant presence in its place is art.

Zahhar delights in treasures such as her,
For just her current in the race is art.

This is my 37th ghazal.

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Yukon Tributary

The Yukon River is perhaps a soul-mate of sorts. Without her, I don’t think I could have made the transition from adolescence into adulthood. This is a tribute to her remarkable spirit. I’ve found the time and resources to make my way to her great waters twice in my life. I hope there will be at least a third and fourth time before my days are done.

Yukon Tributary

High in the heavens the cirrus brightly flow;
Skyline nimbus fold in a sightly flow.

Adrift on a river swelled by the melted snow,
Swift I float where the waters lightly flow.

The winds fold down the treetops where they blow,
Crossing splendors broad in sprightly flow.

Here on the currents, many days drifting slow,
A peace swells in my heart with rightly flow.

At night the lucid heavens dance and glow,
I watch with tearing eyes their nightly flow.

What clarity Zahhar could ever know,
Is here where thoughts are still and slightly flow.

This is my 28th ghazal.