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

Offering

There are many things driving me to study and write poetry, not the least of which is this sense or belief that I have something important and tangible to offer through the medium. I later rewrote this ghazal entirely under the revised title, “Offerings” (pluralized).

Offering

I trudge now back through this grime for you
Because it may ease the climb for you.

Because you just might learn from my pain,
I re-walk that bitter rime for you.

I’m told there are riches deep within,
So I search this fetid slime for you.

I seek rubies in the cave of loss,
Yet I’m glad to spend the time for you.

The earth and stars all could have been mine,
But I’ve passed these chances prime for you.

I’ll peel the rind and my soul expose,
Then wait as a silent mime for you.

Pearls were buried with my heart, you see,
So I dig back through the lime for you.

If in your depths these words resonate,
Zahhar is sounding a chime for you.

This is my 61st ghazal.

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

return

This reflects on my first time looking down into the Ukiah valley. Though I had never been there before, I knew the place somehow as surely as if I had been born and raised there. It was like coming home. And every time I return, it is like coming home again.

return

foliage rises up the mountains
clouds amass upon the eastern ridges
i am home, finally i am home

my feet grew sore in the desert
my back stiff on the plains
like gusts of wind, i could not rest

rivers wandered their courses
stars glittered from the abyss
starved and alone, i followed them

one day i crested a ridge
and cradled there in a valley
a hamlet lost from the world

this place i had never seen
yet what my eyes never knew
my heart somehow remembered

in the world i was tossed relentless
storms passed to leave me in ruin
but here i am an old oak firmly rooted