There's a Fog Tonight in Brooklyn

There's a Fog Tonight in Brooklyn

There's a fog tonight in Brooklyn
And it brings back memories.
I can hear a fog horn wailing,
And I remember times.
I can see the street lights haloed,
I can see the signals change,
As the fog is slow drifting
And a horn sounds out at sea.
There's a fog tonight in Brooklyn
And it brings back memories.

2018-02-20 Tue
Brooklyn, NY

Related:
There's a Mist Tonight in Brooklyn
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/theres-mist-tonight-in-brooklyn.html )

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

Prayer-on the Chinese New Year

Prayer—on the Chinese New Year

Arjun, being attacked by a lion—that has been distracted by big WC
photographed by Wai-Sin Li, 2018-02-16

Deliver us, oh gods, from competition
Between yourselves—and also that which rages
Between us mortals struggling on this Earth,
And especially between us humans, who
Are racing so that banks and profits grow—
Deceived by those who’re surely human too
Yet feed off human labor, spreading ignorance—
And cheering as their shares of madness climb.

So on this day, as lions and dragons dance
And crackers burst and strew their colored shards,
And coins and notes are wrapped in red and passed,
We do beseech you, move our foolish race
To pause from racing—and to then reflect
On where your Mammon leads the ones who race.

Arjun, survived, writing, "Prayer..."—with CP taking a break and little WC cut off
photographed by Wai-Sin Li, 2018-02-16

2018 February 16th, Fri—Chinese New Year
Chinatown, Manhattan—New York, New York

Bits of Blue

Bits of Blue

On a cold, wet, winter day,
The sky was overcast with gray,
And all that I had treasured seemed
To silently have slipped away.

And as I walked, I wondered why,
Beneath that gray and gloomy sky,
My life had gone the way it had—
And whether I should quietly die.

But then I saw a bird that flew
Within a little patch of blue.
And I decided then to live—
For this reminded me of you.

How often, when you were alive,
And we were struggling to survive,
Did you discover bits of joy,
Which then allowed us all to thrive.
 
So I resolved, that winter day,
When all was wet and dull and gray,
That I would find my bits of blue—
Until I too was blown away.

And so, however sad the case,
As I recall your smiling face,
I wipe the tear that’s in my eye,
And find my solace—and my grace.

Bits of Blue
http://www.urltarget.com/images/

2018 February 10th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Echoes-II

Echoes-II

We each are echoes of the ones who've gone,
As they had been of those who'd gone before,
And those will be who follow us in turn.

So each bestrides this stage that we are on
To play a part and then to be no more—
Except as whispers in the earth or urn.

******

The air we breathe and all that's in our bones
Have been dispersed a myriad times before
And so will be again and yet again.

And every word we speak, the silent stones
Have surely heard—and kept within a store,
In which there's still the pleasure and the pain.

******

So if we listen, with our ears and eyes,
We still might find, between the words we speak
And all our actions, those of others past.

How many greetings, smiles and sad goodbyes—
How many rhythms, pulsing strong or weak—
How many echoes, fading slow or fast...

******

So every thought, like every passing cloud,
Has siblings in the future and the past—
And every life is but a stanza more.

So hear the waters murmur soft and loud,
“Of all our ripples, which is first or last?
We each are echoes of the ones before.”

Blue Ridge Mountains
source: unknown

Coney Island bound D train 
between Atlantic Ave & 79th St
Brooklyn, New York
2018 February 1st, Thu. 
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Related:
Echoes (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/09/echoes.html)