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The Path

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written many years ago, making this my 132nd. The original ghazal used the closest equivalent in English of qaafiyaa, or that rhyme which recurs directly before the radif, which is the refrain. The rewrite uses another device entirely, primary alliteration (on the accented syllable) before the radif. Everything else is different, too.

Years ago, I wanted the poem to metaphorize that quiet calling that leads one away from common pursuits to something more personal, lasting, and perhaps even contributive. The rewrite is more focused on depicting this idea than was the original.

The Path

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.

The original, written in June of 2002, can be found under this title: “Path” (no article).

Publication History:

LYNX (web-based) — September 2012

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The Distant Self

Lately I have been pondering the nature of death, what it really is. Is it closing your eyes one last time never to wake up? Or is it something more subtle, more unnerving—something much closer to home? When I look back through time to the teenager I once was, that person is not here. He is dead, and he has been dead for a very long time. But because I am still strong and somewhat clear of mind, I can forget that death and focus on the present life as if it now unfolds. But the reality is, there are moments, days, circumstances that I would hold onto for eons if it were possible—but they have long since passed and are dead.

The Distant Self

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.

Perhaps the movement between carnal death and birth is much the same. Even after that point of presence jumps from our last breath to some unfathomable new context, there is a recognition somewhere in our newly manifest being that something has been lost—a past and fully developed identity. Perhaps this death occurs on a lesser scale over and over throughout the experience of living. And those who see this most clearly are those who still live after everything else has been lost, and all they have left is to struggle for moments of clarity while wasting away in a nursing home.

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Companion

Maybe Time is more of a companion than she is—as many people feel—a tyrant. She is always with us, never leaves our side for a moment, and forever offers at least one consolation—that whatever our woes, these too will pass, one way or the other. This consolation has been perhaps the prime influence on my will to survive long, hard, bitter years in the face of an ever uncertain future.

Companion

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.
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Reforming Words

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written many years ago, making this my 131st. The title, refrain, and preceding rhyme are the same, but everything else is different. Also, rather than using my takhallus (pen-name) directly in the final couplet, as I did in the original version, I just allude to it using one of its many meanings.

Reforming Words

We built this ivory dome on founding words;
its dream of hope sustained with grounding words.

Our Lady braves the darkness, torch in hand,
her call reechoed with resounding words.

In wisdom there is depth that can’t be measured
with just the simple plumb of sounding words.

Our elders gathered long ago and signed
a justice poignant with expounding words.

The multitude would never have been heard
without the glimmer of propounding words.

The graybeard mystic gained the truth of language,
and ever since has aired confounding words.

A wounded soldier presses to his brow
an old book full of most astounding words.

The shape of liberty has changed; the stars
are witness to the force of bounding words.

The original, written in February of 2002, can be read under the same title: “Reforming Words”.

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the misty sun

Beyond the elementary description of a scene and some personal feelings common to most people, nature poetry is actually not the easiest thing to write. The main challenge comes upon attempting remove oneself from the scene along with any personal feelings, using only imagery itself to convey such feelings through depiction. This poem was written to exemplify this process, so far as my abilities permitted, for someone who had asked me to critique one of her nature poems.

the misty sun

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.
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First light gathers

I have a tendency to be up all night, be it working, writing, or other. Not long after we, my wife and I, got a very nice new (second hand, but new to us) couch that allows one to recline comfortably facing the balcony windows, I would find myself there looking out into the night, sometimes as dawn broke. It’s an interesting time of day for me, dawn—especially first light. It has always filled me with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. Dread even.

I’m sure the anticipation is normal. It almost has to be. A new day manifests, with new potentials, even if I’m already tired. The anxiety probably comes from a variety of experiences that have taught me to expect unpleasant things to break with the day, the sort of experiences that instill fear and foreboding deep in the psyche. Here I’ve tried to convey that sense of ambivalence, using imagery gleaned from a passing storm front.

First light gathers

First light gathers above the
        Huffaker Hills, above the
    bulbous shadow of the
            old Virginia Mountains.

Slowly it grows behind
        cataclysmic clouds,
    gray shapes etched dramatic
            on the moving void.

Wind is heard against
        roof and walls, against
    wide glass doors through which I
            meditate my gaze.

Silhouettes of unfurling
        cottonwood and maple
    flail like the wild shades of
            dancing dervish souls.

Inside, a leaky faucet
        drips. The wall clock ticks
    above the redbrick hearth. And
            Joy stirs lightly troubled

        in her dreams.

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Offerings

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written several years ago, making this my 130th. The refrain and preceding rhyme are the same, though possibly more appropriately approached this time around.

Offerings

I’ll walk through tattered corridors of time for you;
I’ll pick through rooms dilapidate with grime for you.

I almost didn’t make it through yon craggy pass,
but I’ll go back and map that deadly climb for you.

Because the great flood covered riches deep in mud,
I dredge destruction from the fetid slime for you.

A legend tells of treasure sunk where memory dims;
I’ll find those depths and search that watery clime for you.

Since priceless pearls were buried with the fractured years,
I dig amongst these bones beneath the lime for you.

A thief once entered in the night and took all hope;
I’ve striven ever since to solve this crime for you.

We lean against a storm of sharp discordant words;
I’ll try to harmonize them into rhyme for you.

The soft wind carries voices from translucent skies
which whisper meaning on the garden chime for you.

The original, written in June of 2002, can be read under this title: “Offering” (not pluralized).

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Ghazal to the Ghazal

This is a rewrite of a ghazal that was written many years ago, making this my 129th. The refrain and preceding rhyme are the same, though possibly more appropriately approached this time around. I also wanted to bring a little Hafez into it this time as well.

Ghazal to the Ghazal

The heart may break its silence with the amorous ghazal;
the soul may sound its depths within the dolorous ghazal.

An ancient tongue arose from the dust of ancient tribes
and bubbled blue oases from the vaporous ghazal.

Long ago the broad Euphrates, dismayed by silence,
nursed arid roots which blossomed forth the prosperous ghazal.

In earthen cities, mahogany eyes and coal black tresses
have played by fountain springs to taste the flavorous ghazal.

We’re living rivers of light, each and all. So come,
partake of dreams inspired by the generous ghazal.

A traveler lost amid the dunes discovered water
by following the cadence of a rapturous ghazal.

Still a desert blossom shades the Poet of Shiraz
to honor all he offered through the rigorous ghazal.

When you heed the call to prayer, close your eyes;
the dry wind tranquilly refrains a wondrous ghazal.

There is a garden where the full moon casts her song,
awakening the roses with her decorous ghazal.

The original, written in March of 2002, can be read under this title: “English Ghazal”.

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Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

Huffaker Hills is 251 acres of treeless, desert public land in south Reno set aside for pedestrian use. From there, Huffaker Lookout—a pair of lower hills—spurs out into Washoe Valley, separating an industrial park from the residential area in which I live. On its way south, Hwy 395, a six lane freeway, bends out and around the westernmost hill, just scraping its base.

Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

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.

Desert hills have always had a way of luring me up to their stony crests.

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it nears dusk

One of my favorite places ever is the Montgomery Woods, a state natural reserve of old growth redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, where I used to live. This poem was drafted during a visit as I sat deep in the woods at the easternmost edge of the reserve. Reluctant to leave this special, tranquil place that I can now only visit rarely, I walked about a mile back to my car in the dark.

it nears dusk

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.
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The Empty Cubby

A perspective poem, written from the perspective of a child as she ponders the empty cubby by the wall in her classroom. I’ve only written a handful of perspective poems over the years, though I would like to write more.

   The Empty Cubby

   The cubby hole is empty
      where your lunchbox used to be,
and everyone seems quieter today.
   There is an eerie stillness,
      like the playground in between
our recess time when we go out to play.

   The Teacher tried to tell us,
      when we all came in for class,
that you were never coming back again.
   We asked a lot of questions,
      but it was hard to understand
the way she hid her face as if in pain.

   All morning long, your best friend
      Tommy turned to face the door
whenever anybody entered through.
   At recess in the play yard
      he sat out by the handball court
alone and staring up into the blue.

   We know that something’s happened.
      Somehow we know that something’s changed.
Nobody is the way they usually seem.
   We didn’t even play much
      when we had our classroom brakes.
The whole entire day is like a dream.

   Now class is almost over,
      but no-one seems to really care
the round clock on the wall is nearing three.
   I think they all are thinking
      of the cubby with your name.
The cubby where your lunchbox used to be.