SWEET
I.
(December
2001)
My
Sweet destination, my chariot, gilded and fine,
My intoxication, my desire,
My world swirled around a lightening bolt,
Fired and molded, a prayer, like a kiss blown.
My life, flashed in an instant, through a million,
Eternal struggles, and you by my side,
The hope of paradise, the fear of damnation,
No longer motivation for the will to be right.
Our hope, a peaceful existence,
The dream of maturity finally at the tip
The tongues of man sing ‘where we go
Alone and joined with parsnips and tulips,
Scouring the ground, approaching freedom,
Your head hung low, eyes lifted to mine,
Thick lips pulled closer to the ground…
“Allah’u’abha” beginning to sound.
Songs for the ages, we hold hands and pray
This, being the only way I have of knowing.
That, though, is instinctive and inside,
Your psyche, which glows and provides-
These following insights into the light:
Hope will exist as long as you and I do,
Within the context of the meaning of us.
And my future will in time intertwine with you.
Feathering the truth, slow and methodic
Looks, like we are guilty, when we are barely
Born. Bored, more likely than warm,
Smart more likely than strong.
I will learn to write to you, in verse,
Turning phrases in Farsi, lifetimes,
Followed by endless progressions,
Through our consort, and their prayers.
Stanza’s seem inadequate description
For figures who hold no form,
Like your mind, within my infatuation,
And being wrong instead of being warm.
<TOP>
unravel.
(December 2001)
A
hundred lives I would offer up in his name,
Yet when I close my eyes, I see your face,
Tell me then where is the balance between his grace
And all my yesterdays floated on the wind of your breath…
I say: Answer not for these children
For we have only been, and ever will.
Children, all I’ve seen or wished, childish,
And somehow, I think I sense a jealous tinge.
Just enough to make things interesting for us,
And of course you fall your head (whispering something like shucks)
In a tongue of course, I barely comprehend,
But in your hand is the castle up on its head…
And heady and bold, I begin to unravel you,
Attendees involvement
<TOP>
"Ya Habib, Muhabibi"
(December 2001)
And my life turns again,
Allah allows awkward somehow
To mature, and (what's more)
To enter into covenant with our psyche.
Not until, in the context of prayer,
We can step back and see ourselves
See what we were really doing there…
Can we begin to be fair to the promise
Of peace, both in and out of our
Would be home.
You said be patient with you.
My sweet Annsa, I will wait…
I want to come home to you.
I know your eyes, flashing and fine,
Capture me, mid sentence in this line,
And uncover vast truths as of yet unrefined
(but you go back and underline)
" No God is there save Thee, the
Remover of Difficulties"
And I cry-
Reunion, My beloved seems so distant,
And I, crossing vast rivers,
Flattening mountains,
Striking through wilderness,
Which the pioneers themselves,
Never have traversed…
You my beloved though,
I believe, also cutting through these
Trees, guided by a belief that eventually
We will meet somewhere in between
And be reunited by our mutual love
Of Bahá'u'lláh, may our every instant
Be a lifetime of martyrdom for His cause.
All that you say Leads me to feel you don't see
Me standing in front of you, Muhabibi
And we begin to break these locks
Knowledge of all things serendipitous,
Synergism, and gnosis,
Passionate moments and trust.
Jameelik playing off my own hopes,
Interwoven with patterns for alibis
When broken down, toppled-
Running fingers through the sand
(no doubt you know I'm looking for your hand)
Ya Habib, Muhabibi
I break apart a million shells,
Hoping to find you, alive, within, well
And I ask, Have I said too much…
Patience, Detached…
How can I suffer detachment then
From you, when my own Hafs
Tells me it is you that I belong to,
You where I live, And cultivate,
And grow, And see again And pray
And know And say, All of these days could pass,
Accomplishments could wane, (No one could read my play)
My verse could dry up,
My music die, My hunger for learning break,
Sweat fall more than tears-
And senselessness, between attendances-
Breathlessness, between the senses…
But - Muhabibi If you were there…
None of these things would be real…
I would see each morning, Myself in your eyes,
Perfected, by that one other,
Who sees with all truth, The perfections,
nay the potentials Inherent in Dunya Al Ashq
The love inherent in the breath we breathe,
Into each other's arms, and the sleep we need,
Into each other's arms, and the moment we stepped
Into each others arms, Knowing the love of God,
Expressing it through this, Ya Habib Muhabibi
Come love, step. Into my arms.
<TOP>
AND THEN
(December 2001)
The chariots broke off into balls,
Black plumes racing up in reunion,
The beloved one, sinking into her chair,
While the hero of our tale, was split open.
His heart, still beating plainly seen,
Easily identified, as it carried her name.
The path to the infinite, transcribed by this
Way in which with each beat, slowing
Spaces between growing, The cry for her name, a jewel,
Carried His spirit away to the Abha Kingdom
<TOP>
The Last Testament of Two Gold Plated
Clay Humming Birds On Their Being Committed to a Fire-
12/12/01
Tiny specs of flaky gold paint,
Peel back slowly to show exposed clay,
Time was, on a mantle we sat, awaiting adoration,
Even as an onlooker perceived, we remained,
Coveted, intact, decadent and ornate-
These are the facts as we remember them,
Now- Having come to the end of this path,
Having fully fulfilled our obligation
Incarnate as life, shaped by our masters hands,
We leave behind the following:
To the earth: our clay, it is from which we came, and
Having used it carefully and lovingly, return it, duly noting
The spirit in which it was loaned
To the lovers: our gold, that it may be fashioned someday
Into a simple metal band to display the undying love which is shared,
Without corners, a perfect circle having neither beginning nor end
Inscription of His name at its head
To the artist: our paint, that it may make renditions of sand and seascapes,
Showing a world that seems endless, and shores which have been looked
on
Since before the birth of man
To heedless: our faith, had we not remained still on the mantle above
that fireplace,
Had we not carefully stayed, never doubting the promise of
'someday' we would be-
Released from our static forms and again be made-
To the fire: our shape, for which we no longer have a purpose,
may you use it well, and expel its energy to strengthen your own resolve
and ability to free this entire house from its stationary state of waiting
and praying, and say:
"I have made death a messenger of joy to thee. Wherefore dost thou grieve?
I made the light to shed on thee its splendor. Why dost thou veil thyself
therefrom?"
Truly, God is most great, and the essences of even these small clay
sculptures testify to His might, and in our capacity, have cried for
reunion with Him.
<TOP>
1 | 02
Newtonian Draft
January 3, 2002
Ancient days pass us by like blurry moths on American highways. Deepened
youth, who claim for themselves, the spoils of revelation, Have only
known revelry, but reveal it with humility and adoration. You strike
forth my cord and begin the emulsification of truthfulness, The stipulations
that you placed on my wall, in conditions of duress My love was never
conditioned upon anything, but you were most welcome, To stretch across
my chest, offering to God what you were afraid to give, Allowing me
to taste, but barely to live inside the cave of dark whispers- Whispers
that give light to thoughts we'd tried to hide, and these days slip
By slowly, sliding down our rickety walls, calling us by our secret
name, You and I are exactly the same, and all of these games, places
and traced All the way back to Socrates, and the birth of modern psychology.
You lap up my Newtonian draft, coming through window panes, thick enough
But not for you trust, ancient days whispering secret desires, winter
is upon us! You are undressed and upon your instincts, but you feel
bare, and my embrace, Barely enough to contain your sense, anyhow, much
more pertinent to not lose face
This whole life is a series of sublimations, transfigurations, and transference,
Where we impose Faith on love, (vice versa, more often than that) And
one woman on top of another, and confuse truth for utterance, This is
my life, my son, my truth and my lies, these are the patterns of my
star My form, hanging in the balance between the first crescent of the
new moon, And something decidedly more solar, more clinical and ineptitude,
which shatters you
Were I only as old as I looked, or if I only looked as old as I was,
I would dwarf you- Take my youth, tame my fires, and squelch me down
to a controlled burn, as though I am a danger to all things wooden and
discernable to wise men, who have retired from Lover's caves, wet and
tired, and offering us their staves, say enter, lay, and be brave
Say: O love my love, I will honor and stay, though I cannot promise
to obey, Days will come when you will swear you hate me, you will call
me whore, and I will Remain, in your bed, and love you all the same,
as the ancient days have destined, and there will be days, like today
when you will taint the entire body of your work, your cool oceans,
and oceanic experiments with a drop of sulfur, a drop of blood, and
I promise, I will come and find that drop, and swallow it whole, and
save you from yourself, is this not what you are designing in me, perfection?
You think I am perfect… look at yourself, Rich, Look at yourself, you
must continue, but continue to what? To work towards an ideal you could
not possibly understand, a quest for my hand when you don't even know
who I am. Well, that is my love for you, and your naïve smile, and sincere
eyes, and the fact that for better or worse, you will not take me for
granted when this is done.
<TOP>
Pink Hippopatomus
January 24, 2002
I have nervously crafted thousands of lines, and in their mess created
nothing but my own winding tunnels, illustrated black. Ink on paper,
pen on canvas, placed in the homes of millions for children to look
at and laugh. My sampler is almost complete, just a few more letters
and embroidered border design, perhaps my friend is right Pink hippopotamus
dancing as though she had never been informed of her size.
I have eagerly spun through time, counting chickens hatching through;
even this cliché is underused in my world of verse and locution. I have
grown fond of such devices, which have been around long before I was
ever born, and carry with them a weight of meaning I could never achieve
from the arrangement of so few words, so efficiently.
I sheepishly step up to the place where I will be called on to give
testimony to the path of the adored one, and sacrifice at least a pint
and a half in the destiny of the fool, whose court barely begins to
sequester his services. I am the one who offers up what you yourself
have given me in the pathway of your cause, and undulate stoic hypotheses
that have no bearing on the actualities that plague our own dimensions.
<TOP>
2 | 02
Glisten
February 11, 2002
I wait, and you glisten, both of us afraid to really listen with our
eyes, and see the other, looking back, honest, not entirely unsurprised,
but still, wishing that we could be within one another, asking not why,
but how long until we awake from this sudden slumber that we were not
even aware of beginning. I motion, and you surmise, that what I'm saying
isn't wholly lies, and still you are unaware of the dreams inside, my
thoughts which wish you where I would not be were it not for your genuine
surprise, and I have a lot of writing to do if it will become you who
will be my wife. Should it have been you all along… on closer examination,
what do you take credit for in my prose. Are you the dream of ages past,
and my Maya who refuses to die? In my own eyes, you are the closest
estimation I have seen, at least today, and it has been a long time
since the sun rose so carefully to begin. I am your son, though you
would not question your motherhood, you gave birth only to my ability,
made me strong, and I wonder, am I enough for you? Would I satisfy your
dreams, as you wet my insatiable pallet for trauma and dramatics, fiendish
love and devouring trust, still enough, still hardly enough. Your skin
is thick, your smile tough, you are a thousand times more tethered then
I am, and yet with the utmost grace and ease, you take wing and sail,
alone into the oceans of which so many times I'd tried and failed. You
say we'll get across this pond, and defend our will, teaching the changeless
Faith of God, unable to fail. I am your boy, and in these words I dictate,
the truth of the thousand winters, which had passed. Answering each
successive test, you in my arm, I in my way, we walking towards the
flames which lipped up over the edge of a chasm falsely manufactured
by charming and charismatic demons, who wished only to sell to us, this
fine piece of land. You rise up from your seat, reaching for a hand,
sure it was mine, but even I can't be positive. And you wonder why we
have written these memories again and again; the legend continues to
sway, flexible to the wind, and impermeable to the storm. Consider yourself
borne of the dreams of a helping hand, outstretched, reaching and weeping
in the air- hoping for a chance to holler out it's warning, this body
which follows my every move, this wretched mass of decay and strain,
wishing only to remain adored of you, waiting for your reply, unrelenting
in its will to die, and be born in you, and live a life a part of you-
separate and unfettered. You are the distance in the letters, the will
in these words, which causes the word be in my heart to blaze on into
the infinite, sorrowful, and wild. Look up, into my eyes, this is your
page, and I am your wise old man, chanting in tongues, waiting your
hand, stepping into this cool clear stream for you, for a polished stone
worthy of your palm, soft and perfected from years of softened water
running over it's edges, darkening it's corners, preparing it for the
instant that I would snap it up and offer it in adoration, in admiration
of everything you are, everything you mean to, irreplaceable as a part,
indefinable as a place for me, and I only hope that I can be in one
page what you are to me in a lifetime, a sign, a shift in perception
a line drawn straight from my heart up to god, and questioned by none
excepting our own spirits which were wild from the moment they were
lit, and scattered from the second they were built. I am your Tristan,
your Majnun, I am lost inside of you and yet you hear my voice calling
from such a distance, and inviting not returning but saying come, grow,
be a part of me, travel know, let us both cross this sea into the throws
of infinite grace and charm and meditation offered in supplication to
our mutual point of adoration- I have deeply missed you since the last
time we were in love and am falling asleep quickly in your eyes.
<TOP>
4 lines
February 11, 2002
4 lines dictate a pattern drawn in an arch in the sand-
Each line representative of some sovereign-
Looking west from the point which stands in the center
The arch is broken, and spread into the sea
Each moment that passes the tide draws nearer each line,
The first to fall victim, will not be the last to die-
Each line like the rest was drawn by a separate hand-
But like the line in the ground, each is made only of sand-
A wave which is larger than the rest, meets with a crest,
Challenging the order that the lines had established-
All these instant are washed away again- but in the sand-
Living things still grow, and now crabs and motions make
More lines, scattered in the dust, hopelessly trying to reconstruct
An order which made sense to no one, since only one hand had drawn-
Pulling forward, the ocean pulls cycles into the sea,
And continuity is lost to the repetitious crashing of the waves.
Driving forces, are remiss to obey, broken windows, which have ceased
to see.
Like the ocean which suddenly ceases to weep-
Immediately the wave is halted, suspended above gray beach at twilight
and frozen-
She remains hopeful that she will stay undiscovered, and this wave,
Like a quilt wrapped and uttered, warms her soft otherwise uncovered
skin.
<TOP>
Prayer of the found...
February 14, 2002
I was mist filled breath of air, who barely knew what it was to be breathed
before the onset of this affair. I trembled, and came to my knees, but
friends balked and left me in front of this gated entrance, shaking,
desperately holding to constancy. I had called the world unfair, and
offered in protest a fist raised in the air, hoping that I'd hit something
that would hear, a listener was the only truth I could bare. You were
dressed in a gown that dictated your lines, and called me on my best
moments to step down, and offer you a way out. I was chilled, but still
sacrificing my best coat for the protection of your otherwise flawless
arms. You are my beloved, let the reader know that now woman could light
my heart in such a way, no woman could force my hand as I speak and
wish to dance, I am your man, and alone I approach in humility and hope,
and try to break from the patterns of irreplaceable thoughts.
Suddenly, arresting and stuttered, I shudder at the prostration of my
desire before my better sense of intellectual attire, and examine carefully
my motivation in all things from prayer to the fires I light in my own
heart, and begging to be let in to the kingdom, in under the hybrid
faith of God as seen through the eyes of this heretic. I love you Lord,
I cease to beat, but yet this world passionately grabs me, and even
as I try to shrug off these shackles of Jewish pasts which had barely
begun to pass away before I asked for my out, I fall apart to the dream
of humanity which maneuvers for my heart, and asks me a question only
once, with which one of us are you more in love.
Oh god, guide me in the sincere path, grant me the sincerity that I
require to appropriately dictate my desire to serve, and to guide me
in the path of universal hallowing of sites that we were too blind to
see, and too tired to read. Allow than this meek lover of all your attributes,
seeker after your truth, to absolve himself of all that is not you,
and hurry though to you. Grant me then and earthly aide, that I may
better illustrate my love for you through her, through words which futilely
dance around descriptions of attributes that could never be put into
words.
Oh God let me in, allow me entrance to this dimly lit paradise of strawberry
kitchens and burning pots of hope which smell of cloves and organize
themselves into tidy little rows of love and adoration, separate only
by manufactured demarcations built to indicate allegiances which again
are man made, and not to have any bearing on your ability to love, or
their ability to stick their necks out far and cry of their hunger,
their weariness, their cold black necks, dampened by the rain, helpless
to anything save your profound wings which bring food, which bring warmth,
which strike down predators who would just as soon devour us as bring
the change of seasons and painful lessons that necessarily come with
age.
Ya'baha'ul'abha : No God is there but Thee, the Beloved of all things,
All things truly scream your existence into the void, calling for your
return, singing your praise, thanking your boundless evanescent and
profound grace.
<TOP>
Eastern Wind
February 26, 2002
Still the Eastern wind keeps blowing,
Deep breaths inhaled, forceful reminiscence
Thoughts of Eden, and Adam lying,
Naked before his god, all hardening clay
Scent of birthing nations, breathed in fast,
Nostrils dilate in the hot morning sun staggered,
And the first sound, likely coughing, learning,
How to feel about the atmosphere, and understand
Still the Eastern wind calls me forward to account,
For my actions and my people, children I'll never know
But I stand fast in the face of the wind whose beautiful
Destructive redemptive nature opens my throat-
And Songs I've sung, have already begun their descent,
Scattered by angels wide, (though never my intent)
To mask the elatedness with hope and with prudence,
That better things might begin to grow, or at least take root.
<TOP>
For Orange
February 28, 2002
An orange dress, floating lightly about her legs,
but static still somehow corners her knees,
and forces her to walk a little awkwardly.
Instantaneous explosion of thoughts and words,
rather lines that I'd recite that would not even get her to raise her
eyes.
<TOP>
3 | 02
A taste...
March 1, 2002
Fuzzy pieces of recollection,
Have we had our first fight
Understanding directions,
Comprehending sources of light-
Unwieldy insurrection in light of-
Bitter accusations wielding upward
Crashing through tough skin,
And now we may begin-
Understanding tantra,
At least within the chaste,
Hoping for some answers,
Settling for a taste,
A perfect cup, overflowed,
And dripping down golden
Sides surrendering my life,
In the pathway of Abhá,
In the pathway of Bahá,
Signaling from distances,
Far too wide to graph,
Comprehending god, or, this-
Chosen path to his Tao
Under the table, with history
Playing with tin soldiers
Struggling with verbiage
Suffering at the hands of my wrought
Iron fences, defenseless and damned
You shy away not impossible,
To understand or recant, or sing
Your praises as I chant the song
Of god, Ya'Baha'ul'abha
<TOP>
Grass Between Us
March 4, 2002
Sleeping in petals, unrelenting grass which grips up around our legs,
and hugs in impassiveness calling from the grave, asking for redemption,
knowing it's too late, lost in apprehension, even as the moonlight fades.
Whispering secrets upwards towards the heavens, floating stars keep
quiet about our revealed intentions, nondescript offers of friendship
and embraces indicate the receptiveness, I missed in your face.
Shapes you drew in sand for me, silent ways of saying what you believed,
and how you managed to conceive of tendencies that drew me towards you
with cathartic grace. Now only understanding pierces through your face.
Running through this field, moonlight singular guide, to destination
not disclosing the magnitude of their life. The importance is this moment
in which we decide, whether we lay out in this field all night, or you
go back inside.
Please don't. You roll away from me, carried by bending weeds, and mossy
beds that react with marked indifference. To go. You must, as thoughts
once of passion and trust, turn to cold and wet, and miles of grass
between us.
I write lines of your love in the earth below us, and now while we lay
in this grass, we will be impossible to find. You make mention of dawn
and whisper trust, saying follow through steady, give yourself to steadiness.
I turn in the grass in moments of discovery; you lean in and carefully
pick pieces of grass from under me. We are agreed that this moment would
be best understood in infinite continuity, but still, dawn refuses to
wait.
Celebratory tendencies now exist to mask the fact, that open ended offers
can never be passed. Unusual glances whirl about this grass, and make
eyes at the moon and you as you lie up at the stars, coddled with your
back.
Instantaneous karma, returns slowly and victorious, wondering of it's
place in our lives, as we stave off the obvious. Hiding from the sunlight,
and the warm fire that waits, hoping to become the grass, to blend with
the blades.
Stepping up and towards your home, enough has changed, that you consider
reconditioning the universe. This week long lifetime has been exhilarating
sustenance, that it would not be finality to this impetus.
<TOP>
New Love... Excerpts
March 15, 2002
I.
You gave me a lifetime in a week
Offering amnesty from selfishness,
Considering stoicism from itself,
A branded truth,
Siphoned from the top of the ocean,
And cast up like so much foam
You showed me character,
Allowed me to apprehend,
Strong and bitter fruits
Containing beginnings and ends,
Pitted gently by simpler
Gardeners and watchmen,
Who take fascinated glances
In the directions we've been
Our coal has not borne
Any diamonds in some time,
But the voracious pressure
Which brought up,
Through willful operations
And sudden declarations
Of love,
In the space previously too small,
Has intimidated the proud,
And called out the late,
From their romantic hibernation
Of course, you look and say, y
You aren't even tired,
Much less to hibernate,
Foreign conceptualizations,
Of god and of love,
Broken down into components,
Small enough to shove in
Through holes that hardly fit,
Considering romance,
But still wholly afraid of it,
Listening to friends,
And admiring our places,
Happiness is relative,
But you're still happy.
<TOP>
Persuasion
March 20, 2002
Persuasion.
How convenient an operation, the intellect easily kids itself, you stand
ready for a change, and hardly question my intent or my place in your
life, but you call me persuasive, and then proceed to share the rest
of the night with me. What collusions, rather confusions which stream
forth seamlessly, what intrusions into private space and jutting precipices
leading out into great expanses of chance.
Protect yourself, she says, as she tries to help me draw my sails in,
but I am, as always, stubborn, and don't even begin to lower them until
I've already heard the thunder for myself. I will plow forth against
these waves, and I will make the shore before it rains, I am determined,
fine, strong, and lost in my apprehensions about what will happen next.
Then, a shot right through my chest, I'm not getting any better at this,
and I pull arrow sharp and ruddy from my breast, wiping clean the crimsonness,
but I'm already coughing blood, and the whole situation has progressed
to a point, well past the realm of niceness and consideration, humility
and detachment.
But I digress, I had my chance, and I would not deviate from this steadiness.
Admittedly that caused me to be an easier target, but the alternative
was to become affectionless, in the end, there never was a choice, and
the human heart is a ridiculous organ, full of flaw, and mass and muscle
and blood and chance, and hope and despair, and moments which evaporate,
into misty morning air.
Or, success, could I conceive of it, here and now, broken and hungry,
hunger always does funny things to the soul. Tablets already issued,
were supposed to teach us all we needed to know, but time past, and
we couldn't comprehend by the tone of the words, and the shape of the
page.
Still little strange children leap away from the rain, skipping through
puddles, remiss to complain, that their Father's have long since passed
away, and now no one is left to continue the game. This is victory,
vindication, validation of forms that were only discernable as shadows,
lacking detail, and completely devoid of traces of the soul.
I'd said I'd just want to know whether this was the righteous direction
I'd read about. Presently, I still stay diligent and sane, clinging
to the Most Great Name, and trying desperately to find my way.
<TOP>
Belly
March 26, 2002
Do I still carry it?
Wintery hiatus thawed for Spring,
It is of course writing ability
Which now determines the course of this thing
Does it remain intact,
shall we learn of:
Belly.
Flanked by green beads,
Strung in back and falling loosely around
Scandalous hips,
Swaying rhythmically intact
Begging for my palms,
Kidding myself about my own sweaty palms
Around her back, her hips, her neck,
Rhythmically perfect,
But not entirely intelligent
<TOP>