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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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Without a Title

To begin anew, one must leave behind the old. This is at least the theory.

Without a Title

Perhaps I’ll start again
This time without a title

This time without the candle wax
the matted hair the long thin wire
all twisted and tangled into shapes
of desire and expectation

dangled from twine like a shrunken head
gouged full of pins and chanted words
until imago jerks and dances wincing
tortured steps of belonging

Maybe it’s time to forget all I dreamed
to tear free from voodoo strings
tendrils of blood wisped through the air
until the tired old spells are broken

to let go and plummet back through long
deep breaths and crushing gasps for air
through years of fear and foreboding back
to half-remembered moments of joy

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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.

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Cherry Drifts

There are a handful of things that I always find myself looking forward to throughout the year. One is the budding of black oaks. I’ll go on walks and drives just to look at black oaks as their leaves bud and fan out, like little purple feathers at first, and before you know it a deep green canopy.

Another thing I look forward to are cherry blossoms. I was staying at my employer’s house in the hills west of south Reno when I wrote these. A month earlier I got to watch the cherry trees bloom in and around Ukiah, California. Then I got to see them bloom again in Reno, like clouds of light, as spring came to the higher elevations. Yet on the mountain where I was staying it still snowed some.

Such surroundings are bound to inspire the occasional proper haiku.

Cherry Drifts

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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Trail of Prayer

In 2009 I visited Bear Butte in South Dakota with my Filipina wife. We weren’t yet married, but we were soon to be. The hike took about three and a half hours, all told. It was the day after Summer Solstice, and something unique was in the air.

There are several stories behind the trip that led us to this special place, and a few specific to our experience at the butte itself. Perhaps they’ll find their way into poem someday. For now, here’s a tribute to the butte, what it means, and what it has meant for years untold.

Trail of Prayer

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.
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Forsaken

I would consider this a random write. As someone who has lived in or at the edge of poverty his entire life, I have sometimes found myself wondering about my wealthy counterparts.

Forsaken

God has abandoned you. Go!
Cower beneath your rocks and pray.
Pray for a swift release. Pray
for a lesser hell. Pray for sweet
oblivion, cast deep into
the weightless black of naught.

Meaning has dried and mummified
taut against your splintered bones.
Hope has cracked and crazed and peeled
revealing raw infections of
despair. Where can you hide? Where
can you tuck your oozing loss away.

Seek the cellar. Seek the marble
floor. Seek the solitude of
pillared halls. Seek the satin
linens of your tier. Seek the
the double-breasted Valentino,
pressed firm against your perfect corpse.

You are followed, each and every
step. Followed by an ever
present loss. Followed by the
exponent of emptiness.
Pursued through every twist of fate,
through every vain attempt to flee.

You are damned, forsaken, lost.
No one waits for you beyond the
veil. Nothing but the cold and
fetid clay awaits the one
who banishes his soul to claw
for bloody scraps of worldly gain.

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morning prayer

Every morning she prays her rosary. Although I am in no way religious, being present and in some way a part of the process can bring a certain peace to the moment and even a sense of hope to the day ahead.

morning prayer

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.
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Unrealized

I think the greatest tragedy one can experience is to become ever so slightly aware of his or her creative or professional potential, only to have any chance of ever achieving it ripped away. This has been my experience as a poet, and no other pain I’ve endured comes close to comparing. For me, to develop my potential as a poet requires the time and attention of a career profession, yet I am forced to work for a living, which leaves my creative potential sheered from the light and rotting in the soil.

Unrealized

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.

I have often contemplated suicide as the only way to escape the torment of knowing I have this potential to realize while not having the freedom to pursue it—For the quarter-measures afforded by the trifling free-time left at the end of a workweek are grossly insufficient. To live as potential unrealized because it has been made unattainable by the structure of society is in many ways worse than death itself.