with all of these germs going
and all of this staying up late
it figures I would catch some
that would leave me wheezing and
so now it’s time to double down on
and cough syrup
and orange juice
and neo citran
and blogging some more
in the hopes of
(rather than catching some
C’est aujourd’hui que commence une grande conférence à Montréal, regroupant des jeunes d’à travers le Québec, le Nunavut, et les provinces maritimes du Canada, “qui aspirent à se défaire de la léthargie que la société leur impose et à travailler côte à côte dans leurs quartiers et leurs villages pour commencer un processus de transformation collective”. Rappellant mes jours de service au Québec, et inspiré par le zèle et l’enthousiasme de la génération présente, j’ai composé quelques versets en leur éloge.
Ces jeunes qui quittent leurs foyers,
se rassemblant, se dispersant
tout comme autant d’aigrettes au vent,
parsèment de vie les prés d’été.
Se mêlant parmi leurs compères,
ils soufflent en eux la brise de foi,
et fracassant les chaînes du moi,
s’occupent à récréer la terre.
Voyez comment leur danse est belle!
Ces âmes célestes, esprits de bien,
reserrent les nœuds, renouent les liens,
en répondant au grand appel.
“Voilà des anges,” l’on dira d’eux :
bien qu’issus de lignée mortelle,
mais bénis d’une force spirituelle
propre aux habitants des cieux.
© 2013 Daniel Jones.
this morning, an eerie quiet invaded the tunnel, supplanting the commute’s normal din with nothing, glorious nothing. not even the noise wanted to get out of bed. after glancing about and taking stock of the reds, the yellows and oranges suddenly strewn about the cityscape, i turned back to my lap and continued typing away, tapping out messages to friends and family.
evening came early tonight. as the air chilled, the squirrels came out in little black troops to gather up seeds and acorns, bounding across the grass littered with fallen leaves. the bold and deep greens of a month ago have begun to yellow or redden, depending on where one’s glance falls, as autumn begins to rear its beautiful head.
walking slowly down dusty streets
his eyes are lost in thoughts that wash over
like forty waves and swallow him up
how blessed the dust of ‘Akka
how Blessed the Beauty whose feet trod upon it
he says with a tear;
his soul cries out in its separation
like a temple-flower
his prayer falls from his lips, and a wind stirs
and scatters the words he intones;
praise God who hearkens and is ready to answer
would that these stones could speak
and recount the tales of his Beloved;
would that he could hear the voices
of the Concourse on High, singing His praise
lost in thoughts of remembrance
he steps as though scaling those hallowed steps
he walks as though treading the rocky path that leads
to that Point of Adoration, that Holy of Holies
the flutter of a breeze sweeps away the dust
and scatters the flowers falling softly at his feet
and he listens for the voice of the Promised One
Waft, then, unto me, O my God and my Beloved, from the right hand of Thy mercy and Thy loving-kindness, the holy breaths of Thy favors, that they may draw me away from myself and from the world unto the courts of Thy nearness and Thy presence. (Bahá’u’lláh)
lost in a sea of subtle fragrance
and deep abounding joy i sigh
you ask me hello are you there you
need to concentrate what are you
across the bay
like a magnet it draws me back
it feels like flying
like being there and curling into
a stance of prayer my forehead
touches the carpet and
as the faithful utter wordless devotions
i smell the scent of roses in the air
turning to face that sacred spot that
drink deep from the cup of His presence
for in nine days you return to your previous life
to find that it can no longer be lived the same way
back at work on a grey day I hear chatter
while deep inside noiseless waves
crash and break upon my heart
and their silent roar echoes in my ears
and shakes this dusty shell that surrounds me
I turn aside and I sigh
and you look on wondering
if one day you look upon my Beloved
you might know why
hunger, like a spoiled child
kicks and screeches at my belly,
craving the bread of indulgence
although in dim reflections i recognize its folly,
the clouds ever re-envelop me,
and the hunger of the dying is debased.
© dan jones, 2001.