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Havoc

A lot of my ghazals have explored the havoc of dukkha, or karmic suffering. In a way my life has been a study of this phenomenon, for I have striven to gain insight into its workings enough to maybe begin to pull free of it. But for most, myself likely included, even this process takes many comings and goings.

Havoc

Why are grown men sighing? Fear is dim by nature.
Why are children crying? War is grim by nature;

Angry hornets swarming—countless stinging voices;
Kingdoms manifest a battle-hymn by nature.

In this swelling madness, hearts are weighed to breaking;
Overwhelming sadness runs abrim by nature.

Rains can never cleanse the earth of all our bloodshed,
Blades and bullets slaying round her rim by nature.

Those who wake from dreaming, like the fading seagull,
Leave no tracks in parting, flying trim by nature.

Most are lost in chaos, like the flood-tossed salmon,
Helpless bound to homing where they swim by nature.

Providence, though gentle, has been known to ravage—
You will learn, Zahhar, to know her whim by nature.

This is my 106th ghazal.

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Fettered

This one came out of nowhere. But, then, if you think about it, so did we. I mean, just where were we before “this” happened? Where were we before we were somehow caught and trapped by the dreamcatcher web of forming veins and arteries? This ghazal asks a lot of questions. In fact, each sher is its own question, and each question probably doesn’t have an answer—Certainly not an easy one.

Fettered

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 87th ghazal.

Publication History:

Candelabrum Poetry Magazine — Spring 2003

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Reft

This was written as I reflected on the effects of parental alcoholism, and by extension drug addiction in general, on young children, especially infants and toddlers. I was one such infant and toddler, so I have some insight into these effects.

Reft

An amber liquid sapped her attention away,
And from her heart stripped loving intention away.

The lonesome wail of hunger competing in vain
Unleashed her rage and tore her abstention away.

It wasn’t desire denied with an angry glare,
But painful dearth closed up in detention away.

An oscillation between assurance and terror
Caused a distress that rent apprehension away.

Angels swept this fragmenting soul to safety
To lands where shadows shift a dimension away.

Smothered beneath resentment, bitter and fierce,
Any potential was locked from ascension away.

Wound in the Catherine wheel of her deception,
Spirit was ripped in morbid extension away.

Remove from your heart the demon’s claw, Zahhar,
Let pass the touch of its dark invention away.

This is my 69th ghazal.

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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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Paradox

This is interesting, in a tortured, abstract sort of way. More than ten years after having written it, I’ve just rediscovered this old bit of writing and I feel compelled to share it here as a backlogged post, which should be the day on which it was written.

Paradox

The dream was touched by a protected soul,
And hearts were torn by a rejected soul.

The kindly soul is trampled down, and yet
Malice pervades the most respected soul.

Angry teeth flashed under eyes glazed over;
This face revealed a dark neglected soul.

A scalpel tongue sliced out such acrid words,
All life was bled from that dissected soul.

Rage born of terror broods a bitter bile,
Ruining the will of each subjected soul.

What holds no grief will also hold no joy,
A void that shatters the affected soul.

Mist cannot be marred while crystal fragments—
Both are aspects of the reflected soul.

That darker shadow in the depths of night
In time reveals its own directed soul.

A crazed ceramic pot containing naught
Represents, I hear, a perfected soul.

Patience, Zahhar, for it takes time to heal—
Angels tend to your deeply infected soul.

This is my 67th ghazal.

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anchored

Even as a child it seemed clear to me that the only way for humanity to realize its potential would be to go to the stars. If we don’t, then everything we have or will accomplish is for nothing. Meanwhile we steadily burn and poison the one place we have to live.

anchored

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 49th ghazal.

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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.