Posted on by EAT

Offering

There are many things driving me to study and write poetry, not the least of which is this sense or belief that I have something important and tangible to offer through the medium. I later rewrote this ghazal entirely under the revised title, “Offerings” (pluralized).

Offering

I trudge now back through this grime for you
Because it may ease the climb for you.

Because you just might learn from my pain,
I re-walk that bitter rime for you.

I’m told there are riches deep within,
So I search this fetid slime for you.

I seek rubies in the cave of loss,
Yet I’m glad to spend the time for you.

The earth and stars all could have been mine,
But I’ve passed these chances prime for you.

I’ll peel the rind and my soul expose,
Then wait as a silent mime for you.

Pearls were buried with my heart, you see,
So I dig back through the lime for you.

If in your depths these words resonate,
Zahhar is sounding a chime for you.

This is my 61st ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Path

I later rewrote this poem under the title, “The Path” (with article).

Path

With breaking dawn, there rose a bright destiny,
Where only the blind could never sight destiny.

Before these atoms even formed the flesh,
This heart was gripped within a tight destiny.

Sloshing in the womb that cursed this life,
I never had the power to fight destiny.

Mid this storm are strikes of realization,
But thunder rattles into flight destiny.

Beating drums mete out a promise within
Until I strain to meet this light destiny.

This dream is battered in the raging rush,
Crashing in rapid rocky white destiny.

The broad and beaten way is trampled bare
By those who from their lives smite destiny.

Don’t lament on how this way’s obscured;
Not even all the winds can write destiny.

Proud slaves of Mammon scoff at those with little,
Yet they are weighed with woe who spite destiny.

Though we may rip from all the earth her beauty,
This sin is not enough to blight destiny.

Braced for the pending break, Zahhar, your tense;
Still you must wait; you cannot cite destiny.

This is my 60th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Blasphemy

War is itself a form of blasphemy, and yet wars are waged over blasphemies perceived. Strange, isn’t it? Somehow I doubt that any fundamentalist really grasps whatever “truth” there is to be found within their dogma or sees the ridiculous irony in attempting to force those around them into adhering to their convictions.

Blasphemy

Bold, near-sighted fools bray, “Sacrilege!”;
and yet, is not their own way sacrilege?

Fortress prisons seal the heart from love
‘till light itself becomes gray sacrilege.

When men in high position lose their faith,
they then make of their faith a sacrilege.

How can we feathers grow to soar in flight
when we must deem our own clay sacrilege?

The judging stones that crush a hidden face
create within their own fray sacrilege.

If there is One that language can’t define,
then how does but a word say sacrilege?

Around the world brave guns and sabers flash.
But think! How does their rage slay sacrilege?

Both doves and ravens dance upon the winds;
who calls the way that these pray sacrilege?

And you Zahhar are not above the rest;
dare not believe that men stay sacrilege.

This is my 56th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003