Grace and Strength

 
Grace and Strength

The rogues and rascals rise and rule.
Some cheer—as others weep.
Some say, “It's always been this way.”
Some search for reasons deep,
And others say that might is right—
And so enjoy their sleep.

We watch the scenes, on TV screens, 
Of horrors far away,
And wonder when these things will end—
And lo—it’s break of day—
But not the dawn of hope that brings
The peace for which we pray.

And here, and where I first saw light,
The time for polls is close.
Some lead the others by a mile
And others by a nose.
But whom to choose, among the rogues,
Is something no one knows,

Who’s taken time to see, to read—
To delve a little deep.
The more we learn, the worse we feel,
The more we’d like to weep!
But never fear—and persevere—
Until the final sleep!

For every three steps forwards, there
Are two steps back again.
And so we struggle now, as did
The ones who struggled when
The generations past had fought 
Their battles—but in Zen—

For when we lose that inner sight,
We also lose our way,
And so are led where rascals lead 
Us—more and more astray.
Inhale, exhale, and smile to greet—
The grace and strength of day.

2024 March 27th, Wed.
Berkeley, California 

Poetry—and Fortune

 
Poetry—and Fortune

Poetry, in you I found a solace true—
Depicting, in a foreign tongue, what I 
Perceived of worth, in spite of all we rue  
In this, the world we’re in, not knowing why 
We came—or whence—or where we’re going to.

And then, on finding, buried deep within, 
My own forgotten tongue, whose cadence I
Had gained in childhood, through my closest kin,
And then had seemed to lose—and left to die,
I found the strength to turn—and so begin. 

******

How rarely do we get, alas, this chance
To find again what we had thought we’d lost!
As one by one the words began to dance
Upon my tongue, not asking for the cost 
Of long neglect, I felt the grace of Chance—

That goddess, yes, to whom we rarely pray,
Who yet determines what we are and do,
Whose willful whims we must perforce obey—
Who spins, upon her fingers, me and you—
And only rarely kisses us—in play.

******

And so the prosody of Greece and Rome
Had passed, through western isles, to a distant land—
Where I, like others, spoke a tongue at home
And learned, in school, to speak and understand
Another that we made in part our own—

And then had met the rhythms, side by side, 
Of a lilting tongue of sky and sun and field—
Of cloud and rain and rivers flowing wide—
To clash with these and then to merge and yield—
To birth the waves that motes like me could ride.

2023 January 26th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

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
 

Grace-II

Grace-II 

He goes among the tribes in the forests.
He goes among the tribesmen in the hills.
He sees the things they make and what they do.
He gazes out from mountaintops. He sees
The mists that rise when touched by morning sun.
He tastes of beauty.  He is gentled by
The lullabies that mothers sing, by children's smiles.

He walks among the tribes in forests, hills.
And there he finds again his innocence.

But even in the city's wilderness,
Where strangers rush by strangers, shunning eyes,
He finds the ones who nurture innocence,
And those who still are gentle, slow and kind,
Who speak in cadences that hesitate,
Who turn to beauty in the ugliness,
Who still can breathe in calm and live in grace.

2016 February 2nd, Tue.

Brooklyn, New York

  

How Beautiful—III

 

How Beautiful—III

 

How beautiful this world is,

in which we chance to live—

the blues and greens of sky and plants,

the warmer hues of earth,

the flowers dancing in the breeze,

the wondrous forms of beasts,

the sounds of water and of air—

the tinkle, rustle, swoosh,

the drumming of the raindrops,

the roars of waves and storms,

the scents of rose and jasmine,

of fruits and musks and earth,

the light that’s always changing—

the wonder of the dawn,

the clouds that soar and tumble,

the brilliance of noon,

the starry skies of midnight,

the phases of the moon…

******

I have heard the children laughing,

I have watched the puppies play.

I have seen the mother smiling

at the infant she had borne.

I have seen the sad, the evil,

the horrors of this world.

and yet, when I’m despairing,

I see its wonder still.

 

And so, when I’m departing,

despite the pain I’ve borne,

I’ll leave this place in gratitude,

and bless the ones that live.

To those who have departed

and those who're still unborn,

I'll send my silent greetings,

before I leave this world.

2014 September 24th, Thu.

(last 4 stanzas added Oct 3rd, Sat., along

with lines 4 to 7 from end of 1st stanza)

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Two earlier poems with the same title:

 *   How Beautiful—II  

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/how-beautiful-ii.html )

 *   How Beautiful    

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2012/12/how-beautiful.html )    

    

The Chant

 
The Chant
 
I heard the singing in the dawn, when the mist had not yet risen,
And dreaming in my bed, there came to me a wondrous vision –
I saw a line of women, on a sylvan mountain way –
And even from afar, I saw that line appeared to sway.
  
For the women, they were singing and were dancing as they went –
I could hear them sweetly singing, and the song was heaven-sent –
I could see the women dancing as they walked upon their way –
As the mist was slowly rising and the twilight turned to day.
 
I heard the singing in my dream, and woke to find the light
Was spreading in the eastern sky, as day was chasing night…
And was I only dreaming – or had truly heard the chant
Of the women on the mountain?  I could answer – but I shan’t.
 
2014 October 27th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Graceful Dead

  
The Graceful Dead
 
While walking up a road today, that still was lined with green,
I saw a tree, for which the fall had come, that stood serene.
It soared, aflame, it seemed, against the clouded autumn sky,
In glory, clad in leaves – that one by one would fall and die.
 
And now, I take in hand my pen, recalling, as I scribe,
How many were the colors, which I scarcely can describe –
The fading greens, the yellows, pinks, the many shades of red –
The colors of those aging leaves, which soon would all be dead…
 
And when I walked below that tree, I saw the fallen leaves
On sidewalk, street – and curbside, deep in multicolored sheaves.
How graceful were those fallen leaves – in aging and in death…
If only we could age as well – to be, by angels, met…
 
The world is full of cruelty.  If men would disappear,
It still would be a cruel world, beset by lust and fear.
And yet, this world has beauty, grace.  How wondrous was this tree
That stood alone, ablaze – and yet – in grace – and living free.
 
2014 October 18th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Bone-D'haka Po`the-বনে ঢাকা পথে-Walking in the Woods

The original in the Bengali script is followed by two Roman transcriptions and then by a translation into English.

Sunbeams on a Forest Pathway, Smoky Mountains, U.S.A.
Source: https://www.facebook.com/GreatSmokyMountainsNPS
    

বনে ঢাকা পথে 

বনে ঢাকা পাহাড়ী পথে,
হেঁটে হেঁটে দেখি
পাতার ফাঁক দিয়ে পড়েছে আলো,
স্বর্গ থেকে যেন এসেছে দূত৷

চুপ করে দেখলাম কিছুক্ষণ৷
শ্বাস ফেলে, খুশি মনে চললাম আবার,
গঙ্গার স্রোতে চান করে, যে ভাবে
কোনো ক্লান্ত পাপী খালাস পেয়ে ওঠে৷

মঙ্গলবার, ৩রা জুন, ২০১৪ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
---------------------------------------------------------
  
Banē Ḍhākā Pathē

Banē ḍhākā pāhāṛī pathē,
hēm̐ṭē hēm̐ṭē dēkhi
pātāra phām̐ka diẏē paṛēchē ālō,
sbarga thēkē yēna ēsēchē dūta.

Cupa karē dēkhalāma kichukṣaṇa.
Śbāsa phēlē, khuśi manē calalāma ābāra,
Gaṅgāra srōtē cāna karē, yē bhābē
kōnō klānta pāpī khālāsa pēẏē ōṭhē.

Maṅgalabāra, 3rā Juna, 2014 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka

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

Bone-D'haka Po`the
   
Bone-d'haka pahar'i po`the,
he~t'e he~t'e dekhi
patar pha~k die por'eche alo,
xo`rgo theke je`no exeche dut.

Cup kore dekhlam kichukkhon.
Xax phele, khuxi mone collam abar,
Go`ngar srote can kore, je bhabe,
kono klanto papi khalax pe-e ot'he.

Mongolbar, 3ra Jun, 2014 Khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
---------------------------------------------------------
     
Walking in the Woods
     
Walking in the woods, I saw
the sunbeams shafting down,
like messengers from paradise.

I watched the silent show awhile,
and walked away in grace,
as might a weary sinner, who
has bathed in holy waters.

2014 June 7th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

What Workers Built

    
What Workers Built

While walking home from work today, I saw
the roads and sidewalks, elevated rails,
the houses – and the rows and rows of trees.

And all of these were silent, mute and still,
and yet it seemed they quietly spoke to me.

For as I walked, in end-of-day fatigue,
I thought of those who’d worked their days like me…

The city’s workers built those asphalt roads,
those concrete sidewalks and those iron rails –
and all the drains beneath, the workers laid.

And houses then were built, on vacant lots,
by other workers, in their many trades.

And yet more workers planted rows of trees –
so ravaged, ‘prisoned earth could yield again
its balm of grace to salve demented souls…

And those, insane, like I – and you, perhaps –
who dwell in cities, feeding off its veins,
while laboring to feed its grinding mills –
can walk these city streets, at end of day,
with gratitude – or not – to those before,
who built those things – and even planted trees,
so from our madness we could pause – and sense
there still is sanity and beauty left…

2014 May 29th, Thu. 8:21 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

With Dying Leaves

   
With Dying Leaves
  
I walked upon a winding path in autumn in the woods.
The leaves were crunching underfoot, a chill was in the air.
The afternoon was still that day, and I could hear the birds
That called out clear from far away – I could not tell from where.

I walked upon a winding path beneath the soaring trees,
With leaves that ranged in colors from the greens to burning reds.
And some of these were drifting down, as I was slowly walking,
Looking at them lying there, like corpses in their beds.

But even those in withered states were blest, in their repose –
Composed, and left with beauty, grace, as humans rarely are,
Whenever it is time to leave – for some may go in peace,
But others mostly don’t, as we're forever roiled by war. 

I walked upon a winding path – as all our lives we do.
It was autumn, with the fallen leaves like corpses on the ground.
And some were crunching underfoot, as some of us are crushed.
And far away I heard the birds – a distant, peaceful sound.

And I remember fragrances – the scents of dying leaves
And other scents that issue forth from woodland in the fall.
If only our departures were as fragrant as were these,
We wouldn’t mind, we wouldn’t mind – our dying, not at all.

2014  May 3rd, Sat., 3:40 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.
 

The Lullaby of Love

  
The Lullaby of Love
  
I heard the music from the dawn of time,
The lullaby of tenderness and love.
How soothing was the singing, with the beat
The one we heard within our mothers’ wombs.  \1

And so were children put to sleep and calmed,
With gentle taps of rhythm and refrains
That mothers sang that they had learned in turn
From those that nursed them in their infancies.

How different was that music from the clang,
Unease, unrest that marks the violent songs
That now are belted as the singers prance
Or jerk like marionettes as spotlights dance.

The pounding of the mills is what we’re fed,
Which isn’t music to the human heart,
The thunder of our tanks and planes and guns,
The screech of cars, the rush to work and back.

The loudness violates.  It deafens, is
A venting of the built-up rage within.
It drowns the torment that our demons give,
The hell that rages that’s the price of sin.

Oh take away this music born of fear,
The music of the rage of impotence,
The scream, the tantrum, that which celebrates
The race that pits us each against the other.

And give us more of music of the heart,
That whispers soft – the babbles of the brook,
The sounds of wind that moves the trees, the grass,
The lilts of children playing in the fields.

Our children grow to adulthood and yet
Remain within as infants immature,
Who only see the self and not the rest,
And so are locked within their private hells.

They need no more of that – the sounds of war,
Of great machines and weapons, lunacy,
Nor more of rhythms making people jerk,
Who swarm in herds and lose their somber grace.

They need that music from the dawn of time,
That soothes the infant, so she sleeps and wakes,
At peace within.  She’s touched by tenderness
And so matures, in wisdom and in heart.

How much we suffered, in that dawn of time,
And yet remained a fully human race…
How much we suffer, in our present age,
Because we’ve fallen from our state of grace…

2014 April 27th, Sun. 2:59 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
1.  See, for instance, the Odaya piece at the link sent to me by friend Rana Bose. You can also access the piece directly on YouTube.

This (Odaya) is a song performed in a setting far from the place of origin, by three urbanized young women. And it forms only the background for a a talk by one of the members of a singing group.  But the essence of the original seems to come through, despite all of this.  Typically, there is no hurry or drama in this lullaby-like song.

No doubt, many other such songs, as well as other kinds of music, from tribal people in their native setting, can be found on the Internet. 

My father, Sunil Janah, referred briefly to the plaintive songs of the tribal peoples of India in a book he wrote, illustrated with his photographs, The Tribals of India (Oxford University Press, India, 1993 and 2003).  Please see also the books of Verrier Elwin, Shamrao Hivale and others, which contain translations of the lyrics of many tribal songs. 

My father wrote a short review of a biography on Elwin (by Ramachandra Guha).  And Hivale's son-in-law, Thomas Carter, wrote a short article on Hivale.  These are both at my father's website.
     

The Touch of the Rain

The Touch of the Rain

I walked in a gossamer springtime rain,
As much of a mist as a drizzle.
The sky was gray and the sun had set
But my heart, it was lit like the day.

The bark of the tree, it was glistening dark,
And its branches were flung to the sky as it prayed.
The rain of the spring, it was gentling the tree,
That was waiting for warmth for its buds to spring free.

I'd stepped from the schoolhouse and into the street,
And the air, it was chill as I bundled myself.
But the touch of the rain, it was gentle and sweet,
Like the lips of a lover, in tenderness met.

There's grief for the ones that we loved, who are gone,
There's sorrow we carry for things left undone,
There are tensions and worries we all have to bear,
But then there's the kiss of the rain in the spring.

I walked in the fine, thin springtime rain,
And all of the worry and sorrow I'd borne
Was lifted away by the touch of the rain,
And just for a moment, the grief.

I'd worked through the day in the school till the eve,
And my being was worn to a frazzle.
But that touch of the rain, like the grace to a soul
Of a sinner, was granted today.

2014 April 4th, Fri, 8:45 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  
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Recent posts related to spring:  Signs of Spring (March 30), We Call for Spring (March 9)

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I Walked Through the Woods

          
I Walked Through the Woods
    
I walked by myself on a path through the woods,
When the trees were green with spring.
I walked through the woods, in the dappled shade,
With the tender leaves aflame.

I walked by myself and I breathed the scent
Of the rain on the ground and the trees.
And the bark was wet, it was dark and wet,
But the leaves were touched with light.

I walked by myself and I heard the sounds,
The sounds of the leaves in the breeze.
And the ground was soft beneath my feet
And the leaves were dancing flames.

I walked by myself on a winding path,
When the woods were  a tender green.
And my heart was lit by the grace of spring
As the leaves were glowing green.

2014 March 31st, Mon. 3:37 pm
Teachers’ Cafeteria, Basement
New Utrecht High School
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 
 

The Dancers

         
The Dancers
      
I was walking home this evening, with the sky of dusk aglow,
And the shadows growing darker as I walked the streets below.
And walking in those shadows, a brightness caught my eye –
The glass upon the windows, reflecting lighted sky.

They shone like shields of soldiers, in the days when bronze was best,
And they stood in radiant order, reflecting to the west.
But looking at them burning, I saw there, in between
The lighted sky and darkness, a row of trees, serene.

They’d lost all trace of foliage, and stood there, naked, bare,
But clearly clad in beauty, like dancers nude and fair.
In silhouette I saw them, against the pastel glow,
With branches spreading skyward, as each was dancing slow.

And as I neared a dancer, I saw, against the sky,
As if in gay abandon, her tresses shaken high –
A tracery, a filigree, a net of twigs so fine,
That waited for the springtime, in silent arcs divine.

I paused and looked in wonder, and saw, on every twig,
The buds that were so tiny – and yet, with promise, big.
How patient were these dancers that moved with seasons slow…
How graceful were those arches, against the twilight glow…

I looked – and then I started to trundle, once again,
My burden  that was heavy – but somehow lightened then.
And when I reached my burrow, I let the papers lie,
And wrote instead these verses – I know not surely why.

2014 March 18th, Tue.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Snow on City Trees

Snow on City Trees

    

In every region of the Earth, we see

That Nature teaches men humility.

The nations of the northwest rule the planet –

A source of pride for every John and Janet.

Then winter scowls and shows the northern tribe

It can't be stopped by force or bought by bribe.

The polar vortex whirls, as gutters freeze

And blizzards drape, with snows, the city's trees.

It snowed all day – but now at night it thaws.

And as I walk, I see the trees and pause.

They stand unmoving, yet they seem to fight,

With darkened forms, against their burdens white.

The evergreens are bent with powder-loads

That slide and scatter on the snow-plowed roads.

The trees that spread and arc appear in flower,

As if to mock this blustering season's power.

A skeletal tree is limned in dark and white.

Bereft of leaves, it still gives stark delight.

With tracery of twigs against the sky,

It does the winter, with aplomb, defy.

The trees are comfort for my weary eyes.

Their patience lives, when all our hubris dies.

I thought they're fighting.  Now, I see they're not.

With snows, they're dancing – at a leisured trot.

If men, like trees, would dance with Nature too,

It might be pleasanter for me and you.

2014 February 3rd, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Encounter – III

   
Encounter – III
     
The “polar vortex”, with its deadly cold,
Has now retreated to its northern lair.
It will return, we’re told in forecasts grim,
But now we’ve rain that melts away the snow.

I walk tonight and see the streetlights’ glow
Upon the trees that glisten in the rain.
There’s rind that’s white, like freshly painted wall,
And other, dark as rain-drenched bark can be.

I stand before a strong, gargantuan trunk,
And see the sinews braced beneath the skin.
And looking up, I see the branches flung
Towards the starlit sky in ecstasy.

How beautiful are trees – for winter bare!
If only skeletons could match their grace,
Then when men died, we would erect their bones,
So those still living could admire the dead.

So much to see – for one, who's limited
To walking back and forth, each working day,
Along these city streets, as light and dark
And seasons, years and lifetimes circle ‘round…

2014 January 12th, Sun., 2:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Coping with Illness and Dying

Coping  with Illness and Dying

 

When we’re sick and full of woes

And fighting our despair,

Will we think of better times –

And burdens better bear?

 

Or will such memories be lost –

Or if remembered, then

Be yet more grief, because we know

We won’t be well again?

 

Some bear a grievous illness lightly,

Others groan at colds.

A patient’s truly patient, while

Another only scolds.

 

We see a woman, ailing, tend

Her husband, though she sinks –

And still, her spouse yet more demands –

And of her, rarely thinks...

 

How easy it might be to judge

Another, yet we know

That there are depths we cannot plumb,

Beneath the storms that blow.

 

And yet, it’s true – that qualities

We nurture, over years,

Express themselves, for all to see,

When mortal ending nears.

2013 December 29^th, Sun., 6:08 pm 

2^nd floor, McDonald’s Restaurant  

86^th Street and 20^th Avenue 

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

   

Walking Home

  
Walking Home
    
The trees, now skeletal, with snow-draped limbs,
Are reaching towards a darkest-violet sky.
And in that sky, the moon is shining full,
With Jupiter, resplendent, by her side.

When all the madness of the day is done
And I am walking home in deep fatigue,
I see these wondrous things and then am touched
By that which gives me just a bit of peace.

How many, as they travel homeward, see
The trees, the sky with clouds and moon and stars,
And so return, for just a little while,
To that which was – and will for longer be…

If only those like me could call aloud
Or silently, to others, “Do desist!
For what you do is madness.  Stop and be.”
But all we do instead is breathe awhile.

I wonder, if the city’s lights were dimmed,
Would zombies wake and then, in reverence,
Beneath the deep, return to life again,
Or would they, fearing looters, reach for guns?

Let’s leave them be.  Come walk awhile with me.
No words are needed – just the sky, the trees,
That shining moon, that planet jewel-bright.
Who still needs more, let them demented be.

2013 December 18th, Wed.  8:26 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Evening Mass

                
Evening Mass
         
As I was walking by St. Finbar's Church,
I heard the organ and the evening mass.
I heard the converts in the basement sing.
I heard their voices as they rose and fell.
It seemed, in this our world, that all was well.

But, recalling then the history
Of those who sang of faith and mystery,
Remembering then, how their ancestors died
And for a bit of peace and justice cried,
I knew this world of ours was far from well,
More distant, yes, from heaven than from hell.

I heard the Guatemalans in the basement sing,
I saw some coming down the street to join –
In Sunday best, a little family...
I saw them cross themselves before the church
And quietly enter, by the side, to sing.

And I remembered then, how they had fled
Their country, ravaged by the endless wars,
How cash and arms had streamed from here to south,
How many then were hunted, massacred...
How those surviving lived from hand to mouth,
How many homeless ones had grieved alone...

And so they traveled north, where money went,
And some had papers, others never did.
They took up humble trades and quietly hid,
For they were quiet people, most of them –
Except on Sundays, when they donned these clothes
And gathered in the basements, there to sing.

A simple story, told by a simpleton.
The truth, you can be sure, is more complex.
But you will have to sit and talk with them
In Spanish or in Quiché.  Then you'll glimpse
The many threads that weave that history
Of silent ones – of faith – and mystery.

For these are “Indians” – not my Asian kind,
But folk of  these, the western continents.
And those, who've traveled far, from Central Am,
Are quiet folk, of stature small and slight.
But when you talk with them, you'll see, at times,
Some traces left – of a soft and ancient light...

And all the weight of ages – Maya, Spain,
The persecutions and the silent pain,
This past, you'll feel – or hear in cadences,
The muted tones of those who've suffered much,
But haven't walled themselves; they're forest folk,
And used to sounds of death – and silences.

So when they sing of Jesus on the cross,
They know of what they sing, for they have seen.
And when they sing of resurrection, they
Have tears that flow – as those, who're grieving, pray.
Far from their homes, in a foreign land, they sing,
The ones they left at home – or gone – remembering...

I heard them singing in the basement and
I briefly thought that I could understand...
And for a moment, there, by Finbar's Church,
My heart was touched and filled, with grace divine,
As pastors poured the sacrificial wine.

November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

Encounter–II--A Little Bit of Rice

                                
Encounter – II  /  A Little Bit of Rice
                               
I was wandering in the country, when I met an aged man.
And it seemed that he was starving, so I offered him some rice.
He sat down then to eat it, and he ate it very slowly.
Each grain of rice, he savored, as he put it in his mouth.

I watched him as he sat there, but I felt that I would cry,
So I moved away and circled – and when I had returned,
I saw that he had eaten only part of what I'd given,
Which itself was but a smidgen, as I hadn't much myself.

And I saw that he was wrapping, in a leaf, what he had left.
So I asked him, was he saving it for eating later or
Was there someone, who was waiting, whom he'd saved a portion for.

But he only smiled and nodded, for his language wasn't mine,
And I watched him as he hobbled down a dusty country path.

I was hungry, so I settled down and ate my rice myself,
With a bit of precious lentils that I'd salted – and a pickle.

And I felt that I was guilty as I'd only given rice
To that aged man who seemed not to have eaten for a while.
And as I sat there eating, I remembered still his smile.

I sipped then on the water, that I'd carried in a bottle,
And I rose and walked to westwards, towards a village that I knew.
And I saw the sun was sinking – and my heart was sinking too.
For the stores I had were dwindling – and my stores by then were few.

But that aged man was walking, as I walked, within my mind.
And I saw that he was smiling, for that little bit of rice.

2013 November 4th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Some Earlier Encounters

The Teacher -- 2013 Sep

Encounter -- 2013 July

Strange Encounter -- II -- 2011 Nov

The Watcher -- 2006 Sep

Strange Encounter -- 2006 April