I am an artist; I use words to create art.
My intent is to create beautiful art with the words I use.
I am not always successful in creating beautiful art with the words I use, but I have no desire to create art that offends people to the point of them wanting to harm others.
I know that recently someone created a film that was not beautiful, and was offensive enough to cause some people to want to harm others. Such actions are wrong. Certainly, people should not desire to hurt others because of the actions of an inconsiderate filmmaker, but the inconsiderate filmmaker should never have created something which was intended to upset others.
The words which Allah, the Merciful and Just, shared with Muhammad (Peace be upon him) through the Archangel Jibril (Gabriel) should be revered. Christians, Muslims, and Jews share many of the same words, prophets, and angels. Clearly we need to do the will of Allah, Jehovah, and God. Such will is neither to offend nor harm others.
I believe our ability to create is a gift which we need to use to create beauty, not discord.

I hear the voice of Jibril (1) in a song
He sings to me iambic words of God
Begin, believe, behave, become, belong
His voice rings out from Mecca (2) to Riyadh (3)
Begin the hajj (4) across the desert sand
Believe that I recite (5) His Holy Word
Behave as if His power’s in your hand
Become a healer like Al Imran’s bird (6)
Belong to Allah, Merciful and Just
The God of Islam, Father to us all
The Torah says He made us all from dust (7)
Sharia (8) saves the world from Adam’s Fall
I listen to the words of Jibril’s song
And find the place where all my words belong.

(1) Jibril is Arabic for the Archangel Gabriel, the messenger of God.
(2) Mecca is the birthplace of Muhammad, peace be upon him, and a site of the composition of the Quran.
(3) Riyadh is the capital and largest city of Saudi Arabia.
(4) Hajj is a pilgrimage required by all believers once in their life.
(5) Quran literally means “recitation.”
(6) Surat Al Imran verse 49, in the Quran, speaks of Isa (Jesus) performing miracles such as making a clay bird and breathing life into it.
(7) Genesis 2:7
“God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”
(8) Sharia is Islamic law.

I sent this poem to Ali Gomaa, the Grand Mufti of Egypt, and received the following reply:

“Dear Scott,

Thank you so much for contacting us. We really appreciate both your support and understanding and we thank you for your beautiful sonnet. In fact Sheikh Ali Gomaa is always keen on building bridges of communication with world religions aiming at disseminating a culture of peace and coexistence. Unfortunately, as you stated, these heinous acts of bigotry aiming at inflaming rage and hatred jeopardize our efforts in building a better and harmonious world for all of us. We hope that the people of reason all over the world would stand firmly against these irresponsible acts to avoid such heinous events in the future.

We thank you once again for your kind letter and we hope you stay in touch.”

I never found Elysium, did you?
Behind my house there’s just a little patch
Of trees. An easement with a trickling stream
That fills with leaves of red and leaves of gold
This time of year. The wind is blowing hard
Against the branches, slowly stripping bare
The last remaining vestiges of life,
At least that life which stretches toward the sun.
Were we misled? Did we mislead ourselves?
The grass is getting long before the snow.
I think I’ll only cut it one more time.
Then, if there’s time, I’ll build a little bench
Beneath the patch of trees, beside the stream,
And watch it through the winter, from my house.

The tree is small that overlooks the dark
and shining water drifting to the bay.
The picnic bench and swings denote the park
which gives the boys a place to run and play
while you and I trade love in every glance,
in every gust of wind that catches hold
of anything: our lunch, your hair.  My chance
to shine is lost, like ripples in the gold
reflection of the tree.  I hear you sing
into the wind of fall without a sound.
The boys have climbed the tree and now they bring
to you the childhood visions they have found.
There’s life, there’s water flowing to the sea;
there’s love that clings to every autumn’s tree.

And now that he is dead, the chair is hers,
a place to sit above the shifting dirt,
a piece of brittle wood, an ancient curse
that moans as if it too had suffered hurt.
A crack to match the scar upon her face
feels sharper to her small and steady hand
than any knife he’d kept within this place
except the one she’d buried in the sand.
When night comes on she doesn’t move at all
for fear the chair might simply disappear,
and nothing will remain to break her fall,
and nothing will remain to keep her here.
Her mind is gone, of that she is aware,
but now that he is dead, she owns his chair.

My soul no longer fits within my verse,
but tied to one another, I am bound
to write my tangled poetry, rehearse
how often I am lost, how seldom found.
The words no longer fit within my soul,
without the pain of knotted, twisted cords
which loosen with the loss of self-control
called passion, with its Gordian rewards.
Perhaps you only wanted pretty rhyme;
perhaps I truly couldn’t give a fuck.
In either case it seems a waste of time
to ponder such entanglements.  I’m stuck
with what I’ve chosen.  Words will never end,
just like the pain of losing you, my friend.

When all the tea is gone I wonder who
will bring me more? I’m not as old as you
might think, and yet my legs don’t work as well
as when I made this cup, this cup, this frail
remaining cup that’s half a pair. I made
this cup. You thought I meant the tea? I made
that too. But now it’s of the cup I speak–
and of the tea–although you see how weak
I am. As weak as this remaining tea
in this remaining cup. You see? You see
how weak the tea, the cup, I am? Its mate
fell to the floor and shattered there. It’s late.
I only wondered who might bring me more
to drink. My tea. My cup. Before, before . . .

It hurts to rise; the house is cold.  The day,
the week, the month have been as cruel as ice
that cracks the sill to let new drafts betray
my age. Arthritic wind feels like a knife.
And yet I rise.  The howl of misery
compels the aching shuffle of my feet
to throb across the room in agony.
What screeches like my joints out in the street?
I know before I hurt myself to rise,
and die in cold denial for my sake,
what scene the frosted window now denies;
I feel my ancient heart begin to break.
It hurts to drop in sorrow to the floor
as softly comes the knock upon my door.

She hates Uriah, always off to war,
but fucks him when he’s home, a simple thing.
It helps her some to think she’s just a whore.
It helps her to attract the lonely king.
She sluts out on the roof; Uriah’s house
is just across the street from David’s throne.
The heartless bitch has always hoped her spouse
would die in battle, leaving her alone
to spread her legs in what she thinks is love
for any lover she decides to buy
with poor Uriah’s money.  God above,
if only he’d be quickly sent to die!
And David, fool of Bethlehem, complies
and wins Bathseba’s “love,” a paltry prize.

Confused at how the room is shaped to touch
the fervent heat of canvas splashed with hue,
I weep at distant emptiness; so much
is on display for oh-so-fucking-few.
Withdrawn into the warmth of silent stares
which fade into the silence of the walls,
I weep again; I’m just a fool who dares
believe he understands.  What fucking balls!
Duplicitous dichotomies assault
my senses in a wave of higher art.
My visions crack the floor, become the fault
that tears the room around me well apart.
Then as my body falls in ravaged heat,
I feel my spirit, suddenly complete.

Our paths converge on roads we often run
alone.  We run alone until we meet
a friend.  At times the strides of two are one,
and partnerships evolve on lonely streets.
There’s time to speak as miles are passed away
in friendship that is forged from step to step,
and times when we have nothing more to say;
yet silent cadence brings a sweeter depth
to friends, to partners, sharing life and pain.
Our paces mark the seasons, year to year.
We run through searing heat and soothing rain;
we run together long enough to hear
the rise and fall of breath, the beating heart
we miss when paths diverge and we must part.

---

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”