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Dilution

This attempts to metaphorize a friend’s passing. She died in July of 2002 from colon cancer. She often told me that I was the only one who would listen to her when she wanted to talk about her fear of dying. We would talk as lightheartedly about this taboo subject as if we were talking about poetry itself. This had apparently played an important role in helping her prepare emotionally and mentally for the inevitable. She was a good friend and I still miss her.

Dilution

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 73rd ghazal.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — June 2005

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Evanescence

I met her because I took an interest in her daughter. She befriended me because she felt I was unique. I cultivated the friendship because no-one like her had ever bothered with me before. She died because the cancer finally won. For me, the loss was staggering. This ghazal was written shortly after her death.

Evanescence

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

In the place where I pay homage to the night
I pled your case to stars that strew the night.

From this mountaintop I prayed for you to heal,
In tandem fell two bold stars through the night.

I, too, had walked on that shadow’s edge before
And knew you as another who knew the night.

Your journey along the shadow’s edge was long,
Then your strength gave out and on you drew the night.

Maybe your soul was healed instead of your form
That we are left in your wake to rue the night.

Now in silence on that mountaintop I gaze
On blurring stars where long I view the night.

Stars reflect in the well-spring of my soul;
I sought a friend, but was left in lieu the night.

Was it your essence in the wind that whispered,
“I’m not lost, Zahhar,” as languid grew the night?

This is my 70th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — August 2003

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Displacement

She was one of the few good friends I’ve made in my adult life, someone who took me seriously as an individual and as a poet. Ten years later (It is October 27, 2012, and I’m posting this as a backlogged post), I still miss her and think about her. She had a positive impact on my life.

Displacement

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

You’ve left behind a nightmare of ripping loss,
And joy was sliced from the heart by this clipping loss.

Knowing you faded a little more each day,
We tried our best to ignore it, this nipping loss.

Together we shared in brimming abundance, but
We at the banquet only were sipping loss.

The empty space you filled is empty again;
Wind howls into the vacuum with whipping loss.

Will you now dream of us from that place of dreams,
And pray our hearts to heal from your stripping loss?

Will you with angel feathers we cannot see
Brush past in hopes to console our gripping loss?

Take heart, Zahhar, for your friend has but transformed,
Moving beyond this realm of slipping loss.

This is my 68th ghazal.

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Finale

The subject of death and birth has been on my mind for as long as I can remember. Here I play with the idea of transmigration, but from a nonlinear standpoint where the self is lost and only the karmic momentum carries forth. So, not reincarnation, but something else and something more subtle.

Finale

Dreams have faded into wondering
All hopes have ceased to hold meaning
The shadow of my diffusion draws near
There is no need to cry for I know
Time is without meaning
And that which I am cannot be lost

This point of presence though drifting long
Shall fill a meaningful empty space
Of an existence not yet fulfilled
And that which was diffused in mist
Will condensate from the void and rain
Into the womb of a new beginning

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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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Reunion

In 1999 or so I had a vivid dream where I met my father briefly in the City of Necropolis. A few years have passed since then, but I still remember the dream vividly. Seemed like it was time to reflect that memory into a poem.

Reunion

i met him once
in another plane
beneath pale blue sky
surrounded
by cold grey towers
older than time

i remember
walking by myself
down archéd hallways
stretching long
sullen and dim
devoid of life

life lived not here
though it did pass through
in its erring quest
to fathom
what it all means
this strange journey

i met him here
where corridors crossed
through ages brooding
we alone
held in our gaze
one another

his face showed pain
fathomless concern
i saw not in life
but here now
in this city
Necropolis

we did not speak
though thoughts in balance
poised long on his lips
unable
to form one word
from his pained heart

not one thing moved
in this agéd place
where motion and time
stood frozen
as in silence
our gazes locked

i saw his pain
his longing to know
how i was doing
in absence
of his own life
he took from me

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006