Kaler Phondi

Kaler Phondi

Nodir dhare, chaeae boxe, jhilik dekhechi jo`ler,
Bo`rxa kale, xunechi dure kalo megher dak.
Karkhanate korechi cakri, xunechi go`rjon ko`ler.
Jo`njale xexe ahar khu~ji, t’hokrae kager jha~k.

Dupur be`lae, gache ut’he, per’echi peara, am.
Pata bhenge, xu~khechi to`khon brikkher xugo`ndho.
Xo`horer base, xu~khechi po`re dizel dhoa, gham.
Pulix theke pet’ani khe-e, karagare hoechi bo`ndo.

Cher’echi ga~e, poe`xar kho~je, xo`kol poribar.
Pe-echi cit’hi, ke~dechi dukkhe, roechi kajer bondi.
Pat’hiechi t’aka, maxer xexe, khet’e khet’e protibar,
Hariechi tobu, xo`bare ami – ei to kaler phondi.

Moner dukkhe, baki kichu t’aka d’obai xexe xo`b,
Pagol hoe, kajer xexe, nexae khu~ji mukti.
Nexar ghume, mrito priyo exe ko`re ko`loro`b.
Nexa cher’e, matha khure, xuni xei ba~car jukti.

******

Mone po`re bar-bar, jo`nmo jekhane.
Trene-base bhabi kal phirbo xekhane.
Bhexe jae maxgulo, boe jae bo`chor,
Kho`motar bhat’a axe – mojdur kator.

Ja kichu, gheme, kori tao rojkar,
Co`le na tate ar, kho`roc ajkar.
Ki kori, hae!  Phirbo ki dexe?
Chai hoe, nodi die phire jabo xexe…

Ei bhebe, cher’e di cakri o maena.
Tao dekhi, xo`b cher’e, xanti-t’a paina.
Gho`r theke rastae – bhik mangi khidete.
Khali pet’e durbo`l – xue pori mat’ite.

Pulix exe lathi mare, mare jore d’and’a.
Har gulo ge`lo bhabi.  Rat bo`ro t’hand’a.
Xonar ei banglae, hirer juger cihnno –
“Kaj kho~jo!” bo`le e`k, do`ea-maea bhinno.

Xombar, 30e  D’isembar, xo`kal 3:10
Benso`nharst’, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
 

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

   

Spirits

    
Spirits
    

When, in the past, I've wandered in the woods,

That still remain upon these western lands,

It seemed a lurking, phantom figure watched –

And when I turned, would hide behind a tree.

At times, it seemed to be a wandering child,

Who still was looking for its parents, gone –

At times, an elder, slow to move away,

At times, a furtive woman – or a man.

And were they real – or my imaginings,

The workings of a conscience not yet stilled,

I do not know – but since we're spirits all,

Perhaps I sensed my fellow beings past.

I even found, by chance, beside a stream,

A footprint – shaped like a moccasin's sole, it was.

And feathers, I have found – and shells on strings,

And bits of cloth with patterns faded, worn.

But all of these might be explained away –

But not that sudden prickling of the skin,

That ancient warning from the times when we

Had still such hairs as could enlarge our size.

And in my life, in things more personal,

With those I cherished soon to pass away,

I've felt a warning, strong and clear like fact,

But which I still, from reason, had ignored.

So there are organs, that we still possess,

That sense, like present, future things and past –

And plumb such distances, as senses five,

That we acknowledge, simply couldn't span.

But though we've parts connected to the whole,

Those parts are not possessed of human speech.

Like mutes, they warn by gesture and by touch,

But disappear, like phantoms, when we turn.

But surely, we can hear without our ears,

Be sensitive to subtle messages –

And those so clearly strong, which logic says

Cannot be right – and yet so often are.

In Iceland, people still believe in elves.

Perhaps we too should hark to spirit folk,

For what they whisper, fading in and out,

If each would hear, we all might profit much. 

2013 December 27^th, Fri.

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 

Resurrection

  
Resurrection
   
It’s said¹ that, close to solstice, Jesus, born

To Mary, lay within a manger, there

In Bethlehem, in ancient Palestine.

It’s also written in the Gospels that,

At Easter, he was crucified – and then,

From where he lay, he rose – as Christ, reborn.

And is this true or not?  I cannot say.

So many myths and truths have mated, mixed,

With men, who’re born to women, turned divine…

But resurrection is an ancient theme –

And one, in which we gladly would believe.

We harvest seeds, from plants that die, yet live.

And each who dies has left a seed behind,

Be it from loins issued or from mind.

And if that grows or not, depends on soil.

But water, air and sunlight too, it needs.

And if these all are granted, lo, behold –

As Jesus rose from dying, so does each.

2013 December 25^th, Wed.
Gregorian Christmas Day
Brooklyn, New York 
  
Note: 
  
1.   The actual day, month and even year of Jesus’ birth is unknown.  From the accounts in the Gospels, it was during a season when shepherds were still out with their flocks and a census was being conducted.  If the climate in Palestine was similar to that which now prevails there, with cold, drizzly winters and temperatures occasionally dipping below freezing, this points to a season other than winter, thus excluding December.
  
So the choice of December 25^th (which currently falls on the Gregorian January 7^th in the uncorrected Julian calendar still followed by the Orthodox churches) may have been a compromise with paganism, or a co-opting of the pagan winter-solstice festival.  
  
Similar accommodations mark much of traditional Christianity, including the core belief in Jesus’ resurrection and divinity.  So this Christianity may be thought of as a confluence of Hellenic (more generally, Indo-Perso-European) cultural and religious outlooks, beliefs and customs with those of the monotheist Hebraic stream.
   
The latter may be represented, somewhat more faithfully, by current Orthodox Judaism and much of Sunni Islam.  Some Protestant branches of Christianity moved, during and after the Reformation, closer to these and away from Catholic and Orthodox (including Armenian, Coptic and Ethiopian) Christianity, as well as most other previously dominant Christian Church traditions.

   

Death – II

    
Death – II
  
I looked upon you, Death, and this I saw –

You too were serving, cog on turning wheel.

But since your duty seemed the darkest kind,

I asked you if you did resent or mind.

You answered, “No.  For every life I take,

Another then is born.   And though they cry,

The born do know that they, in turn, will die.

And often, I bring mercy – of escape.”

How torturous life would be, if not for Death…

How much more suffering, that sees no end…

So Death indeed is Mercy, though we feel

He robs us, sans remorse, whom he lets live…

******

   

And yet, and yet – when robbed of those we love,

When left abandoned, in our disarray,

How much we wish that we could turn and say,

“You’ve come too early.  Give us yet awhile.”

There’s shock and grief – and both may be delayed.

For each must cope – and some have duties grave.

And yet, when Death has done his work and left,

Who then can truly cope – or then be brave?

For Death is final.  There is no return.

And all that’s left is grief and memory.

And Death may come when we expect him least.

And none can hide, nor ask him for relief.

2013 December 25^th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

 
Death

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/death.html
 

To Free It

    
To Free It
  
For some, it's womanizing – and some women frequent bars.
And others yet might while their time in starting bloody wars.
For some, it's all their gadgets – and for some, it's devil-drink.
In gambling, by so many names, some others, fortunes sink.
  
But my addiction started on a leave from a job I had.
It started pleasantly enough but grew to be really bad.
And soon, I realized this – and I saw it getting worse.
But though I tried to stop, I couldn't cease from writing verse.
  
I wonder whether I will ever once again be sober,
Whether my intoxication will, at last, be over.
I wonder whether I will walk – and sighting cloud or tree,
Restrain myself , on hearing verse that's yearning to be free.
  
I wonder what's the sense of all the work I do each day,
And all the weekend verse I type that will be thrown away.
At least for one I get a check – and students (some) may profit,
Versifying?  Who is there, with a high opinion of it?
  
For I can write my verses till I meet my mortal end,
At all their gravity, at courts of poetry, pretend.
But most of what I write would make the master poets laugh.
And every village has its rhymes, beside which mine are chaff.

For who can match a Wordsworth or an Omar at their best?
And only when I'm gone will what I write have passed its test.
But should we try, in verses, to compete or to excel?
And should I only write a line and wait – for time to tell?

You know that I have written much, but little that's of worth.
And yet I write – and will perhaps, until I'm one with earth.
For every bard, whose songs are rarely sung, may still aspire
For precious lines, that she has birthed, to live, though she expire.

For truly, just as parents rear a child and then release it,
So also, poets nurse a line, but only so's to free it.
And so it is, I do believe, with all creative labor,
We only wish to let it go, whose joy of birth, we savor.

And though, for every poem, I can point to woe or season,
So every gambler has his hope – and every drunkard, reason.
But all around, I see the folk I cherish blow like leaves.
No child some leave, except the ones, in which a poet believes.
   
2013 December 23rd, Mon.
(1st, 2nd, 4th & final stanzas added Dec. 25)
Brooklyn, New York
 

Colder

Colder
   

The cold, that had receded, now comes back

And all, who do not bundle up, will freeze,

Unless they either are content or forced

To huddle where there’s heat enough to thaw.

And some will find this bracing.  Others curse.

And others yet will bear with it with grace.

But some will falter – fall, as winter’s staff

Lays low the feeble or unwary ones.

For ice and concrete are a lethal mix,

A cruel trap that's set.  An elder’s bones

Can rarely stand the impact of a fall

Upon that surface, polished, slick and hard.

And others start to sneeze and cough and then

To take to beds – or struggle still to work.

And some recover.  Others worsen, die.

And so it’s been, whenever winter comes.

******

 

From harsher climates, roared the Mongols, Huns

And all the murderous tribes that ravished lands

Where others, far more docile, grew their grain.

So empires fell and others rose in place.

And yet, how varied are the winter’s folk –

From Inuit to Norse to Kalmyk clans –

And at the southern tip of western lands,

The Patagonians of the fire and ice.

And here, in New York City, we’ve a taste

Of what the Amerindians bore, in moccasins.

But being by the world-encircling sea,

We’re spared the rigors of the lands within.

But as I hunch my shoulders, bending down

And pulling hood and cap yet tighter ‘round my head,

I realize I’m walking here within

A zone that’s colder than my freezer is.

******

 

No primate, save perhaps the yeti, which

May well be more of fable than of fact,

Has ventured where the nakedest of apes

Has gone – and even settled, in its arc.

Does climate shape a culture?  Surely, yes.

The ones that grew in milder, coastal climes

Have features that are different from those

That dealt with winters cold or summers harsh.

But scratch an Eskimo or Fuegan and

You’ll find a bonobo that longs for warmth.

And Viking women, pale from the sunless past,

Will shiver still from cold and strip for sun.

So those with means escape the winter’s cold

And soak in warmth on sunlit tropic isles.

But workers here must venture out to work,

And back again, in freezing cold and dark.

    

2013 December 24^th, Tue.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

  

Sunshine Might Be Coming By

  
Sunshine Might Be Coming By

    

The skies are gray, with drizzling rain.

The cold that’s left will come again.

And that’s the bane of northern climes

That all must bear – though some complain.

Yet one, who lives in tropic lands

With palm-trees tall and coral sands,

Of summer’s sweltering heat complains

And cooler temperatures demands.

I wonder, whether there’s a clime

That’s cool enough in wintertime

And pleasant still in summers too.

So wondering, I might end my rhyme.

But I have learned there’s such a place

That’s suited to the human race,

Where seasons all are temperate –

As climates go, a shining ace.

I sometimes, in my dreams, ascend

To where it seems that spring won’t end,

Where in December flowers bloom,

On which the hummingbirds depend.

But that is there and I am here,

With drizzling rain – but spirit sere,

With winter’s cold about to surge,

And springtime’s blooming far from near.

So I can either sit and mope

Or with the gray and drizzling cope –

Of season’s cruelties complain

Or shrug – and for some sunshine hope.

On venturing in the rain, I spy

A patch of blue in the cloudy sky.

And so I smile.  I’ve learned to flow –

And sunshine might be coming by.

2013 December 23^rd, Mon. 
Brooklyn, New York

Reprieve--II

   
Reprieve – II

It's spring-like weather here in New York City.
Pedestrians open heavy winter coats.
A night of rain has left some curdled clouds,
But elsewhere there's a sky of baby blue.

A seagull sails across – and little birds

Have perched upon a tree.  They tweet and sing.
We watch, at solstice, Nature's sly burlesque –
December strutting like she still was May.

******
  
I'd thought the songbirds all had fled, but now
I wonder where their little nests are hid.
At winter's start, official, this reprieve
Unsettles me.  I can't find rhyming words.

And yet, it's solstice – so this shortest day
Is ending, yielding to the longest night.
A golden sun is sinking in the west
And painting, warm, the walls – as sun does best.

How many days like this has Brooklyn seen,
When winter teases men with show of spring...
But three more months of cold and dark remain,
Till April comes, at last, with true relief.

****** 
    
And if some say, "You're fighting Nature." then
I would reply, "For sure, I've failed to flow.
I wait, impatient, for the days like this.
But you are free to take delight in snow."

For soon enough, we will be blanketed.
And white, pristine, will turn to gray and black.
And some may still be smiling then – at that.
But I'll stay grim until the equinox.

2013 December 21 Sat.
Brooklyn
  

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

Monua in Boston (revised)

Monua  in Boston (revised)

My sister told me how, in her college days,

She’d traveled from South Hadley, a satellite

Of Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,

One winter’s eve, she waited for a bus –

And everyone that passed by, in that cold

And sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog

That none could see through it.  For each was trapped,

It seemed to her, within a private hell.

How much of this was she, and how much they,

Those strangers, passing, in that urban cold,

My sister – born to sun, of sky and heart,

I do not know – for this, she did not tell.

But what she saw were tense expressions – frowns,

That lack of recognition, which our towns

Impose on those who yield.  And this extends

To all around, as if all else were dead.

But this much, I can now surmise, with sight

That I then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,

From isolations that I’d never known,

And so could see, how troubled were those souls,

So locked within themselves – and round and round

In endless circles of frustration bound,

With self consuming self, without an out

From friendship, love, or care for what’s without…

It is this isolation – the living grave

Of urban life within efficient towns,

Where human contact and affections are

Redundant – where so many daily live

As jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –

That leads, I think, to higher suicide rates

In Scandinavia, where the Vikings live

In indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.

They lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance

That humans give, to others of their kind,

By their demands and their annoying ways

Which draw us out of selves – and into sun.

And if we see this, in the truest light,

We will not turn away, although our souls

May need a refuge, finding deep delight

In quietness – as in a silent night.

  

How much of this, my sister had surmised,

How much she hadn’t, only she could tell,

Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.

I’m sure Bostonians might, at this, object.

And one experience, on a winter’s eve,

Should not be used to beat a city down.

But this I know, what Monua then perceived,

Had left its scar.  I heard – and I believed.

For Boston’s just a marker.  What she saw,

We all might see in cities ‘round the world.

Wherever men and women take to heart

The dictates of the demon-engine, there

We find the blight that rots us from within.

It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,

As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –

A place infernal, though we walk on earth.

Babui (Arjun) Janah

2006 June 4^th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
(revised & with the last two stanzas added,
2013 Dec. 19^th, Thu., Brooklyn, New York)
 In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004
   

Note on pronunciation:  My late sister’s name, Monua, has, in Bangla (Bengali), three smoothly joined and almost evenly stressed syllables, Mo-nu-a, with the three vowels being as in English “gold” (but shorter), “put” (but slightly longer) and “arm” (but shorter).

The first vowel gets, usually, just a slight emphasis – through a bit more of duration and loudness.  Since the last two vowels form a smooth diphthong, her name might also be thought of as having just two syllables, Mo-nua, with the “u” being, however, a distinct short “u”, (as in “put”) not a “w”. 
  

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
  

On Humankind

    
On Humankind

            

Some go through life in primal innocence,

With faith in humankind and simple trust,

With naught of malice, wishing good for all

And working, always, not for self alone.

But others center life on narrow self

Or else on just another one or more,

And look on all the rest with veiled contempt,

Suspicion, envy, even spiteful hate.

And there are those who may be in-between,

And so may view themselves as balanced, sane.

And this may be, and most of humankind

Will surely live their lives in such a way.

But there are those, and only in our race,

Whose work consumes them whole, with little left

To show there lived a being there before,

Of woman born, with mortal needs and dues.

And some of these have talents they display

Or destinies they seem to labor through,

And others profit from their work – or not.

And some work selflessly, in servitude.

And only humans have such psychopaths

As murder wantonly, with some in jail

But others living grand in palaces.

And only humans bow, to tyrants, deep.

So dense upon the ground are humans that

We have among us predators and prey –

And much of written history is that

Of how the former ruled the latter kind.

And humans have their saints and ogres too,

And angel beings still are everywhere,

If only one has eyes to see these folk,

Who humbly work for little recompense.

We humans crave each others’ company

But also treasure much our solitude.

And in our times, we see, in this, extremes.

And this perhaps is from pathology.

For surely, we have turned towards insane,

And all around us, this is clearly seen.

So wars – and all the races, right to hell,

Appear as destiny, although it’s us.

But having said all this, I still must say,

That though I've lived for long among my kind,

I yet have much to learn, am puzzled much…

I’ve only learned, for sure, humility.

2013 December 18^th, Wed. 5:43 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

On Such a Night – II

           
On Such a Night – II

    

It’s winter and the snow is on the ground.

It’s winter and the trees are standing bare –

Except for conifers, whose darkened forms

Are draped with star-like lights as Christmas nears.

It’s winter and I’m walking home at night.

And though it’s freezing, since the wind is down,

I’m snug in layers, topped with hoods and caps,

And warm from trundling home my daily load.

The solstice nears – and nights are long indeed,

But all tonight is still and wonderful.

And even I, who longs for tropic balm,

Am walking slow, by winter’s spell entranced.

It’s winter and the night is cold and clear.

A moon, near full, is shining in the sky.

Ah – on such a night, I’d like to breathe

The heady air – and then to quietly die.

2013 December 16^th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   
On Such a Night 
    

Who Profits?

             
Who Profits?
        
In the mathematics, that we learned at school,
We could be sure that two-plus-two was four,
And when we measured, in the physics lab,
The strength of “g”, we found that it was so.

But in our lives, and even more in what
We read and hear – and even watch on-screen,
There seems far less of certainty.  Indeed,
We couple true and false in ways obscene.

How simple is the sly and easy lie,
How facile are the ones that lead to war!
Our falsehoods, oft repeated, stand as truth.
Homo mendax – that is who we are.

So how can we then disentangle facts
From all the myths in which they tangled lie?
I do not know, but this I surely do –
For every falsehood, there's a reason why.

And for the sake of brevity, let's say,
Before believing what we haven't seen,
“Who profits from this 'fact' and our belief?”
Let's ask – so we're not led to where we've been.

But should we then be cynics in all things?
The things we see for selves, before our eyes,
We can believe, if we have eyes to see.
All else is suspect, often being lies.

But then, there's heart, which now is ridiculed.
And some have hardened theirs and some have not.
With senses, heart and logic we proceed.
For in the end, that's all that we have got.

But as we learn yet more disturbing facts,
For which we often have no strength or time,
The picture takes a shape we draw ourselves,
That's closer to the truth than all my rhyme.

2013 December 15th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Not I

          
Not I
          
The sky is dark – and it is snowing.
The winter's here, with blizzards blowing.
We walkers crawl along the streets,
From Brooklyn's usual briskness, slowing.

The knifing wind is iced and chilly,
Sure to numb a jogger's willie.
But, of runners, there are none.
Haste would now be really silly.

But cars, that race on roads, are seen.
We hear their sluicing – loud, obscene.
It seems this season still can't hinder
Those who must, in cars, careen.

I shiver now in sad defeat,
While watching where I put my feet.
The memories of falls I've had
Remind me – I should be discreet.

For ice, that's glazed on hard cement,
To those, who walk, is inclement.
It slyly waits and slips the weary,
Laughing then at the incident.

And now I have to cross the street,
As snow and rain combine in sleet.
It's better, yes, than freezing rain.
I slip and slide on sneakered feet.

A car, at speed, does cruising go.
It sprays me with the slush and snow.
I wipe the stuff away from glasses,
Hear a honk and jump towards shore.

I land, instead, within the gutter,
Stumble, fall – and curses mutter.
My socks are soaked, I'm bruised and hurting.
Passers smirk at words I utter.

I'd rather dangle from a rafter
Than bear another season after
Autumn.  Yet, while I am sulking,
I hear, behind me – raucous laughter.

It's a trio – youth and maidens,
Striding, all, in cheery cadence,
Smiling, laughing...  So does Wisdom
Tell the cheerless, “See?  Have patience!”

For that, which makes me sad and tearful,
Clearly makes these others cheerful.
While I shiver, cold and lonesome,
They are marching, warm and beer-full.

So, says Wisdom, “You're dejected,
As Fall is by this Beast ejected.
But watch, how those, of Nordic tempers,
By laughing, easily deflect it.”

And so, although I still am peeved,
With effort, I have this achieved:
I've postponed, awhile, my hanging,
Thinking one might be bereaved...

And just as mortals, born, must die,
So this season too will fly.
And some will laugh this winter through.
And some will smile or shrug.  Not I.

I trudge along, upon my way,
And though I'm far from waxing gay,
I still take solace in this fact:
December is.  But then, there's May.

2013 December 14th, Sat.
Brooklyn

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/05/may.html