The night; the wilderness; a stream. Here silence takes on new meaning, and it includes a movement of sound. Here stillness absorbs new significance, and it involves touch and motion.
Halflight
Publication History:
The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005
Dreams can irrupt into waking life. Sometimes waking life feels like a dream. Reality is subjective, and its significance even more so. An irruption is the polar opposite of an eruption. As selves, our egos are forever erupting into our environment, influencing everything from landscapes to the behaviors of others. But we are like bubbles drifting through a larger, heavier fluid. Once in awhile our bubble weakens and lets something in from that fluid unconscious that challenges our sense of reality—this is an irruption.
irruption
all in a moment
reality peels back and reveals
the unknown…
snowflakes fall to the sky
boulders drift through a canopy
rustling leaves as puffy white clouds
leave craters where they fall to earth
snap to
eyes open
reach for balance…
walls breathe in darkness
linens screech at silence
ceramic tiles gnaw the legs
of your trembling bed
grip the sandpaper blankets
fingernails splintering
shut tight your eyes…
cold coils around your wrist
fibers burrow into the skin
as something parts the covers
by your recoiling feet
spring from bed
stumble to light
shatter the darkness…
nothing but familiarity
the rumpled sheets
an unvacuumed carpet
a flickering heartbeat
To me, inspiration is a sacred thing. Without it, the creative soul experiences nothing but frustration and dismay. Some ancient poets were known to incorporate an invocation of the muse or muses into their epic poetry, such as Homer, Virgil, and Dante. I do not plan to write epic poems during my lifetime, though it could happen. Still, I would like to try to invoke the muses for the epic journey of my writing process, which I hope will last the entirety of my life.
An Invocation
O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
and flash against the backdrop of my thoughts
an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.
Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams
and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.
Release creative flow like prismed floods
that sweep stagnation from my standing sense.
O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.
Lift the heavy doubt that cowers thick and close,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray
and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Reach through this cacophonic mental din
and seed within my harried understanding
an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.
Sweep a translucent wind throughout my psychic planes,
infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray.
Defrost the ice and snow from all my fields,
the winter-scapes within that numb perception.
O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.
Return decayed ideas to elemental drift
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath
infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist.
Connect me to the place where light is born,
from where it swells to crest in consciousness
an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.
Part confusion from conceptions fallen dead,
and draw its suffocation off my faculties
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath.
Restore the waters of my inmost lands,
so that my springs will flow with apprehension.
O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.
Sing to me invention, and help me learn to heed.
Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams,
and draw its suffocation off my faculties.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.
This is my 11th hybridanelle.
Publication History:
Art Arena (web-based) — August 2005
Wherever I live, I always seem to find a place of prayer somewhere away from town. When I lived in San Jose, this was south of the city and up in the eastern mountains far down a long windy road. Out there in the wilderness, when you throw your voice to the stars, perhaps god hears—perhaps the angels do. But, beyond a doubt those creatures hidden away or wandering through the underbrush hear.
Silhouette
a new road
like so many before
an unstriped snake
convulsing across the mountains
each bend a heave
each rise a toss
where starless overcast crushes
asphalt into shadows
stopped in a dusty turnout
boot-steps scuffle and pace
hidden hands claw the hidden sky
driven far from the city
deep among shapeless trees
grasping and gasping for solace
here prayers cannot be hidden
they are pulled from the throat
ripped from the lungs
torn from the belly
swallowed whole
by subtle unseen sounds
dry leaves crunch
twigs pop and snap
movement scuttles and skitters
stirred by a torment
sucked from human lips
by the wind
in the double-darkness
a prayer halts
buried in beats of blood
as a presence nears
yet makes no noise
rustling only the senses
the prayer turns
throws a cone of light
searching through the oaks
and steps away reveals
in the outline of a wolf
two hollow orbs of light
Publication History:
The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005
During my teenage years, I was a hardcore fan of the Robotech Saga. My teen years were trying times for me, in just about every possible way. My life was under the control of the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts, and I was locked up and subjected to endless involuntary chemical abuse like a lab rat. I was robbed of my potential through this process, and by the time I ran away as a 15 year old, I would have to spend the rest of my life reconstructing what I could of my damaged mind.
This poem depicts the role the Robotech Saga played in influencing me to take a stand against this abuse, which I did by running away and facing an entirely different, yet more controllable, set of dangers. Protoculture is the substance everyone was after in the series, and which was used to power the hyper-transformative “robotechnology”.
Protoculture
mysterious and eternal
you shot me among the stars
folded my mind across the unknown
and for the first time
i felt the stainless grip
of chains and shackles
and i began to tear my flesh
bruise my bones
crazed with a wordless desire
snapping chains against their mounts
pain now only a reminder
freedom or death
imagination was reborn
behind my glaze
my soul transformed over and over
a veritech dodging heavy fire
a guardian swooping the foe
a battloid launching wild salvos
somehow i sensed a resonant power
a massive generator of hope
giant invaders sought to capture or destroy
deep in my battle-scarred fortress
and ripping free of my blood-caked bonds
i reeled and stood my ground
Within my mind there has always been the nagging notion that maybe we are not actually what we think ourselves to be. That all of our experiences are manifest, projected, from powerful minds that reach out into the void of space to touch one another and interact. I talk of stars, the stars that pepper the night, the endless billions of stars.
Starscape
Publication History:
Tales of the Talisman — September 2006
There have been apocalyptic Christians somewhere in my life as far back as I can remember. These folks love to reflect on the signs of the end-times and such. Yet every sign reflected upon, I eventually came to realize, has been going on not only since the death of Christ, but clear back to the origins of man. This stuff might even be universal to sentience, wherever its manifests.
So I got to thinking on the sheer sophistry of apocalyptic prophesy—It just can’t work if it’s going to focus solely on earthly and celestial changes and humanity’s tendency to make really bad decisions, for this has all been going on as far back as human records reflect. If a prophecy is going to hold any water at all, it has to be entirely specific, and concrete—none of this wishy-washy, highly interpretable, metaphoric stuff.
So I got to thinking about it further, and ended up writing this poem, my 10th hybridanelle. I studied the types of prophecy commonly focused upon—around ten—and ultimately came to dedicate about one stanza to each of them. These were: Wars and rumors of wars; Apostasy; Earthquakes; Famines; “Fearful events”; Lawlessness; Persecution; Plagues; Celestial signs; and False messiahs and/or prophets. Stuff that has been going on since time immemorial.
The indentational scheme is intended to create the effect of reading bits of unraveled scroll.
The Sophistry of Prophecy
when was there never famine, never war,
no bloody battles fought for real estate
with every nation harmonized in peace?
when have the heavens paused like polished stone,
motionless across the fields of space,
to pass a single year without a sign?
what season never yielded plague nor blight,
with all the divers cultures steeped in bounty,
no bloody battles fought for real estate?
what age has seen the quaking earth hold still,
her ever-changing contours locked in place?
when have the heavens paused like polished stone?
which hour never saw men gaunt with hunger
nor ever shook men from their chosen path,
with all the divers cultures steeped in bounty?
when have conditions failed to vex the soul,
and terrors slept enchanted with the grace
to pass a single year without a sign?
what creed has never suffered purblind wrath,
nor punished those who hold a different faith,
nor ever shook men from their chosen path?
where has the climate never loosed a storm?
what river never leapt beyond its base?
when have the heavens paused like polished stone?
what people never felt the touch of crime,
no greed nor malice wasting human hearts,
nor punished those who hold a different faith?
when have diviners ever granted sway,
allowing humankind some minor space
to pass a single year without a sign?
since time began to crumble written thoughts,
when was there never famine, never war,
no greed nor malice wasting human hearts,
with every nation harmonized in peace?
was there a time impostors never sought
to stage themselves as some important face?
when have the heavens paused like polished stone,
to pass a single year without a sign?
We are stardust, the stuff of stars. So everything we experience is star stuff. Our feelings, our hopes, our dreams, our pains, our losses, our deepest sorrows—All stardust. Even infections and malignant growths are the stuff of stars. Everything is rolled up in the same karmic stream of coming and going.
Stardust
The meaning of our existence here on this little ball of blue, green, and brown has been shaped by the birth and death of ancient suns. As we author our brief existence, etched on the papyrus of our world’s surface, we borrow from long established texts—The text of suns long ago extinguished; the text of nebulae rippled in darkness; the text of dust and gas thrown through the void by the blinding glare of a newborn gaze on the cosmos. This is the intertext of our existence, and one day, countless ages from now, some new world adrift in the darkness will spawn sentience, and somewhere therein we will be, silently lending shape to its nascent subtexts.
The Intertext
Publication History:
The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005
During a recent cross-country drive across several states, I noticed how many yahoos sported the American flag on their cars and houses, but never bothered to honor it by taking it down at night (it should never be left in the dark) or retiring it once it fades out, cracks to bits, or wastes away.
It dawned on me that this must be how these Americans actually feel about their country and the constitutional ideals upon which it is founded. They may boast and brag about how great America is, but actions speak so much louder than words. You show me exactly what you think the ideals that founded this country are worth when you let the flag that represents them waste away in plain view of the world—Something that once upon a time would win you a citation.
Burning the Flag
Cracked and faded in the sun,
sported emblems lose their hue,
unretired and weather-torn.
Exposure to the elements betrays
emotional and mental negligence
to burning disregard for heritage.
Bumper stickers age too soon;
paper pride is left to wane,
cracked and faded in the sun
on well-kept pickup trucks and long sedans
beside some slogan spouting malcontent;
emotional and mental negligence
flies atop the roofs of cars—
sooty clown-ears deeply stained,
unretired and weather-torn.
Support is shown as mere velleity,
a symbol posted like an afterthought
beside some slogan spouting malcontent,
just another brittle sign
taking on a dirty tinge,
cracked and faded in the sun.
What shone for Francis Key one failing night
is treated now like any corporate logo,
a symbol posted like an afterthought.
Freedom flails on autumn winds,
half-remembered, growing pale,
unretired and weather-torn.
Abandoned to an apathy’s pollution,
the dream Old Glory strives to represent
is treated now like any corporate logo.
Banners rip on plastic stands,
unsaluted dawn to dusk,
cracked and faded in the sun,
unretired and weather-torn.
As mildew rots the fabric of the States,
exposure to the elements betrays
the dream Old Glory strives to represent
to burning disregard for heritage.
This is my 9th hybridanelle poem.
Written for Mahmud Kianush, a poet from Iran who used a couple of my ghazals in part of a BBC radio series covering the history and evolution of the Persian ghazal. It was a 12 or 13 part series, broadcast in Persian, and my ghazals were included toward the end as examples of how the ghazal form had found its way into other cultures and languages.
Having my work with the ghazal recognized by an Iranian scholar in this manner meant a lot to me. Thus was I moved to write and dedicate this ghazal to him. Most of the imagery is derived from his book of poems, Of Birds and Men, published in 2004 by The Rockingham Press.
Stardrift
Publication History:
Art Arena (web-based) — July 2005
The Ghazal Page (web-based) — April 2006
