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Presence

For most of my life I have felt a presence, always near. And though I have never heard its voice, I can sometimes feel its influence on my thoughts. I’ve often thought that it could be an angel. This, my 11th villanelle, reflects upon this lifelong presence and its influence on my existence.

Presence

A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind,
Behind the din and chaos, where subtle voices speak,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Although I faced the world without a friend,
Among the thronging masses, alone within my grief,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

A being came from somewhere far beyond,
Beyond this realm of vision, a place we cannot see,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

My heart was pulled to view the spaces grand,
Where filled with awe I trembled, while always there unseen,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

Where dreams and waking vision merge and blend
A shade has often offered encouragement discreet
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

I ventured far and wide a vagabond,
And when I ached with hunger or shivered in the breeze,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Publication History:

One-In-Four — May 2004

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Aeolian Strains

There is a real live aeolian harp about smack in the middle of New Mexico. I saw a picture of it online some years ago, and in 2004 decided it was time to go visit this living art piece. It was conceptualized and built by a medical doctor turned astronomer, Bill Neely, and his friend Bob Griesing, during June and July of 2000. The owners of the Traditions Shopping Center in the Mimbres Valley commissioned its construction and installation, and not long after they let it fall into disrepair.

It may just be a thing of metal to most, but to me anything that harnesses the wind or manifests music is itself alive, and this does both. And not just alive, but conscious and life-affirming. It was a sad thing for me to find it there, like a wounded animal, still facing the sand-blown wind to play its injured song.

A week after I visited this neglected oracle in January of 2004, I found myself writing this poem, my 10th terzanelle, in Flagstaff, Arizona where I was waylaid on my way back home by a nasty cold.

Aeolian Strains

Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods;
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

This singing weather-vane, the song of which would soothe,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods.

An art piece with a living soul, from mystic magic born,
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored.

In random moments brief, the mad rush grants reprieve,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene.

Or, gusts are sprung upon the chords that bring a bold caress,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath.

She’s like a fallen angel, lamenting all alone—
Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

Publication History:

Illuminations — Spring 2005

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Frostbite

I have never “believed in god” in the conventional dogmatic manner. But I’ve certainly had a relationship with a power greater than myself since at least adolescence. Exposure to the 12-step programs from an early age has taught me well. I know to only pray for “gods” guidance and the strength to follow that guidance. This I have known for a long time.

This poem, my 10th villanelle, reflects on past inner torments that have brought me to prayer, that earnest supplication for peace of mind and stillness of heart that can only be inspired by a sort of psycho-spiritual frostbite.

Frostbite

I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force,
The weight of woes upon me, in strain beneath the strife,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

It seemed in vain, the winds tore deep and fierce;
Succumbed to frigid sorrow, on bitter steppes and wide,
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force.

An insignificant voice pealed forth my case
Against the growing silence, into the blurring heights,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

Defeated and alone, I stayed my course
Until the will expired; unable to revive,
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force.

This long-lived soul fell under glacial curse,
That once had dared entreaty, with no room left for pride,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

There on the frozen wastes I learned of grace,
Where deep and hidden terrors lurk just beneath the ice—
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

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Baby Grand

Listening to her play her piano is always calming to me. I don’t understand it. The piano has always been a special instrument to me, even if I never learned to play it. It is basically a harp laid on its side, the strings of which are struck by hammers operated by keys. It’s a stringed instrument. It is a harp in all respects, and I love harps, too.

So, I thought I would write my 9th terzanelle to her and her piano, as a thank you of sorts.

Baby Grand

For Bonnie

Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.

Within a rounded casing, beneath the sloping lid,
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance;
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds.

Careful fingers fashioned every nuance, carved in elegance,
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame;
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance.

Her scarred veneer remembers what men forget with time;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame.

Colors fade and sully, yet she never loses empathy;
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody.

Despite the many winters, her timbre never wanes;
Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.

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Pilgrim

A most unusual friend inspired this poem, my 8th villanelle. The descriptions aren’t exactly accurate, but this is intentional. For instance, my friend has never used a walking stick. No, you might think of this poem as an impressionist depiction of who he is, or at least of who I see him to be.

Pilgrim

For Derham Giuliani

Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?
With eyes on distant clouds, across the broad horizon,
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Since you left the seething swarm, a peace has filled your mind;
Beneath the sprawling stars you watch the turning heavens—
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?

Wisdom lights your countenance, where thoughts are unconcerned;
Each morning fills your view with glowing gold or crimson;
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Weathered though your face may be, your gaze is clear and kind;
You’ve seen days grow and fade on undulating oceans;
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?

Lucid understanding gleams within your eyes, unstrained;
Reflections streaming through, the sights that met your vision;
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Steeped in clarity profound, you neither seek nor find;
The moonlight’s phasing hues reveal the way you’ve chosen;
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

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Sleep

The subject of death came to plague my thoughts at a very early age, probably around four or five. And so I spent the greater part of my childhood in livid terror of death. The fault could be my father’s, but there’s no real telling. It’s possible this fear rode a thread of spirit into my manifest being from some place, time, or realm before.

I vaguely recall asking my father what happens after we die, probably as a five year old, and he proceeded to explain to me with all the concrete believability that only one’s hallowed father could possess, that it all just ends, that it’s like going to sleep and never waking up again. He was an atheist. For some reason this thought terrified me more, at the time, than the worst possible hells the Catholics could think up for my young brain.

Yet, as an adult… Where does time go when we sleep, between the dreams. It seems to me that there truly is an aspect of our being that is beyond the touch of time, and that we only realize it, unconsciously, in the depths of sleep.

It was as I pondered such thoughts when I sat down to write this ghazal.

Sleep

Who can remember their race between dreams?
Nothing ever holds its pace between dreams.

A mighty river thunders on its way,
An endless quest for the place between dreams.

Though predators fiercely hunt for your soul,
Know they can never give chase between dreams.

Cloudscapes of splendor vanish in the wind;
Their existence bears no trace between dreams.

This depthless farness mid the burning stars
Is but the motionless space between dreams.

Light ventures through and beyond the abyss,
Yet will never show its face between dreams.

Our pains and sorrows gather fold on fold,
But who can carry their case between dreams?

Your freedom flutters far in flight, Zahhar,
For limitless is the grace between dreams.

This is my 45th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — June 2002

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God, May I See You?

This is a backlogged post, made on November 1, 2012. At the time I wrote this, I was still borderline Christian. This was ten years ago, and a lot has changed for me since then. However, you don’t have to be Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or any other particular religion to seek an audience with “god”.

We each understand this word and what it points to in our own way—This can’t be helped, as we are symbolically oriented, interpretive beings. And, throughout life, we each in our own way seek an audience with what this word represents to us, even if we’re not necessarily conscious of the fact.

God, May I See You?

“God, may I see you?”
A silence fills the air
Into the dark I stare with hopeful gaze

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
The room is cold and dark
And blank I stare into a blurring haze

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
A cold wind passes by
As long in vain I peer into the night

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
The desert stretches wide
Alone I scan horizon’s dismal blight

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
Soft the snowflakes fall
I try to see into the flurry’s drift

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
Pine needles seal the sky
I look into the forest’s closing wall

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
The ocean stretches broad
I dimly watch the great waves crash and roar

… … …

“God, may I see you?”
The moonless stars are bright
One parts and splits the heavy night in two