Sixth Set of Ghazals for 2003

Five Ghazals by donna everhart

• Ghazal: 07/16/03
• Ghazal: 07/05/03
• Ghazal: June 2003
• Ghazal: May 2003
• Ghazal: 07/20/03

donna everhart's ghazals use the well-honed American free verse line, rooted in speech and at ease with words and things. Her line is supple and precise. Despite divergent line-lengths, the ear that hears her phrasing will find lines that sing.

I'd thought to reflect on some of the images and their implications. But I realize that if I do that, this set of ghazals will be even longer getting online. So I release them and put them where you are now reading them.

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Ghazal: 07/16/03

Inside: humdrum silence, scratch of fleas behind ears.
Outside: lamp posts try balancing themselves in spins of living darks and days

The dog obeys the Master who walks with one leg.
Reconsider tearing the body apart: Roosevelt spoke soft; he carried a stick.

The Good Mother wonders where the wild screams are coming from;
and the songs of she-birds studying their images, tearing through screens.

Breath suspended beneath breathes again into blossoms.
Although this brief respite, some returned have termed almost-heaven.

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Ghazal: 07/05/03

The in-a-hurry ivy twists up and along the railing from East to West.
A spiritual path with a seeker winding toward the center.

A broken alarm rings, and a body never seen before rises into the dark.
This is part of yourself that doesn't need you anymore.

The face of light reveals your shadow's fall;
the flash of dark, my following footsteps.

When winds rise, is there not one soul in celebration?
Who wants to stand in the middle of a storm, arms raised?

How addictive is the path leading to sorrow's lore.
When the drunken poet shows up missing, you'll know where to look.

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Ghazal: June 2003

The ecstatic atom discharged is still alive
under a cold stream or a rock we once dug out.

The land licks up our sweat, sweet like raisins on the tip of her tongue;
she disappears into dark wood like a dear-child when I come out.

Hunger for heart of spirit, thirst for mind of soul;
What we need is more, more, more. Rain, the ground gives out.

The abandoned homes walk the block; friends wave good-by.
Freedom's toast hesitates from yards sunk with bags of shelved dreams tossed out.

Pull up the britches, scratch the left knee, offer a hand to the birds.
The right arm is for wiping the forehead of strange thoughts leaking out.

Not one left awake to hear the nightingales song;
or the dog barking to bone-thieves and sparse moons, breaking out.

What wisdom's dark wine lies waiting inside! the departing crows out.
A passing light covers the poet's pillow when the sun streams out.

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Ghazal: May 2003

A black cat with a star on his chest sits, stares,
not at all perplexed at your tears.

Far out into the dark waters, the forbidden fruit
travels toward the dry shore and the sand-like sound of your tears.

Wilbur sleeps as Charlotte sweats words: no time
to save squandered on spineless spider tears.

We shed the small skins, walk up the stairs.
But in bed, do not we remember the sweet salt of young tears?

A woman with bent legs and a black cane turns to the exit,
refuses debate, direction or tears.

The poet says, the end of the world I cannot believe.
Believe me, nothing ends so surely as this poem and your tears.

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Ghazal: 07/20/03

24 Hour Food & Druge: awake, counting
ceaseless sleep-deprived streets darker than the dead ends of day dreams.

Hero? Devil? Who is to say?
Who wants to see themselves in a painting of the Big Picture? raise your hand.

Sore feet never finished outgrowing.
The last pair: one size fits all, no room to spare.

Can anyone figure a way to unfold these fingers?
Anyway, these vibes cannot be unraveled, like children standing at the vanishing point, laughing.

*Thomas Love Peacock

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