Evanescence

I met her because I took an interest in her daughter. She befriended me because she felt I was unique. I cultivated the friendship because no-one like her had ever bothered with me before. She died because the cancer finally won. For me, the loss was staggering. This ghazal was written shortly after her death.

Evanescence

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

In the place where I pay homage to the night
I pled your case to stars that strew the night.

From this mountaintop I prayed for you to heal,
In tandem fell two bold stars through the night.

I, too, had walked on that shadow’s edge before
And knew you as another who knew the night.

Your journey along the shadow’s edge was long,
Then your strength gave out and on you drew the night.

Maybe your soul was healed instead of your form
That we are left in your wake to rue the night.

Now in silence on that mountaintop I gaze
On blurring stars where long I view the night.

Stars reflect in the well-spring of my soul;
I sought a friend, but was left in lieu the night.

Was it your essence in the wind that whispered,
“I’m not lost, Zahhar,” as languid grew the night?

This is my 70th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — August 2003

Reft

This was written as I reflected on the effects of parental alcoholism, and by extension drug addiction in general, on young children, especially infants and toddlers. I was one such infant and toddler, so I have some insight into these effects.

Reft

An amber liquid sapped her attention away,
And from her heart stripped loving intention away.

The lonesome wail of hunger competing in vain
Unleashed her rage and tore her abstention away.

It wasn’t desire denied with an angry glare,
But painful dearth closed up in detention away.

An oscillation between assurance and terror
Caused a distress that rent apprehension away.

Angels swept this fragmenting soul to safety
To lands where shadows shift a dimension away.

Smothered beneath resentment, bitter and fierce,
Any potential was locked from ascension away.

Wound in the Catherine wheel of her deception,
Spirit was ripped in morbid extension away.

Remove from your heart the demon’s claw, Zahhar,
Let pass the touch of its dark invention away.

This is my 69th ghazal.

Displacement

She was one of the few good friends I’ve made in my adult life, someone who took me seriously as an individual and as a poet. Ten years later (It is October 27, 2012, and I’m posting this as a backlogged post), I still miss her and think about her. She had a positive impact on my life.

Displacement

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

You’ve left behind a nightmare of ripping loss,
And joy was sliced from the heart by this clipping loss.

Knowing you faded a little more each day,
We tried our best to ignore it, this nipping loss.

Together we shared in brimming abundance, but
We at the banquet only were sipping loss.

The empty space you filled is empty again;
Wind howls into the vacuum with whipping loss.

Will you now dream of us from that place of dreams,
And pray our hearts to heal from your stripping loss?

Will you with angel feathers we cannot see
Brush past in hopes to console our gripping loss?

Take heart, Zahhar, for your friend has but transformed,
Moving beyond this realm of slipping loss.

This is my 68th ghazal.

Paradox

This is interesting, in a tortured, abstract sort of way. More than ten years after having written it, I’ve just rediscovered this old bit of writing and I feel compelled to share it here as a backlogged post, which should be the day on which it was written.

Paradox

The dream was touched by a protected soul,
And hearts were torn by a rejected soul.

The kindly soul is trampled down, and yet
Malice pervades the most respected soul.

Angry teeth flashed under eyes glazed over;
This face revealed a dark neglected soul.

A scalpel tongue sliced out such acrid words,
All life was bled from that dissected soul.

Rage born of terror broods a bitter bile,
Ruining the will of each subjected soul.

What holds no grief will also hold no joy,
A void that shatters the affected soul.

Mist cannot be marred while crystal fragments—
Both are aspects of the reflected soul.

That darker shadow in the depths of night
In time reveals its own directed soul.

A crazed ceramic pot containing naught
Represents, I hear, a perfected soul.

Patience, Zahhar, for it takes time to heal—
Angels tend to your deeply infected soul.

This is my 67th ghazal.

Acorn

I have for years had a relationship with the spirit of the oak. Specifically the California Black Oak, but by extension all oaks. I don’t think of this relationship in the totemic sense of power animals and spirit guides, but in the animistic sense of a mutual connection.

Such connections can be guiding, and they can also be protective—but to my feeling, this is the decision of the spirits that I’ve connected with, not myself. This is one of the big differences between totemism and animism. The totemist seeks to control his or her spiritual relationships and force their wills. This, like any relationship where one member attempts to manipulate and control another, tends to sour and end badly. The animist seeks only to acknowledge and cultivate those spiritual relationships that sustain a mutual benefit. This benefit can be emotional, mental, psychic, influential, and other. I’m sure the spectrum of mutual benefit is as varied as the spectrum of light itself, and that much of it is beyond the grasp of both participants. For it to remain healthy and unspoiled, it must be cultivated and not controlled.

In this poem, Zahhar (the pen name my screen name here is based upon) receives a gift, a blessing, an unknown—a seed. A treasure. It need not be interpreted or understood, only felt and acknowledged. Such is the nature of those gifts—blessings—offered by our spirit companions. The minute you try to make sense of them, they’ll wither and die, and sometimes even transmogrify into a curse.

Acorn

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

This is my 63rd ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

Finale

The subject of death and birth has been on my mind for as long as I can remember. Here I play with the idea of transmigration, but from a nonlinear standpoint where the self is lost and only the karmic momentum carries forth. So, not reincarnation, but something else and something more subtle.

Finale

Dreams have faded into wondering
All hopes have ceased to hold meaning
The shadow of my diffusion draws near
There is no need to cry for I know
Time is without meaning
And that which I am cannot be lost

This point of presence though drifting long
Shall fill a meaningful empty space
Of an existence not yet fulfilled
And that which was diffused in mist
Will condensate from the void and rain
Into the womb of a new beginning