So Is It Spring?

So Is It Spring?

We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.

And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.

And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.

So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.

****** 

  

The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.

“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.

So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.

2018 April 21, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat.
(On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)

   

The Puzzle

The Puzzle

She asked him why he left her, but he never did reply.
So she was left to figure out the real reason why.
And though the years have come and gone, that puzzle still remains,
That never will be solved by her, whose time has come to die.

How many years, how many years, of asking for the reason...
How many tears, how many tears, on day and month of season,
The day and month on which he left, as autumn then was ending...
And still she pays, as ending nears, the price for lover's treason....

How lightly men may leave the maidens whom they courted, won...
How sadly ends the dalliance so happily begun...
How deep the wound that rarely heals, though time attempts its cure,
How strange that some have hearts with space for one -- and only one.

How many pitfalls life may lay upon a mortal's way,
How many traps that snare the one who stops from saying, "Nay."
How many mothers warn their girls, who yet succumb to love,
How many men, who leave the maid, with whom they've had their way...

When she was young, she tried, in vain, to youthful heart defend.
Now death approaches and she nears her tortuous journey's end.
We wonder if she'll ever have a chance to live again,
And in that life, for errors past, another will amend.

2013 September 18th, Wed.
Brooklyn
 

The Mother Tongue

The Mother Tongue

How strong that love that dwells within our hearts
And may be hidden long and then revealed,
The love we have for tongue of infancy,
In which we heard our mother's lullabies.

However much we may have practice in
A language learned when early childhood passed,
No other speech is understood as deep
And clear as that, in which we learned to speak.

We may not have the words that learning lends,
The words of books or those of speech urbane,
Or phrases that are fit for specialties,
But all that's human's served by mother's speech.

******
 
The mother may be she, who gave us birth,
Or he or she who tended us at first,
The one to whom we bonded, as a child,
The one who tried to slake our primal thirst.

And there are words forgotten, rhythms deep,
That surface unexpectedly in speech.
The tongues we speak are subtle, rich like wine.
The primal one remains our gift divine.

It may be language written, glorified,
Or tongue without a script – or dialect.
It gives us comfort when we hear or speak –
And is the hardest one, in which to lie.

2013 May 26th, Sun.
Brooklyn
sjanah@aol.com
 

To My Father

To My Father

You will not die, my father, you will live.
My mother, she has gone, my sister too.
But they, like you, were never mine to keep...

I now am far, although I would be near.
What's happened in the past, we can't reverse...
By worldly shackles, I am now constrained.

But live, dear father, live -- and see again,
Although the pain of loss may be acute,
And that of living too you do endure,
The story is not done. 

And I would wait
And so might you, if fortune so permits,
So we can meet again -- and be, perhaps,
A father with his son again...

******
 
And if, perchance, our meeting be delayed,
Then live -- for those who've given you their love,
And find the strength to walk -- and work again...

And if, by fortune's hand, you take your leave
Or I, before we ever meet again,
Then know that you were loved -- and that you gave
Not knowing it, perhaps, what gives me now
And others, sustenance...

******
 
We are but two among the multitude,
And all that we have suffered, others have
And others will, as is the mortal lot...

And yet, we weep at prospect of our loss
And at the losses that we each endure.
So weeps the world -- and yet it smiles again,
And so it was before we trod this Earth,
As it will be when we are memories...

*******
 
But live, my father, live, for you have yet
So much that's left -- do live, for better days...
The ones who tend you now, the ones afar,
Beseech you that you live -- and rise again.

Babui
2012 June 20th, 1:11 a.m.
Brooklyn