Angel’s Wings

Angel’s Wings

The monster of the west takes off its mask
And bares its demon face for all to see.
And now the deeds it did in darkness are
Exposed to light for those like you and me.

But does the public in the homeland flinch
At seeing that their nation long was ruled
By those of devilish heart and mind, who yet,
That public, with their call for “freedom”, fooled?

What freedom was it then, as it is now?
The liberty to ravage lands afar?
The freedom granted then, and vaunted still,
To crush resistance with the force of war?

Alas! The public now is split indeed,
But mainly, from the news we get, between
The ones who’d crush a country A and those
Who’d bomb a B for reasons most obscene.

And still those reasons aren’t fully shown.
What’s said in private, in the central rings,
Cannot be heard by those more distant, who
May think their devil still has angel’s wings.

And so we race towards apocalypse,
With minions cheering as we near the brink.
The hounds of horror, scenting mayhem, bay,
As those who fed them hear and nod and wink.

The hunt is on, across the globe, for those
Who still may dare to try to curb the beast.
The monster of the west has bared its face,
And who can stop or slow it in the least?

2018 April 30th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
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http://candlefrenzy.com/yankee-candle-angels-wings-candle/

  

So Is It Spring?

So Is It Spring?

We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.

And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.

And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.

So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.

****** 

  

The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.

“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.

So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.

2018 April 21, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat.
(On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)

   

The Blight / Diamonds into Dust

The Blight / Diamonds into Dust

The things that once lit up our eyes may leave
Us later quite unmoved, except in memory—
As even curiosity recedes
And what had meaning seems as meaningless.

And then we look around us and perceive
The tawdry nature of the lives we lead
And so are filled with such a hopelessness
That remnant zests are turned to apathies.

The things that needed our attention seem
Undoable, as tasks neglected grow
To mountains in our minds. We cannot climb
These obstacles—and slide towards despair.

******

And some of us are graced or cursed in that
We see the grays between the black and white,
And this may give us insight, tolerance—
But also predispose us for the blight.

And that’s the cheerless gray that stalks the men
And women—even children—of our times,
And rarely leaves the elder folk untouched—
The blight that turns our diamonds into dust.

******

How many children’s eyes, in war and peace,
Have lost their brightness and been dulled by time?
How many men and women trudge the streets
Or sit or lie—and wait for their release?

What cure is there for this—our malady
That might be masked by all the razzmatazz
That passes for modernity—the jive
That hides the plagues to which it always leads?

Well surely, dropping all the plastic cheer
That’s manufactured in our modern mills
Might be a step towards that sanity
Whose absence leads to mayhem—and to this.

2018 April 17th Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Gizmos

Gizmos

When finance rules a nation and commerce rules the globe,
And when the two together are dancing to the moon,
Then where is there a refuge, from “peace” as much as war,
That’s greater than the shadow of a bomb, at tropic noon?
 
So Elon sends a car upon a rocket to the stars,
And Jeffrey has a business that is rocketing on high,
And bankers squint at cryptocash and stocks are climbing still,
As Donald fires his missiles so that yet more Arabs die.

But here in New York City, in the outer boroughs, we
Are counting down our dollars as we pay our endless bills,
And India has demonetized, and some can simply shrug,
As farmers drink their pesticides and leave no final wills.

We can see it as a tragedy or a comedy sans equal.
We can weep and be dejected, or laugh as madmen do.
We can try to make a difference, we can organize and vote,
Or simply play our gizmos, as those defeated do.

2018 April 16th. Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Nature’s Wiles

Nature’s Wiles

It’s Friday the thirteenth—a lucky day,
It seems, for April’s half is nearly done
And Winter, which had overstayed its time,
Has journeyed North awhile. And so we’re blessed
With sunshine and with warmth—so long delayed
That we are wary, as a lovelorn lad
Might be, when winked at slowly by a wench,
Not knowing what this means—and fearing much.

And yet, we all have been in Summer’s bed,
Except for those who haven’t met her yet,
And so we try to ease our winter frowns,
Reluctant still to smile at Nature’s wiles.

The birds are chirping, but in muted tones
And men and women walk, with coats in hand.

2018 April 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
 

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Winter neared its end, I saw a tree,
Denuded, waiting patiently for Spring,
With limbs outstretched towards the white and blue
And towards that sun in which the trees delight.

It was the sun that whispers of the time
When roads will shimmer in the summer's heat,
And leaves will flutter as the branches sway
In pleasant breezes blowing from the sea.

And as I stood and squinted at the sky,
I saw the balance and the grace in trees,
Whose trunks and branches reach towards the light,
As roots we cannot see dig downward, deep.

I looked awhile in wonder and in awe
At this—this beauty on the city's street,
And then resumed my walking towards the train,
As trees stood waiting, near to Brooklyn's shore.

2018 April 9th, Mon. afternoon
D train from Brooklyn to Manhattan
 

For Me and You

For Me and You

We humans weren’t ever meant to be
As lonely jackals, wary of the rest.
We need at times our solitude—and yet
We need some others too, to be our best.

In nature, there are solitary beasts.
The male orangutan may munch alone.
But lonely humans at their lunches ask—
What sin was it, for which they now atone?

We hurry to our schools or jobs and there
We meet with fellow humans—more than less,
And this may tire us or sustain us, so
Our lunches may be respites from the stress.

******

But when we are confined, at home or work,
And see and hear no others for a while—
That might be days or weeks or even months—
We might forget to laugh—or even smile.

And now—in exiles or in prisons or
In lonely houses or in sterile wards,
We humans wither, torn from those we loved,
Who now are distant—or forever gone.

We pine for scents and tastes and textures that
Are now but memories—fading, even lost.
The years go by—and then the decades too.
And this is progress—with its human cost.

******

And so we worry and we wonder how
We might fulfill our duties to the ones
From whom we parted. Mothers rise to speak
In daughters’ dreams—and fathers, in their sons’.

As sap is what sustains the cells of trees,
And flows, within us, keep our own alive,
And like the air and water—and the foods we eat,
So also is this join, on which we thrive.

We need to feel the earth and see the sky,
To hear the plants, the beasts—and humans too.
There is a vibrance that connects and heals—
And so I write this verse—for me and you.

******
 
And yet—we age and in our age despair
Of ever having strength to reach across
The oceans and the continents—for some
Have hardly strength to bear the local cross.

How often has an exile wished to be
Not one, but two or even more—so she
Could be in places far apart at once—
And realized that this could never be.

So all that we can do, it seems, is this—
To do as needed in the place we are,
For we are locals, like the nesting hens
That cannot wander, from their clutches, far.

******

We're blown apart by commerce and by war.
The wealth is drained from villages to towns
And thence to hubs of industry or where
The bankers rule and presidents are clowns.

In dreams, our bodies may be imaged, and
In waking, minds are often split in two—
And only half is present where we walk,
The other being where we’re needed too.

But let me dwell no more on sorrows here,
For surely you have had enough of those.
I can’t be near to you in body, but
Remember—that in spirit, I am close.

2018 April 5th Thu. & 7th Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
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"Does wisdom come with age?"
"It does with some of us, dear, but not with the humans.
Those beasts are very slow learners."
http://news.discovery.com/animals/videos/why-cant-chimps-speak-video-140919.htm