No Verses

 
No Verses
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
******
.
The dawn that once brought hope now brings despair
As tens of thousands die—or wish they could—
As those who live are filled with grief and pain—
And most, who witness, now have understood
.
That evil often triumphs, laying waste
To all that’s good and precious: tenderness
And quietude—and love and due respect—
As Mammon grins and profits from duress. 
.
****** 
.
How many are the ones who've died in waves,
As lands were conquered or were laid to waste, 
As guns and bombs replaced the clubs and swords,
And Greed and Fear infected all with haste?
.
I hear the children laugh; I hear them weep.
I hear the dying, burned and blasted, moan.
I fear departure, leaving those I know
To fend for selves, with others, or alone.
.
****** 
.
But who among us chooses time or place
To enter or to exit from the stage
On which we walk and act and say our words—
And then depart—at ripe or tender age?
.
The dusk, descending, whispers now of night,
And I will venture out, beneath the stars,
To breathe and try to find a passing peace,
As all around delight in distant wars.
.
****** 
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
2024 October 3rd & 5th.
Berkeley, California
.

Memories (2023 March)

Memories (2023 March)

Our lives are passing, as our seasons are,

With each of us a leaf that buds, unfolds

And feels the touch that comes to birth with life—

With light and shade and all that life provides—

Until it wilts and then is blown away. 

And yet we leaves can touch and even talk

And feel the bonds that form and then sustain.

And even when the winds have swept away

The ones we knew and loved, they still remain

With us—as echoes do—for quite a while.

******

When I have lost the ones that I have loved

And none remains to meet with me again,

Except within, in fondest memory, 

I still will smile on seeing faces then,

As one by one they rise within my mind.

And there they will remain and speak to me

As they had done when they were still alive—

And I in turn may try to speak to them,

Not knowing whether they can hear my words, 

Until they either fade—or I depart.

2023 March 26th, Sun.

Berkeley, California

No Matter

 
No Matter
 
There’s rarely justice in this life on Earth.
The Buddha said, “We suffer, right from birth.”
So every pleasure leads in time to pain—
And every joy to sorrow, once again.
 
So those with conscience left may speak and then
Be punished. So it's been, with the best of men
And women. Caring, labor rarely win
Their just rewards. The world is mired in sin.
 
And neither is there a hell or a heaven, friend,
That waits for us. When life is at its end,
Oblivion is—and there the matter stands,
As far as this one kens and understands.
 
******
 
No matter! We are born—to laugh and cry,
And then in time to age and then to die,
At times before our times, so some may weep—
And realize that life is not to keep.
 
No matter! Precious still, this little time!
And so, I'd end my little nonsense rhyme—
But wait! I'll slow—and sip of life a while
And raise my glass to end it with a smile.
 
To every friend or foe who's crossed my way,
I raise a toast and from my heart I say,
“I wish you joy—and though there might be woe,
You'll bend and mend, and smile and let it go.”
 
2022 October 26^th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

 

Winding Down

 
Winding Down 

The clock is wound—and then its coils unwind,
as “Tick-tick-tock!”, its seconds-hand goes ‘round,
until it’s all unwound—and then it stops
and waits for us to wind it up again.
 
So also it may be with each of us.
We each are wound—and then we each unwind,
as childhood, youth and middle age go by—
and then we might perceive we’re winding down.

And so we slow and stumble as we move,
as friction overcomes the driving force,
until at last the pulsing heart has stopped.
Then life is done and death is all that’s left.

Is there a hand that winds us up again?
If so, the spirit might perhaps revive—
but not the body or the burdened self
that sheds its baggage—and its claim to life.

2018 February 16th, Fri.
F train, running on the D line
between Atlantic Avenue and 
Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn

Baba (Dear Father)

Baba (Dear Father)

The summer solstice came and went—and now
the date approaches when you left this life
and so returned to nothingness again.

So mother too had left, a month before—
like you, before the school-year came to end
and set me free, for August and July—
too late, that year, for her—and then for you.

And so your daughter too had gone—before
you both—and left us all disconsolate.

******

Now school is ending—and there’s time to pause,
returning home—to sit within a park,
the playground of a school, bereft of trees—
with tar and concrete, where there should be grass.

So here I sit and bask in summer’s sun—
or swelter, as those summers come to mind,
beneath those skies that arced in brilliance,
beneath that sun that burned our darkened skins—
and in that land where you and I were born.

******

How close and distant were the father, son—
how rare and dear the tears that you and I
had wept, across the years and continents.

By culture, I was bred for reverence—
and more for elders than for all the gods.

But here I sit and weep, in quietude,
with little children’s voices wafting by,
remembering you, who once was little too—
and flew your kite, beneath that tropic sun.
 
******

How many children cry for parents lost,
how many parents for their children gone—
how many for a sibling or a friend,
or elder, younger—who is now no more…

So little time for joy—or even grief,
amidst the hustle of the city’s streets,
amidst the passage of a harried life…

How precious then, this time at summer’s start—
to pause and find the time to think of you.

2017 June 22, Thursday, 4:31 pm
playground, Public School 186
between 76th and 77th Streets, off 16th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

  

Dawn and Dusk-III

Dawn and Dusk-III 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10155498300923777

At dawn, we’re born; at dusk, we die.
And this repeats—we know not why.

As night bears day, so day bears night.
The darkness yields in time to light,
And light in turn gives way to dark,
As dawn and dusk, these turnings mark.

And see—the hues that arc on high,
As birth and death ignite the sky.

How sad, the dusk!  How hopeful, dawn!
It spins—this planet that we're on.
It spins—and yet it seems to pause,
As dawn and dusk suspend its laws.

It’s morning, then it’s noon and then
It’s afternoon and eve again...

******

   

So seasons come and seasons go—
In age, with speed; in childhood, slow.

And so it is with living things.
Of life and death, the poet sings.
And each of these, she wonders on,
When gazing up, at dusk and dawn.

The winter brings its cold and snow—
And yields to spring, when flowers blow.

How long, it seems, in warmer lands,
The summer lasts!  One understands,
With age, that all is passing, so
One bears the pain and pleasure more.

Our autumns come, with scents of musk.
We rose with dawn; we ebb with dusk.

  

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10155498300923777
  
2017 June 13th, Tue (first four stanzas)
June 14th, Wed (last six stanzas)
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------
  
Two related poems, from 2006:
 

• Morning Song  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/morning-song.html ) 
• Evening Dirge
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/evening-dirge.html )

-----------------------------------------------------
    
More related poems, from 2014 and 2015: 
  

• Sing to Me  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/11/sing-to-me.html ) 
• Bhorer Axar Gan-ভোরের আশার গান  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/12/sing-to-me-bangla.html ) 
• Morning Glory  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/06/morning-glory.html )
• Dawn and Dusk   
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-dusk.html )
• Dusk   
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dusk.html )
• Dawn and Dusk—II  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-duskii.html )
• Morning's Song (Draft)
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/09/mornings-song.html )

  

Fragments

   
Fragments

We age and then, in time, we die.
And yet, although we might despair,
We hold to truth, refute the lie,
And try to mend what needs repair.

We're humbled by the blows of time,
And all our hopes are dashed in turn.
And yet, we breathe, and persevere.
While life remains, our candles burn.

Who knows the truth, except the gods?
And surely they are blinded too.
We hold our fragments to the light,
For that is all we each can do.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.
And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.
And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.
But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  
The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,
They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,
as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.
For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 
The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.
But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 
And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?
It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 
Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.
We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.
  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

Sriti-স্মৃতি-Memory

This post consists of the following, in descending vertical order:

-- an image (a vertical view of Bensonhurst Park at dusk);

-- four lines in Bengali (স্মৃতি), plus a link to a FB post;
-- a Roman transcription (Smr̥ti) from http://translate.google.com;
-- a voice recording of the Bengali;
-- a Roman transcription (Sriti) as described at Bharot Xadhin;
-- an English translation (Memory);
-- a second image (sunset at a street corner in Bensonhurst);
-- a third image (a horizontal version of the first image);
-- the Facebook link, again.

You can click on an image to see it in a larger, clearer format. In most Windows PC browsers, you can, in addition, use the f11 key to toggle to full-screen view.

The images are best seen on a computer screen. Please allow some time for the larger images to load.

In Windows, to return to this post, you need to hit the esc key or click on the white cross at the top right of the dark background.  Remember to use f11 again to toggle back to normal viewing mode.

The Facebook link leads to a brief but moving post by Riaz Qadir on the passing of his mother, with two images of her. That was what gave rise to the four lines of verse, originally in Bengali.

Thanks for taking the time and trouble.

--------------------------------------------
  

Dusk, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn. 2017 March 11.

  

স্মৃতি

দেখতে দেখতে দিন ফুরল,
আঁধার এল শেষে।
যাচ্ছে তবু দিনের ছবি,
স্মৃতির আলোয় ভেসে।

রবিবার, ১৯এ ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক  

https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155804742247678
--------------------------------------------
  
Smr̥ti 

Dēkhatē dēkhatē dina phurala,
ām̐dhāra ēla śēṣē.
Yācchē tabu dinēra chabi,
smr̥tira ālōẏa bhēsē.

Rabibāra, 19ē Phēbruẏāri, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka 

--------------------------------------------

Please click on the rounded triangular play-button on
the right to hear a voice recording. In some browsers, 
you may have to click a second time. This might not
work on cellphones.  Adjust the volume on your device
as needed.


Online recording software >>
--------------------------------------------

Sriti
(x = sh, c = ch, h = aspiration*, ~ = faint nasal,
vowels as in Spanish/Italian, with intermediate length)

    

Dekhte dekhte din phurolo,

a~dhar elo xexe.

Jacche tobu diner chobi,

sritir aloe bhexe.

Robibar, 19e Phebruari, 2017 Khri

Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

* puff of air, "h", along with preceding consonant

--------------------------------------------

Memory

Before our eyes, the daylight ends;
the darkness comes apace.
And yet, the times of day go by,
aglow in memory.

2017 February 19th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Sunset, 86th St & 18th Ave, Brooklyn.  2017 March 3.

Dusk, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn.  2017 March 11.

 https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155804742247678 

     

Our Wisp of Verse

Our Wisp of Verse

The present moment—that is all we have.
And yet we have it not—it comes and goes,
As water, streaming, rises, ebbs and flows.
Can men possess the wind, contain the tide
Or claim, where those, whose lives have ended, hide?
 
From vastness, we are gathered for a while,
And back into the vast we each will go.
Oh friend of mine, that I have come to know,
How brief our tryst, before the winds disperse
Both you and I and this—our wisp of verse!

If there's a reason for existence, then
It can't be figured by our mortal wits.
We each are formed—and scattered back to bits
That merge with water, earth and endless sky,
Not ever knowing whence or whither, why.

I saw, upon the trackless ocean, this—
A leaf of autumn, bobbing on the seas
That troughed and crested, driven by the breeze.
Who knew, from where that withered leaf had blown—
Or where, its siblings that it once had known?

We build our villages and towns and roads
And so find comfort in our time on Earth.
But what's the road that sent us to our birth
And where's the village that awaits us when
We each are sent upon our way again?

Annihilation marks the end of life.
The spirit leaves the body, so it seems.
No magic words and no fantastic schemes
Can bring it back, for even just a while
To shed that tear or look and gently smile.

If only we could speak with those we loved
And hold them in our arms and cry and smile—
If only we were given just a while
To make amends, in speech and attitude,
And then let go, in peace and gratitude...

What vanity—those ends that we pursue
Beyond what's needed so we each survive.
And yet, what seeming comfort we derive
In hoping that our work was not in vain,
Although we lived and worked and died in pain.

So come, my friend, and walk with me a while.
Before we part, we each should laugh and cry
At this absurdity, so when we die
We might remember, as our souls disperse,
Our time together and our rhyming verse.

2016 December 4th, Mon. 1:11 am
Northwest Berkeley, California 

O`bujh--অবুঝ--Ignorant

 
For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

------------------------------------------------------------

অবুঝ

কোথার থেকে এসেছিলি,
কোথায় চলে গেলি,
সারা জীবন ভেবেও আমি
বুঝব না ক তা৷
  
আমিও যাব, তোর-ই মতন৷
রইবে বাকি ছাই৷
বলবে, যারা জানত আমায়,
‘বিদায় নিল, ভাই৷’
  
রাস্তা দিয়ে হাঁটি যখন,
শহর-পাড়াগাঁয়,
দূর থেকে তোর মুখটা দেখি,
চেঁচিয়ে উঠি প্রায়৷
   
কাছে এসে দেখি যখন,
বুঝি অন্য কেও৷
কত বছর বাদেও, তোকে
মরীচিকায় দেখি৷
  
যাব যখন দেহ ছেড়ে,
রইব কি আর ‘আমি’?
রইব জানি অবুঝ তখন,
যেমনি এখন আছি৷
  
বুধবার, ৩রা ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
    
------------------------------------------------------------

Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

    

Blowing Dust

Blowing Dust (Draft)

It’s difficult, and yet it’s best, to learn
That all we have and everything we’ve built,
We each will lose—that all will be as dust—
The dust that blows, to which we will return.

And yet, when we and those we know are gone,
The birds will chirp to greet again the dawn.
And crickets will be loud at eventide,
As one by one the stars begin to show.
 
******
 
A long procession winds its way through time.
How many went before upon our paths?
How many still to come?  We walk alone
Amidst the crowds, and yet in company.

So as I wipe away the dust that clings
To books I’m packing, those I’ve read and those
I hope to read before I lose my sight,
I wonder at the dust—and wonder more.

Whose dust is this?  How many beings past
Are touched by me, who cannot feel my touch?
Could books attract the dust of scholars who
Had loved their books as I do mine—and more?

A foolish thought—and yet I wonder where
My sister’s ashes, that the river took,
Are wandering—and if perhaps, by chance,
A particle might settle on her book.

My parents’ ashes have been waiting long.
And still I hope that if I can retire,
I’ll free them, like I did my sister’s, while
I leave a sprinkling on the book they wrote.

******

My sister and my parents could not see,
In print, the books on which they’d spent their years.
And I but rarely leaf through them, because
I fear I’ll stain the pages with my tears.
 
A book, when extant, might extend a life
Beyond the death of body and of mind.
As books are read, the authors come alive
And speak to those that death has left behind.

And it’s the same with photographs and more—
And all the work we did that’s left a mark—
Perhaps within a mind or heart—before
Our turn to turn again to blowing dust.

How few are those, who have their books or art
Or other free creations published, known
Beyond a tiny circle?  Each yet leaves
Their little ripples that subside with time.

And that’s enough.  And even if we die
And none remembers that we were, it is
Sufficient that we lived our little while—
No more, no less than ants or leaves—and died.
 
******
 
Our mornings and our evenings come in turn.
We’re born to be interred or else to burn.
And in-between, we do what beings do,
To leave behind, perhaps, a trace or two.
 
A mortal should accept the mortal fate—
Which is to vanish, be deleted, go.
For all we were and all we did will be
As this—the dust on which I gently blow.

2015 August 11th, Tue, 8:15 pm
(fourth-from-last and third-from-last stanzas
 added August 12th, Wed. morning, third 
stanza added August 14th, Fri. morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

The Play—II

 
The Play—II 

The planet spins – and days and weeks
And months and years go by.
The play proceeds. We mouth our lines
And rarely question why.
 
We each could speak of our defeats,
Of all the battles lost –
Of how we struggled hard and how
We paid the bitter cost…

Or should we speak of victories,
However few the count?
For that might then fulfill our need
For cheer, in small amount…

******

But all we lost has long been gone
And never will return –
And  what we gained was either lost
Or will be, in its turn…

So let’s not talk of our defeats
Or victories in the past –
Our lives are acts that soon will end,
For time is flowing fast.

So let us each be silent then
And sip the present’s wine –
For be it sweet or bitter, it
Is pressed from grapes divine.
 
We build our lives and watch them wrecked.
And yet, we still can smile.
There’s time, within the play, to sit
And chat for just a while.
   
So every breath is precious, be
It drawn with joy or sorrow.
We each were born but yesterday
And will be gone tomorrow.

******

And though our battles might be lost
Or won and then reversed,
The others, still unborn, will come
And tread the paths traversed.

So as we view the present scene,
Reflecting on the past,
The future comes.  This act that ends –
It will not be the last.

But when that final curtain falls
And life on Earth has ended –
Will aught of consequence remain,
As men have long pretended?
 
2015 March 23rd, Mon
(first & last three stanzas added March 28th, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
   

To Monua – Eleven Years Past

    
To Monua – Eleven Years Past
 
In the bitter cold of winter
In the northern climes, we pray
For the warmth of northern summers –
And the ones who’ve gone away…

For the life, we each are given,
We each in time return,
From age, despair or illness –
Or fiends that bomb and burn...

We're born, indeed, by accident.
By accident, we go.
And yet, although we're happenstance,
There's much we get to know.

And when our elders leave, our grief
Is deep – but when we see
The ones who're younger go before,
We wish we would not be...
  
******
   
On a Saturday, you left us –
Or on a Sunday morn,
On the dates returned this weekend,
Oh my sister, all forlorn...
 
And I wasn’t there to stay you –
But a continent away.
And this, I still remember –
In the silence, every day.
 
But if there’s still your spirit
That wanders, asking why –
With our parents now departed,
You should know, I’m coming by –

And surely, we’ll be meeting
And I will hold your hand –
And our parents might be watching
And they will understand.
 
And all your friends, your cousins,
Your elders, in-laws, more –
The ones you touched, who’re living –
Or gone, will come to know.

For you and I and others
Are ripples on a sea –
That though we each might vanish
Will never cease to be.
 
You lived a life of beauty,
However deep the pain –
And each of us is praying
We’ll find you once again.

******

And so – for every other,
Who has passed the “One Way” sign
And left behind another
Who can only pray and pine –
 
I write to you, my sister,
As they might write to those –
The ones, who're not returning
From where their fortune chose...
 
The bubbles meet and part and pop
And others take their place.
So parents grieve and siblings mourn,
Remembering a face...
 
We think with time the wound will heal.
But rarely is it so.
In every home, the sorrow comes
And never will it go.
  
2015 January 17th, Sat. 9:35 pm
Brooklyn, New York

In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004

And Where Are You?
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2011/04/and-where-are-you.html

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/07/immersion-in-ganges.html


Jupiter Rising
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/03/jupiter-rising.html
 
Monua in Boston
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/monua-in-boston.html

 

The Winter Comes – II

 
The Winter Comes – II
 
We age, we falter, lose our strength and die.
And some of us may idly wonder why.
But each of us, in this, have little choice –
These truths persist – that many would deny.
 
And some escape, awhile, the costs of age,
And when they see they can’t, they’re filled with rage –
And others may accept them, noting death
And all that comes before, with mindsets sage…

The leaf will yellow, wither then and fall –
And death, in time, will issue each its call,
For everyone that’s born, in turn, will die –
So aging, sickness, death, await us all…

While walking slowly once beside the sea,
I entered in a sort of reverie –
And thought I heard a voice, speaking low…
And this is what that spirit said to me –

“Oh live the life you’re given and rejoice,
Be grateful for your blessings, giving voice
To gratitude – in speech and in your deeds,
For in these things we still have each a choice.”

I listened then – and ever since, I’ve tried,
Despite the blow, despite the chance denied
That came so many times, to me and those
I knew and loved, to still be gratified…

For death has never held for me, the dread
That others might perceive in it, and yet
So many things are still unkempt and will,
I know, remain undone when I am dead.

And those, for whom the winds of chance have laid,
On me, a duty, though I’m disarrayed –
I would not leave them prey to woes that I,
By minding duty, could perhaps have stayed…

We age, we sicken, lose our health, descend,
As others then neglect or condescend...
And some, perhaps, might lend a helping hand –
Or not.  We struggle, lonely, till the end.

But walking on the street, in autumn, I
Can see the leaves, that one by one, will die,
Upon the trees – and strewn along the street.
Who grieves for them?  And who dares wonder why?

The conifers are green throughout the year.
With antifreeze evolved, they need not fear
The seasons cold.  But even they will pass  –
And who, for a fallen pine, will shed a tear?

Ah – life and death, like yang and yin entwined…
Who knows, whence life arises, whence the mind –
And where they go, when autumn’s winds have blown?
The winter comes. Take solace – and be kind…

For when we’re gone, the freezing winds will blow
And cover then the remnant leaves with snow.
But in its time, there’ll also be the spring –
And little birds will sing, as grasses grow…
 
2014 October 26th, Sun., 2:12 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Childless

 
Childless

There’s a loneliness, an emptiness, within the little flats,
For they’ve never had the children – no little angel-brats,
No pattering of little feet, no bawling in the night…
The occupants are getting old – and something’s not aright...
 
But now, alas, it’s far too late – they each are weighted down
By worries, cares and aging’s tolls – like others in their town.
And so it is around the world, as childless people age –
As singles or in twos and threes – and slowly, limits gauge.
 
“So who will care for her,” he thinks, “when I am dead and gone?
And what to do with what I’ve done – to whom to pass it on?
My cousins far away, who’re now unsteady on their feet –
They’re childless too…” He worries, while conceding the defeat.
 
But those who’ve had their offspring, labored hard and given years
To feed them, tend them, teach them, shedding blood and sweat and tears –
They wonder where their children are, who’re often far away…
And so December comes to all, who dallied once in May...

The birds and beasts are substitutes, and work that fills the day,
And in the night, on waking, thoughts that take them far away...
A wondrous world we live in, where we procreate or not,
And all we do returns to where it came and we're forgot...
   
2014 October 18th, Sat.
(last stanza added 19th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Dead

  
Dead

They once were here but now are gone,
And no one knows to where.
And when they left, we thought they slept,
Released  from toil and care.

The days went by, the weeks and months –
The seasons and the year –
And then it dawned – that they had died,
Who still to us were dear.

How final is a death.  It brings
To close, a life on earth.
And each of us will die, who once
Awoke to life and birth.

In sleep, it seems we’ve ceased to live,
And yet, we are alive.
In death, it seems we merely sleep,
Yet naught can dead revive.

I came upon a village once,
Where everyone had died.
But when I went to tell my friends,
They thought that I had lied.

They would not come with me to see,
And so I went again.
And in that village square, I knelt
In silence and in pain.

They once were born as infants and
Their lives of mortals led.
And then, one day, it seemed they slept –
But truly, they were dead.

And some might say, “They’re still alive
But in another realm.”
And who, with heart, will say they’re wrong?
For death can overwhelm.
   
They once were here but now are gone,
Where none can see or hark.
And who is brave enough to try
To dare those realms of dark?

2014 October 11, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Rustling Leaves

    
The Rustling Leaves
  
September moves towards its end, yet city trees are green.
And in the little front yards, flowers bloom as if in spring.
But squashes now are pendant, large, from trellises – and yes,
Some trees give hints of yellowing, like humans that have grayed.

For autumn’s winds are blowing now and nights are growing cold.
So leaves will change in color soon and turn to warmer hues.
I pass beneath a spreading tree and hear the rustling leaves.
They speak to me of summer’s end and whisper of the fall.

How many summers now are left, how many autumns still?
The winter winds will come with snow, and we will wait for spring.
The elder dies, the infant wails, the child and sapling grow.
How many springs to relish and how many winters more?

We city-dwellers go to work each day and then return.
And in our little flats we sit and stare at glowing screens.
But seasons come and seasons go as seasons always will.
And cities too will come and go, and those like you and me.

So when I hear the rustling leaves, I hear the voices past.
I hear our conversations and the ones I overheard.
September moves to meet its end, and so do you and I.
But seasons still will cycle ‘round and infants born will cry.

So let us smile at this, my friend, to whom I sit and write:
The day we shared had woe enough – but also gave delight.
And so, as night approaches, let us join our hands to pray –
That others after us will have their pleasures in their day.

2014 September 25th, Thu. 5:48 am.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Divinity

   
Divinity
   

Divinity-001a

 
   
I’ve read at times the poetry you sent,
And even figured out the things you meant.
But honestly, your stanzas, tired and old,
Might need refreshment, of a nature bold…
   
******
   
So leave awhile your peace and love, my friend,
And write instead of wars without an end –
And hatreds too – for that Reality
Cannot be cloaked by all your poetry.
 
However much you dress her in your fashion
Or rouge her with your powder of compassion,
Her nature, to your efforts, will not yield.
The thing she truly is will be revealed.
 
So rather than attempting to disguise
That lady with your veils of silken lies,
Let's strip away those layers of attire
And gaze upon her, as she might desire...
 
And now you see she’s Death and Destiny,
Of visage cold that brooks no mutiny.
Her lips are set, she’s resolute and grim.
She’ll not be swayed by prayer or by whim.
 
The figure says – a woman, yet it seems
No lover touched those breasts, no eager child
Has ever reached to drink from them…  Those hips
Have never moved in throes of passions wild…
 
This woman has a twin – they look alike,
And that one is, we’ve heard, a virgin too,
Who still has heart.  She cares and gives of love...
But not this maid, the harsher of the two.
 
Untouched by sex – and cold, devoid of love,
She has, instead, a thirst for human blood.
For hatred burns within her breast.  Her lust
Will not be sated by a meager flood…
   
And as you watch, you’ll see how she transforms
And takes on, one by one, her hideous forms.
You’ll see the fire burning in her eye,
You’ll see it light on who is next to die.
 
Engulfing east and west and north and south –
She opens wide her fanged and monstrous mouth.
And you might glimpse, within her throat, that hell,
Of which you poets rarely dare to tell.

And watch her gaze, directed at the city.
It scans the streets, without a trace of pity.
She sees – and she destroys – a family.
A little girl remains – and you and me...
 
Behold, how human form dissolves and leaves
The desolation where the orphan grieves…
But even then, that child gets no respite,               \1
As booms resound from more explosions bright...

And in the rubble of the smoking ruin,
We see a form that struggles, still alive –
That child again, disfigured, maimed and torn –
Who once, from parents' love and toil, did thrive...

So from within that vestal throat divine
There springs this hell of mortal agony...
But you've been watching, with your "love and peace",
Your verses marching still in prosody...
 
So speak to her, whose skin is stripped away –
Who lies there, burned and blinded.  Find a way
To let that deafened child hear meter, rhyme –
If that is how you'd utilize your time…
 
******
  
But see, if you have inner vision, that
Which rises from the corpse it leaves behind…
The one who dies becomes the one who slays.
She now can see, who lay there dying, blind…
 
2014 August 8th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 
1.   Returning from divinity to mundane matters,
      the word “respite” here is meant to rhyme with
     “bright”, as in one of its pronunciations in standard
      British English.
       

In the Tumult of the City

    
In the Tumult of the City
   
In the tumult of the city,
Where there’s rarely pause for breath,
Can we take some time for elders
Or for illness – or for death?

For it seems that in the city,
Where the money drives the time,
There's no space that's left for caring
Or for passion – or for rhyme.

And yet mothers nurse their children,
And the women nurse the old.
And there’s warmth and there is patience
In the city, bleak and cold.

You can see, amidst the hustle,
How the seasons take their time.
You can listen, through the bustle,
To the cadence and the rhyme.

There is singing in the city,
Though it’s muted by the roar,
Though the ones, who’re used to speeding,
Find the rhythms rather slow.

There is singing and there’s silence,
As there’s night that follows day.
What would singing be, if silence,
That’s at bottom, went away?

When you’re locked within a prison,
Then the silence drives you mad.
But the silence, in the open,
It can make a person glad.

If you happen to be walking,
When the rain has blessed the land,
Then the patterns, that are ancient,
You’ll begin to understand.

You can see the sky is clearing,
You can smell the dampened earth.
You can sense the life that’s breathing
And the ties of death to birth.

You might see the leaves aquiver
Or be still, in silent grace.
There is silence, in the city,
That we’ve rarely time to face.

When the cars, from streets, are absent,
When there’s quiet in the park,
You can walk, within the city,
As the daylight fades to dark.

You can sense then, in the city,
That attempts to hide the earth,
There's the planet, live and breathing,
That's the one that gave you birth.

In the freshness of the mornings,
In the heat of summer noons,
With the moon and stars at midnights,
You can taste of Nature’s boons.

In the tumult of the city,
You can watch the children play.
You can live and age and ponder,
And in twilight, fade away.

And you’ll know, that in the city,
As in village, forest, field,
Though a death may be a pity,
There’s a birthing it will yield.

2014 May 9th, Friday, 6:00 pm
Medical Office* of Drs. Paluzzo & Perlman, on 18th Ave near 82nd Street,
across from the New Utrecht Reformed Church, built 1829,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

*  I was there just for a sudden flu-like cold and fever, that started Wed. night and led me to take a rare day off from the school job today.