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

 

Beloved, Where Are You?

Beloved, Where Are You?

The sun is warm upon the skin,
The sky is blazing blue,
And I am walking in the sun
And thinking still of you.

The little birds are chirping as
They fly from tree to tree,
And feelings, long held captive, now
Are rising, wild and free.

The winter has departed and
The spring is here to stay.
It seems that we were walking in
The spring, but yesterday.

The trees are dancing in the breeze,
As they had danced before.
But you, who’d stood and smiled at these,
Are now with us no more.

The greens of newborn leaves are flames
That rise towards the blue.
The sky and earth are singing—yet,
Beloved, where are you?

2018 May 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------

Note: Any connections that such hinted romances may have with the scribe's own life (which has been mostly ordinary and unromantic) are tenuous at best. 
  

Silly Sally in the Spring

Silly Sally in the Spring

As I was walking in the sun,
I heard a woman sing.
It was my neighbor Sally, who
Was singing of the spring.

And here’s the silly song I heard
My neighbor Sally sing.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
What a glorious day in May!

“The flowers, see, are blooming in
the yards along the street.
The cold and snow are gone and oh—
The warmth and sun are sweet!

“Like children, silly adults too
Are simply having fun—
So some like me are singing and
are dancing in the sun!

“The sky is blue and clouds of white
Are slowly sailing past.
The winter has departed and
The spring is here at last!

“In Brooklyn, here in Bensonhurst,
The ocean breezes blow.
In slanting sun, the newborn leaves,
Like jades and sapphires, glow.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
  What a glorious day in May!”

I heard this song that Sally sang,
And then decided—what the hell!
So like my neighbor, Sally, I
Danced a jig and sang as well.

And others, sillied by the spring,
Joined with us as evening fell.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
What a glorious day in May!
  …”

2018 May 7th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  

   

Light and Shade

Light and Shade 

https://www.facebook.com/wendell.pye/posts/1736121643081412

What can I add, except to say
We greet the dawn that starts the day,
But then, when sunset comes, we sigh,
For night, and all it means, is nigh.

We sigh in pleasure as in pain.
We grimace and we laugh again.
So sorrow too is part of life.
If joy's the husband, she's the wife.

And now before you tire of this,
I should retire and wish you bliss.
We suffer pain and wish we'd die,
And moan and ask for reasons why.

What reason can we find, my friend?
We suffer till the very end.
So let's embrace the joy and sorrow.
We live today and die tomorrow.

******
 
Pleasure, pain, we live and find,
Like yang and yin, are intertwined.
From light and shade, we find our depth—
From joy and sorrow, life and death.

To wooden crosses, three were nailed.
Such cruelties had long prevailed.
But one of those had brought us sight,
Or so we hope, who seek for light.

But then, behold how darkness spread,
And evil was, with cunning, wed.
And still their offspring brings us woe.
So who is friend and who is foe?

I wish I knew the answers, but
I am myself within a rut.
And so I now should go to sleep,
And hope it will be long and deep.

2017 April 14th, Thu, 3:08 am
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Congress

 
Congress

A congress that is sexual can be wonderful indeed.
So those who represent us might consider “having sex”,
as the newer generation so dismally now says it,
to receive that inspiration that no lobbyist can give.
And if by chance caresses lead to feelings, surely then
our Congress will be better, though it’s mostly made of men.

And if there is an afterglow, in which unreason flees
as mind and head connect again, there might perhaps be hope
that all of the conventions and the pressures fall away,
and the Capitol, deserted as the Congress is at play,
might function as intended by the best in slavers yet,
when the Congressmen, returning, find they’re reading every line
and voting with a conscience—and a vision cleared by sex.

2016 August 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

For Every Love Denied

 
For Every Love Denied

   
I walk tonight and see a rising moon –
And so recall that Luna’s silver light
Lends magic to the lovers’ trystings, as
It casts that shadow that’s a lover’s plight.

The joys of love are celebrated, but
Its sorrows give, to songs of love, their depth.
When love’s accepted, we rejoice – and yet,
At being rejected, some are more adept.
 
But those, who’ve weathered their romances past,
And so, in many ways, can shield their hearts,
Too often may forget their innocence
Or when they first were pierced by Cupid’s darts.
 
For every love, sincere, that’s been denied,
For every lover scorned, abandoned, I
Now make lament.  The moon that rises, full,
I see reflected in a wistful eye.
 
For every yearning for fulfillment that
Depended on another’s whim or choice,
I whisper recognition.  To that pain
Of unfulfillment, I give plaintive voice.

Let every maid, from grave or ashes, rise,
Who died a spinster, from her love denied.
Let every youth revive, to walk again,
Who yearned and aged – and till his passing pined.
 
And let those beings walk beneath this moon
And be the lovers they were meant to be –
If only for an hour, in that sweet delight –
And then, fulfilled, forever cease to be…
 
I walk tonight, beneath a rising moon
And so recall the joy, frustration, pain
Of courtship and rejection.  So I mouth
These verses now – that might be mouthed again…
 
2015 January 10th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Fleeting

     
Fleeting

A gentle breeze is blowing and the sun is shining bright.
The little birds are singing and the clouds are floating by.
A day, it seems, in paradise – and yet a day on earth,
A day for joy and happiness – and not for asking why.

And yet, the present time reflects, like water does the clouds,
The past with all its history – and whispers, what’s to come.
So joy is tinged with misery, and happiness with woe.
And I begin to understand, why father turned to rum.

I walk below the rustling leaves, I listen to their sound.
I see the dappled ground below, I watch the leaves that fall.
The sky is blue and white above.  In the distance, is the sea.
I wonder where my sister is – and I hear my mother call.

Oh happiness, that lights upon a shoulder like a leaf
And then is blown away by chance and fate’s persistent breeze –
Some chase you all their lives and find you still are far away,
While others, you may land upon, who stroll about at ease…

2014  October 13th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

This Winter of Pain

    
This Winter of Pain
   
There is dark in this winter, and it robs me of sight,
For the skies have been drained of their color and light.
There is pain in this winter, and it robs me of peace,
For my rest, it is troubled, and my work does not cease.

What happens, in winter, to the sap of the tree,
Has happened, perhaps, to that spirit in me
That whispered those verses that I would then write,
In springtime and summer and fall, with delight.

Like the leaves of the trees when the winter has come,
The lines that I wrote in the past have become.
They have withered and faded and fallen away.
The winds of December took remnants of May.

******
 
If I last through the winter and I witness the spring,
To the muses of diction, my notebook, I’ll bring.
If I then am admitted to pleasures, I’ll write,
As the wardens of winter are fading from sight.

Then the sap will be flowing again in the tree,
From its exile returning – from its prison, set free.
And the lines that I write will be fluid again,
As I’m freed of this winter, this winter of pain.

Then the leaflets and petals will open to light,
And the birds, in the morning, will chirp in delight.
Then the spirit will whisper to me in my dreams,
And I shall write stanzas with iambs in reams.

******
 
But that season, so fruitful, is imagined at best,
And my reason insists that these fancies, I test
With a touchstone of winter – an icicle clear –
That tells me – that season I crave is not near.

My muses have vanished, and I’m left with the snow.
My sight, it has faded, and I’ve nowhere to go.
In the grayness of winter, in this season of cold,
In the pain and the darkness, I am weary and old.

And if I am pitied, then what of the one
Who sits on the street, where the winter is fun –
Or even of her, who has shelter in walls,
But no heat for the winter – as the poorer befalls?

******

But if I should come to the ending with this,
I might rob you, myself, of your remnant of bliss.
So I’ll end this – not that way – but instead with a poke:
My moaning for self – it was mostly a joke!

For who but a child, who’s been spoiled by its mother,
Would cry out in furor, creating a bother,
When its mother had left it alone, for a minute?
So know, though I’m bawling, there’s little that’s in it.

For I’ll live through this winter, harsh though it is –
And in snow that is sullied, find crystals of bliss.
And even in winter, in the pain and the dark,
I shall call like the mythical bulbul and lark.                \1

******
 
To the reader, dear reader, whose patience I test: –
I wish for you – pleasure that is truly the best,
The pleasure that has in it essence of joy –
The thrill that the muses of diction enjoy.

For the muses find pleasure, where others find pain.
And this is what poets and women explain...
But the poets, they prattle, while the women are still.
For the women are sane, while the poets are ill.

But if, as may happen, a poet’s a dame,
Then all that I’ve written will appear to be lame.
And further on this, in the cold and the snow,
Would weary the reader – so I’ll bow and I’ll go.

2014 February 28th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 
   
1.  Although the bulbul and the lark are real families of songbirds, their symbolic uses in Persian and English poetry, respectively, may perhaps justify the reference to their poetic incarnations as "mythical" – at least for those of us who have never seen or heard the real birds in their natural habitats.  

Some other word, such as "acclaimed" or "legendary", might have been more appropriate, but I could not find one to fit the meter.  (For those interested in such things, the beat used here is tetrameter in the anapaest -- although some of the lines begin with an iamb.)
   
The birds referred to as bulbuls in English are found over much of Asia and  northern Africa.  However, in Arabic and so also in its borrowers, such as Farsi (Persian) and Urdu, the word bulbul is used for what, in English, would be the nightingale.  
  
The larks are spread over Europe, Asia and proximal parts of Australia (with one species in North America).  
 
All of the birds mentioned so far are passerines, thus being members of the largest order of birds.  This order includes many of the aves that even city-dwellers know by sight and sound, including the common ground sparrow.
                          
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   
I would like to thank the reader for her/his patience in reading so far.  For making the footnote possible, I would also like to thank the anonymous ones who labor, unpaid, on Wikipedia articles.  
  
While I'm at it, let me express my gratitude to the parents, teachers and others, often equally bereft of acknowledgement, who spend long hours, over many years, on thankless duties that sustain so many of us, even in the harshest of seasons.  -- Arjun / Babui
 

The Purpose

    
The Purpose
     
I asked an ancient, stooped and seeming wise,
The purpose of this life, in which we race
Towards our ends, encountering the lies
Connivers tell, but rarely finding trace
Of sense or reason – till we endings face.

I’d hoped she give me comfort – kernels, sage,
That she had gathered through her lengthy life
Or finally found as wisdom came with age.
But what she said then sliced me like a knife.
“I only know this world’s a senseless stage.

“So each is born, beneath the changing sky
Of this, our planet, whirling ‘round its sun,
Not knowing even whence she came or why,
To join this race, until, at end of run,
No wiser, she is told it’s time to die.”

So said that ancient, who then shortly died.
And still I wonder if she had it right.
But those I’ve asked have either glibly lied
Or being honest shed no further light,
Except to say that they had lived and tried.

We’re born, beneath the constellations vast,
Not knowing whence or why or whither, yet
We each remember bits of what was past
And try our best to other things forget,
Until it’s time for us to breathe our last.

We suffer – yet, we still may have our joy –
Like night and day, and yearly round of seasons.
The genius, childlike, tinkers with his toy
And cries, when it is taken.  Yet, for reasons,
Even serfs might ask, whom lords employ.

So since my race is nearing now its end
And since exhaustion addles now my brain,
I ask, if you are one who won’t pretend,
But truly knows the why for joy and pain,
That reason, promptly, to this seeker send.

But you might say, “A purpose, each must find.
For some, it’s self, for others, appetite.
And others, who have natures that are kind,
May spend their lives in serving.  Who is right?
The play is that within the sentient mind.

“For some, it’s children, spouses, work.
For some, it’s duty – or it’s nation, god.
Some labor long – and others swiftly shirk.
Some fly on high, while others till the sod.
Do dogs ask why?  They’d only masters irk.

“We humans are but one among the beasts.
What purpose has an octopus or ant?
A bear or human, on a salmon, feasts.
Was that its purpose?  Preachers well may rant
But you had better ask the plants and yeasts.”

But I am putting phrases in your mouth.
I open mine, beyond when I should close it.
I still could talk, about it and about.
But would one talk, who truly, truly knows it?
I ask again – and humbly exit out.
  
2014 January 11, Sat. 3:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

In Bensonhurst Park (Benso`nharst' Parke)

  
In Bensonhurst Park

An afternoon in August, with the temperature still high –
And yet, in the slanting light, a sign that fall will soon be here...
We had so little rain, the trees were parched throughout July,
But now, with rainy nights, those trees, in fresh-washed greens, appear.

The air is clean, the sky is blue, with cirrus high above.
The greens of trees are lit by soft and slanting golden sun.
So summer ends and autumn nears – with time enough for love,
But not for those like us, who spend their lifetimes on the run.

I've walked the city streets to sit awhile amidst the green,
To watch the elders play at chess and chat beneath the trees,
To see the mothers with their kids, to breathe awhile, serene.
With gratitude for all a slave, for a precious instant, frees.

I wonder who designed this park, who built the promenade,
The circle green where ball hits bat, the courts where children play,
Who planted then the stately trees that cast their dappled shade,
Who tended saplings as they grew, who tends to all today...

I know the answers may be found, by those who persevere,
But I shall leave that work to you, and idly sit awhile.
I'll watch the little parrots wheel, as fall is drawing near...
In winter, when they all have left, remembering them, I'll smile...

2013 August 23rd, Fri. afternoon,
by the flagpole at the upper level of Bensonhurst Park,
near Cropsey Avenue & 21st Avenue,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Benso`nharst' Parke

Grixxer xexe, O`gast-maxe, xo`horer fut'path marie,
xobuj parke exe boxechi ami, haoae jibon jurie.
Julair go`rome ekhankar gachgulo xukie gechilo prae.
Aj dekhi, rater brixt'ite snan kore darie ache, xobuj, xundor.

Nil akaxe, u~cute, kichu megh, aloe ujjo`l.
Xonali-rodre-choa xobuj patagulo dulche haoae.
Kichu din bade, din chot'o ho`be, pata xukie porbe to`khon.
Xuru ho`be abar sromiker o`xex khat'ni, pagol chot'a-chut'i.

Aj exechi ei parke, boxe dekchi xo`bar axa-jaoa.
Bur'ora, gacher chaeae, bencite boxe daba khelche.
Bolche, ko`to kichu go`lpo, purono dexer ko`tha...
Maera, baccader pre`m t'hele ber'ieche bikele...

E-xo`ber jonno, ei modhur alo-haoa-chaya pe-e,
krito`ggo ami.  Je`no muhurter khalax, bondir...
Bhabi – kar matha theke jonmechilo ei parkt'a,
kar khat'nir dorun toiri, ke koreche de`kha-xona?

E-xo`ber uttor ache jani – khujle paoa jabe.
Aj ami, ekhane aloxe boxe, tomader ei prosnogulo dilam.
Dekhchi – chot't'o t'ia-pakhir do`l, akaxe anonde ghurche...
Xit ele cole jabe ora – roibe to`be, ei manuxer mone...

bikel-be`la, Xukrubar, 23-e O`gast, 2013 kri.
Bensonharst Parker opor to`lae, fle`g-poler paxe,
Kro`psi e`bheniu ar 21-e e`bhiniur kache,
Benso`nharst', Bruklin

Transience – II

 
Transience – II                                                       \1
        
We cling to life and to possessions, yet
We come with nothing and we go with naught.
The things we think we have are passing through
And so are we – for dust returns to dust.

The things we live for, all the things we do,
May blossom for a little while or not.
But like the blooms that toss upon the breeze,
They'll fade away in time and then be lost.

And all our pride, resentments, anger are
Like storms that roil the surface of a sea,
With waves that wreak their vengeance and are gone.
Let love, compassion work their ways in calm,

For kinder thoughts and words and actions may
Have less of force and yet have more of depth.
Why add to all the suffering, yet more?
Let our remembrance be a brighter one.

We are but mortals and we all are weak,
And some are blinded more than others are.
Forgive the ones who seem to wrong you, so
You may, in turn, from some, forgiveness seek.

The ones that rouse our anger, feel our wrath,
Tomorrow may be gone, like yesterday.
That turning of the cheek, we'll rarely rue,
But should we leave with debts of wronging due?

****** 
             
And even those we love and those, who give
Us of their love, are ripples on the lake.
So who can stop them, as they go their way
And leave us with our grief and memories?

So while they live, let's give to those, who're dear,
And even to the ones we might neglect,
Their due, before they leave or we depart,
Of our attention and our care, respect.

So many live today within a rush,
With constant stress and pressure from around,
And so forgetting, as the madness mounts,
What sanity and life are all about.

We came from naught and will, to nothing, go.
Let's pause from rushing, for a little while,
And ponder this and see absurdity,
So we can savor then a laugh or smile.

To laugh at others, all of us can do.
To laugh at self is truly freedom true.
If you feel sorry for your present state,
Then shed a tear for those less fortunate.

******
            
And if we're overcome or paralyzed,
Let's take a breath and do what needs be done.
Our lives are passing and our time is brief,
And yet there's time for life and for belief.

There's true and false and even right and wrong.
And though we've no reward on heaven, earth,
We still can will to do what's honest, right,
And till the end, for love and reason, fight.

However much the woe, there still is joy,               \2
And in our laughter, we can hear the grief.
This world will be, when you and I are gone.
Let's leave the self awhile, to breathe and be.

Like waves at sea and like the clouds above,
Are you and I, and all the changing world.
The hills are waving in their rhythms slow,
The empires rise and then, in time, they go...

Our days are numbered and our nights are few.
As night and day are mortal, so are we.
For all that's born lives out its life and dies,
From stars to ants, including you and me...

Behold, at night, the starry sky and see
The galaxies that gyre like whirlpools 'round.
We are no more than motes on motes and yet
We have this life to live and not regret.

2013 August 11th, Sun. & 12th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  
    
Notes:
  
1.  Please see also:  Transience
   
2.  This stanza was probably influenced by the quote from William
Blake that my friend Amitabha Sen sent me from Chicago.  This
was in response to my last sending, Nature's Nature:
   
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

-- William Blake
   
See http://www.bartleby.com/41/356.html
to get Blake's poem, Auguries of Innocence.

Then (from Edit-->Find) look for:

man was made for joy and woe

The first 4 lines of that poem, by the way,
may be among the most remarkable in the
English language.  Do take a look.  They may
be very familiar to some of you.  But, if you
have the patience, it may be worth your while
to read Blake's long poem in its entirety.

-- Babui / Arjun
 

Her Secret Vice

  
Her Secret Vice
  
“What's your hobby?” asked her friend.
“You heard me. Speak, and don't pretend.
I told you mine was postage stamps,
A pastime I acquired from gramps.
But you have never told me. Speak.
I've asked you several times this week.”

She could not speak, for quite a while.
But then, she tried to force a smile.
“Your game is up.” She told herself.
“It can't be kept to just yourself,
This thing you do, your secret shame.
Perhaps she'll understand, not blame.”

And thinking of her secret pleasure,
She found her courage, in some measure.
She'd bowed her head – and looking low,
Had studied well, companion's toe.
But now she tried to meet her eye.
“It's mathematics, on the sly.”

She'd murmured, what she could not shout.
At last!  Her secret now was out.
But searching in the hearer's face,
She saw the worst – a maid's disgrace.
And flustered, she looked down again,
While feeling, in her heart, that pain...

She'd hoped her friend could take, what men
Could not divine – or ever ken.
And so, she'd spilled her secret vice.
But see, her friend had turned to ice.
She saw her look of shock and horror,
And so was filled with sudden terror.

She wondered if she might be blamed
For feeling frightened and ashamed.
She wondered how to fix, what she
Had done – or how and where to flee.
She even wondered, if her life
She now should end, with pill or knife...

“But no,” she thought, “that's foolishness!
Let others think their nastiness.
For if my hobby gives me joy,
Why should I not, this gift, enjoy?
Was I not made by the Creator
To be, like Her, a calculator?”

And saying this, to soothe her pain,
She thought of pleasures past again.
The calculus was exquisite
For those, with skills prerequisite.
But even novices find joys
In playing with their basic toys...

And for the ones, who're more advanced
And have, in rings, with tensors danced,
Or played with algebras of Lie,
They know, what glory this can be.
What joys compare, upon this Earth,
With proofs – or giving theorems birth?

And so, with bashful, downcast eye,
She took her pleasures on the sly,
Remembering her sessions past,
In fields, with groups, that seemed to last
Beyond what humans could endure
And yet emerge, in essence, pure...

But glancing at her shell-shocked friend,
She knew her respite had to end.
But how, alas, she could explain
What she had done, escaping pain,
She did not know. But should she try,
Or wait till other asked her, “Why?”

2013 July 8th, Sun.
Brooklyn

Humor

Humor

When all around, we see the suffering,
Then we forget our misery awhile...
And when we see the pickle we are in,
Instead of weeping, we may crack a smile...

So we've invested hours or days or years –
And all is nullified by those on high?
When fortune turns our work to ashes, then
We'd better laugh, instead of asking why...

For if we were the ones at fault, then we
Could rectify our actions, learning well.
But if it was another – or blind fate,
What use is it, on matters such, to dwell?

To see absurdity in what we do,
To laugh aloud at this, is saving grace...
If only zealots too could laugh at selves,
Of zealotry, we'd see but little trace...

******

Of all the things that helped our race survive,
It's humor that is often valued least.
And yet, the laugh, and most of all, at self,
Has been a savior to the human beast.

In every village, where they're left alone,
You'll always see the smile and hear the laugh.
But if you're in a city, then the kids
Might need the zoo, with monkey and giraffe...

The antidote for fear, the thing that sets
The ones at bottom level with the top,
Is laughter, at the pretenses we bear...
And once released, it's difficult to stop...

It's all we have to quietly mock the high,
And all that's left for us, at times, of grace...
But laughter can be cruel, most unkind,
When used to keep the beaten-down in place...

Let's wield this gift, this instrument, with care –
Apply it to ourselves, to sift what's sense,
Or use it as a weapon, when oppressed,
But not against the weak, who've no defense...

*****

How many shades of humor, we discern...
How many more are hidden from our eyes...
There is the laughter loud of ignorance,
The startled smile, the snort at outright lies...

And so, from what is unexpected, we
Derive a form of pleasure.  From surprise,
We curious primates fashion sustenance.
And gentle humor marks the teaching wise...

And even from the darkest fate, we glean
That ember bright that lights the dismal gloom.
So laughter's left, when all the rest is gone.
For humor, in our hearts, there's always room...

So when a friend is worried or depressed,
And reason gives no comfort for a while,
A gentle joke or two might break the spell
And light a darkened face with brightening smile...

******
 
And if you need a bit of laughter, then
Watch passers by with clear and gentle eye,
Or pause to look at those with you at work,
Or at yourself, and ask a curious “Why?”...

If you have dogs or cats or children 'round,
They'll make you laugh, if you observe awhile...
And if you gently watch the elders, then
Their actions, too, will give you cause to smile.

And if you're by yourself, then memory
Or book, that's written by a person wise,
May bring such things to light as cause delight –
With healing smile or laughter of surprise...

Or if my verses past have caused you gloom,
Then think of me, who's typing, endlessly,
His prophesies so dire, face intent,
And gently smile or loudly laugh with me...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with additions on 29th Sat.)
Brooklyn
 

Orbs Celestial

Orbs Celestial

I've seen, at dawn, the red and rising sun.
I've watched it sinking sadly in the west.
And in the noon of tropic summer, I
Have felt, upon my skin, its fiery zest.

And I have seen the ever-changing moon,
From crescent pallor, in the light of day,
To shining disk, with Venus at its side,
That lit my path on lonesome rural way.

And I have seen the planets and the stars,
On lifting eyes towards the desert sky –
And having seen, it seemed I'd drunk enough
Of wondrous joy to be content and die.

I've walked to work, before the light of dawn,
With Orion overhead – and silenced soul.
And so have orbs, celestial, touched this ant
And made, what man had madly sundered, whole.

2013 June 1st, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park,
Brooklyn

Breath of May

Breath of May  
           
I heard a little bird that called
And one that answered gay,
When April was at ending and
We felt the breath of May.

All Winter long, we'd battled and
Awaited tardy Spring.
But Summer's warmth was close at hand,
So little birds could sing.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 28th, Thu.
Brooklyn