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.

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.

Empty Voyage

Believe it or not, I wrote this while in a very positive relationship. I wanted to see if I could capture the feelings I experienced during a 3 year period where I chose to be celibate and single in hopes of forcing myself to develop emotionally and spiritually, and thus have more to offer in my next relationship. The pay-off was outstanding. I gained more from that experience of celibacy than I ever could have hoped. And I have indeed been able to offer a great deal more in my relationships since then. Yet, man… It was tough, being alone all that time…

Empty Voyage

A darkling vapor neath I lie alone;
I gaze into a sullen sky alone…

My heart deeply eclipsed by vast despair,
I watch the tide of days draw nigh alone…

A shrouding umbrage fallen on my thoughts—
Embittered full of gall, I cry alone…

Within the hollow vastitudes beset,
I dimly witness life pass by alone…

Upon my soul the dim expanses press;
My hope is crushed; I slowly die alone…

I may not know the gentle breath of Spring;
In Winter’s dismal chill I wry alone…

Will no-one hear the music that I hear?
While my heart goes unshared, I sigh alone…

These slopes I scale are treacherous and steep;
I have not strength to climb too high alone…

A blossom yet may bloom within, Zahhar;
Perhaps you will not through life fly alone…

This is my 33rd ghazal.

Reforming Words

It has always seemed to me that words—language—are the very foundations upon which sentience is based. Without them, barring telepathic communication, there would be no way to communicate, and certainly no way to leave behind a legacy. I later rewrote this poem entirely under the same title, “Reforming Words”, with a slightly different focus.

Reforming Words

Touched by majestic magic founding words,
My thoughts are full of most astounding words.

Scribed in languages long before our own,
Their gifts were wrought in strong redounding words.

Angelic tongues, now half forgotten lore,
Unlocked the secrets with expounding words.

Clear they expressed the space between the poles,
Yet time has changed them to confounding words.

The place where dreams began and dreams will end
Can hardly be explained through bounding words.

With antiquated brush her symbols formed;
With modern key they still are grounding words.

Until that shore lost in the haze is reached,
Our hearts will be pursued by hounding words.

Reformed again from aeons lost diffused,
Zahhar begins anew in sounding words.

This is my 30th ghazal.

Living Waters

This is inspired by the ocean, the powerful living waters of the earth. I suppose there isn’t much more to say about it.

Living Waters

The voice of nature sings on crashing waves,
Full might of her heart expressed in dashing waves.

Despite their all encompassing thunderous din,
What brilliant peace is wrought by clashing waves!

Nature’s essence foams on roaring waters;
Her spirit flows in sanative plashing waves.

Unparalleled in all the spanning lands,
Unbridled beauty leaps on flashing waves.

Bound in dance with the ageless circling moon,
In tandem rise and fall the smashing waves.

What, of all viable forces, can move the soul
More than the power and grace of pashing waves?

Carved throughout the pass of coursing ages,
Endless the shores are shaped by lashing waves.

Often alone Zahhar stands watching in awe
The awful wonder and life in thrashing waves.

This is my 21st ghazal.

Publication History:

LYNX (web-based) — October 2002

These Aged Pines

I am posting this as a backlogged post to the day it was written. Presently it is November 2, 2012. It is very likely this poem was inspired by my early walks in Montgomery Woods, an old-growth coastal redwood preserve about 30 miles west of Ukiah, CA.

These Aged Pines

Amid a lush fern carpet stand perpending pillars;
Lost in the closing cover, rise impending pillars.

A constant calm hangs in the quiet shaded gloom
Beneath enshrouding shelter of attending pillars.

Ringlets firm encircle ancient seasoned hearts,
Shielded deep within the broad suspending pillars.

Silent witness to the flow of countless ages,
A subtle presence grows amid ascending pillars.

More than stately; more than magnificently made,
High up into the heavens reach transcending pillars.

Zahhar forgets a thousand woes among these giants,
A torn heart held uplifted by extending pillars.

This is my 19th ghazal.

Etchings

Trees of all kinds will always inspire poems from me. This ghazal is one such creature. There is a cohesive pattern to the shadows as you read, starting with Winter and ending in Autumn.

Etchings

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.

This is my 18th ghazal, revised in January of 2013.

Moonset

I have always felt a peculiar connection with the moon, like an enchantment. I suppose this is true for most people. She does, after all, tug at the very molecules from which we’re formed and influence the tidal flows of our chemistries.

Moonset

Upon a streaming cloudscape floats directive moon;
Like a feather falling drifts perfective moon.

Soundless autumn breezes rustle unseen leaves—
Silhouettes of trees beneath projective moon.

Moonlight flickers faintly, cast through broken shroud;
Gently in descent retreats respective moon.

Shifting slow and silent against the depths of night,
Radiant vapors phase below reflective moon.

Soundless on horizon, a cloud-like dragon flies,
Final hues reflecting from far prospective moon.

Still, serene, amazed, Zahhar observes alone,
Distant shimmering moods of our affective moon.

This is my 17th ghazal.

Publication History

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — August 2003

Narcolepsy

I have been narcoleptic most of my life—if not all of my life. For me, the most salient effect this condition has had on my experience of living is that of making it all seem like one very long dream. It is sometimes difficult for me to figure out if I’m really awake, or really asleep for that matter.

Narcolepsy

I live between two realms oppressively trapped,
By force unseen long held repressively trapped.

I never feel alive or fully present,
Halfway in Land of Nod recessively trapped.

Tethered to a plane I can’t escape,
My doom is to remain impressively trapped.

My struggle for coherent mind is constant,
Held by Morpheus’ hand depressively trapped.

I phase like a shade amid the moving world,
By underworld of dreams possessively trapped.

Sometimes seized by an invisible grip,
I fall to paralysis suppressively trapped.

I’m worn by this wrestle for consistency,
Forever snapping back successively trapped.

When will Zahhar rise forth into the light—
Or shall he timeless be regressively trapped?

This is my 16th ghazal.

Road

The open road has played a significant role in my life. I ran away as a teenager and spent a few years wandering the narrow black lanes of America. As an adult I’ve explored most of the states west of the Mississippi by bus and by car. As the cost of gas rises, this has become less practical, but I’ll still take to the highways once in a while when I need time to think, meditate, and reflect.

Road

There spanned before me a long wending road,
Stretching aloft a life-mending road.

Expanses stirred in my spirit a goad,
Spurring adventures along trending road.

Drifting alone with a great mental load
I wandered far on the peace-lending road.

The changing lands were my phasing abode
Beneath the skies of an unending road.

Hope was reformed through steady erode
Of useless views on strength-spending road.

Amid moving seasons wandering strode
The dreamless Zahhar on soul-tending road.

This is my 12th ghazal.

Publication History:

LYNX (web-based) — October 2002

Guidance

There was a time when I was more religiously minded. That was a long time ago. This ghazal was written a long time ago. Still, religious or not, it never hurts to seek the guidance of a higher power.

Guidance

Our souls and spirits, minds and hearts all need God’s guidance;
It seems we have the most to gain to heed God’s guidance.

When all the worst occurs and you lose your only footing,
A cry of need into the sky will speed God’s guidance.

When relentless fears assail with crushing weight and swell,
You will be blest beyond a doubt to plead God’s guidance.

Ask for knowledge of his will and willingness as well,
Else there is a likeliness to just misread God’s guidance.

It benefits to cognize his way is not our own;
Without trust in his will we retrocede God’s guidance.

When his loving way is shunned we dimly walk alone
And stumbling comfortless in pain impede God’s guidance.

In leading us he tends to veer for growth and learning;
There may be pain, but nothing can exceed God’s guidance.

Zahhar himself has walked through fearsome blazes burning
And has availed in knowing to concede God’s guidance.

This is my 11th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Penwood Review — Spring 2003