Planet

   

Planet

  

Upon this planet with its blues and greens,

Its many shades of browns and other hues,

And all the other sights that daylight brings—

That ever changing light, from dawn to dusk,

With shadows stark on golden afternoons,

With clouds and peaks of white against the blues—

  

Yes, all of this and all the night’s delight,

With planets, moon, and stars and galaxy

Revealed for those afar from urban glare—

Upon this planet I have lived and seen

These wonders—glowing, timeless and serene—

Or so it seemed, amidst the constant flux

That marks our lives upon this spinning Earth. 

 

I’m grateful, yes, for all these sights I’ve seen—

For all the solace from the blues and greens

And other visions that remain with me

Of this, our planet, till I cease to be.

  

Amidst the madness, these have kept me sane.

Amidst the heartless, these have nourished me—

As have the actions and the care of those

Who see beyond the self and see within. 

  

These give me light and hope, amidst the sin

And all the darkness of the world we’re in.

These give me faith—and give me courage still. 

   

2026 January 19th, Mon.

Berkeley, California  

 

 

 

My Father’s Photographs of India

 
My Father’s Photographs of India

There's happiness and even joy
Within this world we’re in,
Yet measured out to just a few—
Or so it seems to me—

As humans, all together, shape
The human world and more,
With just a few in leading roles
And others pulled in line.

But when I look at photographs
My father once had taken,
Along with images of woe—
Of famines, riots, flights— 

And those of workers under stress
In factories, sewers, mines—
I see the faces—calm, composed,

And even smiling wide—

Of peasants in the villages
Among the hills and plains,
Of tribal folk in dignity—
Not bowed, but standing straight—

Of people living common lives—
But not in misery,
In poses, choreographed, it seems,
Within a flowing dance. 

******

The interruption of that dance—
The speeding of the pace—
The separation, competition—
Is what we humans face.

******   

Inequities of ages, borne
By those who worked the hardest—
Those still persist, but added on
Are pressures more destructive.

We each can shrug and say, “So what?”
Or say that this was destined,
Or pause, reflect, and ask if we
Have choices still for freedom.

That word—it once had resonance
And gave the people hope
In struggles that they fought and won
Or lost—while still persisting.

So every generation must
Do battle in its turn—
Not giving in to cynics or
To apathy or fear.

Yet those who care and those who dare
Are few and far between. 
The rest of us would rather shut
Our eyes to cruelest sins.

****** 

I see the images on screen
Of what is happening now—
And I am sickened to the core—
As long ago I’d been

When working with the refugees,
In nineteen-seventy-one,
Who’d left behind their homes and farms
To flee across a border.

How difficult it is for me,
Now even more than then,
To watch this manmade suffering,
And see no end in sight.

And yet, I look at photographs
My father took of those
Who died when people rose to greet
The “Naval Mutiny”.

And lo—the women, children, men,
Who lie there, stripped and dead,
With bullets through their heads or chests,
Are clothed in radiance.

2024 July 30th, Tue.
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
 

Faith-II

Faith-II

A face of beauty, like a flower’s bloom,
is but a passing thing that brings us joy
and then remains awhile in memory.
A heart of beauty—that of selfless love—
is what endures and gives to life its grace.

And though we each are like a blowing cloud
that rises and dissolves, we still can live
our lives in love—and so in partial peace,
however much the winds of hatred howl,
as tortured lives cry out for their release.

Let’s light our lamps, as sunset turns to dusk,
and through the darkness, as the planets wheel,
then guard those flickers, till it’s time to sleep.
And if we’ve tried to cleanse ourselves of sins,
our slumber might be restful, long and deep.

And when we wake, it’s then another day,
with trials old and new—and yet with hope.
Amidst despair, we still can try to be
aware of all the wonder of this world—
where cruelty and kindness coexist.

2017 July 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------------

Related:  Faith ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/07/faith_30.html )

  

Not Made for Me and You

Not Made for Me and You  
 

Did King Philip's Class Order Five Giant Spiders?
Taxonomy of Ursus americanus
https://www.pinterest.com/sarahrenee1067/science/

We have left the wells of wisdom.
We have thirsted long instead.
Let us quench the fires of madness—
be free of greed and dread.
 
******
  
There are places in the forests
where we humans haven't been,
who are caught in nets so tangled
or are spiders spinning webs.
  
There are places in the mountains
that have kept their beauty still—
where the mists caress the cedars
and the peaks are kissed by dawn.

There are places on the planet
that are not in Mammon's realm,
though he hungers to possess them—
so his serfs can till and reap.

There are places sans an “owner”
that are sacred to the few
who remember that this planet
wasn't made for me and you.

There are humans, in those places,
who are free of Mammon's yoke.
But their songs are near their endings—
as their bondage now is due.

******

Arise and hear their singing;
relearn the gentler dance.
Let us rid ourselves of Mammon—
be free of him—at last!

The grain he craves is silver—
its value gauged in sweat.
He kills the things of beauty
and steels our hearts to dread.

The beings of this planet
have made this wondrous world.
Together, we can make it
so beauty has a chance.

There's a beauty that's around us;
there's a beauty in the heart.
Let us turn towards that beauty—
let ugliness depart.

How much of woe and sorrow
has Mammon wrought on Earth,
with the “word of God” proclaiming
that this world was made for us?

******

There's a wisdom that's around us;
there's a wisdom in the heart.
Let us drink again of wisdom—
let greed and fear depart.

2017 January 24th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York  
----------------------------------------------------------------
   

Note: Two sets, of eight images each, follow below.

Stream in a tropical forest
http://assets.climatecentral.org/images/made/12_31_14_Bobby_TropicalForestStream_720_492_s_c1_c_c.jpg

Morning fog in dense tropical forest
http://www.loe.org/content/2013-10-25/25-bigstock-morning-fog-in-dense-tropical--27061052.jpg

Kanchenjuga at dawn, eastern Himalaya
https://c2.staticflickr.com/6/5010/5370734563_5c4069d4e2_b.jpg

Boreal forest, Alberta, Canada.
Source: http://hikingwithbarry.com
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/20140714113743-51802806-why-the-boreal-forest-peatlands-may-soon-be-earth-s-main-lungs

Named for Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind, the boreal forest is a critically important breeding ground for North American birds. The Albany River (shown here) divides the partially protected northern boreal from the imperiled south. Photo: Per Breiehagen
http://www.audubon.org/magazine/january-february-2009/paper-chase

San Bushman father hugging his children
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

The Bushmen Tribe of Tsumkwe
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

San woman holding her beautiful baby boy
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

******

Halifax Mill Chimneys
https://diamondenv.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/halifaxmillchimneys.jpg

Factories, in what was once woods and farmland
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMXwd8Y6f3ubMQFu6dE-LI3ZjKIAza4Xx5qqbqMLE6YBgGNvJHkKf__bJzcS93g7NnFF_buiMgNHiI_RmD6pIKmN7xsfNl5dNX2jvHosUfxiuKXC8E4L6ok9iE83kPGwikwagO2LMvUHU/s1600/William+Blake+Jerusalem+Dark+Satanic+Mills+Poem.png

Horst Faas: Images of Vietnam War
http://justiceghana.com/blog/research/books/horrors-of-war-in-a-long-long-way/

A child clings to his bound father who was rounded up as suspected Viet Cong guerilla
https://image.slidesharecdn.com/vietnamwarbyassociatedpressphotographers-150504154330-conversion-gate02/95/vietnam-war-by-associated-press-photographers-51-638.jpg?cb=1430772430

The Death of an Iraqi soldier, Highway of Death, 1991

In the 1991 Gulf War, American pilots bombed a retreating Iraqi convoy. Most US media declined to publish this photo, taken by Ken Jarecke.  His quote: “If I don’t photograph this, people like my mom will think war is what they see on TV.”

http://rarehistoricalphotos.com/dont-photograph-people-like-mom-will-think-war-see-tv-gulf-war-1991/ 

ISIS Hanging & Burning Alive Four Iraqi Men
https://www.zerocensorship.com/uncensored/isis/hanging-burning-alive-four-iraqi-men-graphic-video-201668

Tibetan mother and child
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

Amerindian mother and child, 1905, Oregon
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

Mother and child, Namibia
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

The Ever Changing Sky

The Ever Changing Sky

The moon was shining as I swept the yard—
A gibbous moon that hung there in the sky.
Its lantern light, from time to time, was dimmed
By fleets of clouds that floated swiftly by.

I swept that moonlit backyard free of leaves,
But when the shadows came, I looked on high
And watched that act of light and dark within
That play that is the ever-changing sky.
 
How many eyes have watched that circus-stage
Yet never seen an act that was the same
As one before?  The hours and seasons ride
A horse that none of them can tame.

In darkness and in silver light, I swept
The driveway through—and ventured in the front,
And there was struck by light from LED’s—
The city’s streetlights, given to affront.
 
And next I swept the sidewalk and the yard
In front, till all my bags were filled up high.
That done, I paused to take a little break—
To breathe and look up at that changing sky.

I saw the clouds were streaming close, in force,
And threatened then to overwhelm the moon.
A breeze was blowing, shaking branches, so
I knew my work would be negated soon.

I shivered, as the night grew colder and
The moon was hidden by the crowded fleet.
So Priam, as he gazed at Grecian sails,
Could well have done, from fear of Troy’s defeat.
 
2016 October 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Morning in Berea

Note: To see the images in this post in a somewhat larger and clearer format, please single-click on any one image. Then use either your keyboard's right and left arrow keys or click on the thumbnails to view the other images in turn. Captions will not be visible.

To return to this post and read the captions and text, please  click on the white X near the top right of the dark background.  Pressing the Esc (escape) key might also return you to this post.
----------------------------------------------

P.S.  I will search for the credits and links to the images that are currently missing those, and add them later.

Note that the images after the end of the verses and in the notes that follow are not directly related to Berea or Kentucky. They are related, instead, to a phrase (Crees and Cajuns) and a word (Appalachians) used in the verses.
----------------------------------------------

Morning in Berea

Morning in Berea, Kentucky
https://www.instagram.com/p/BIZ56GZhHSX/

Ah mountains, I have dreamed of ye,

that rose like isles from a feathered sea.

The distance clad your waves in blue,

and nearer ye were green in hue.

And when the mists rose up at morn,

that soul that now is mine was born

that keeps that treasure, in its heart,

revealed by sun and nature's art.

  

Those mountains, in my dreams, I see,
that rose like isles from a cloudy sea.
The distance draped their waves in blue,
and  nearer they were green in hue.

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

To Cecil, Deborah and Sharla I say,

"My thanks for the 'likes' that you gave me today,

  but Cecil had posted those mountains of blue—

and writing my verses was all I could do."
   

******

Early winter sky, Newfound Gap Road, by Kristina Plaas
Great Smoky Mountains National Park
Sing to Me        ভোরের আশার গান

Morning Glory, Haywood County North Carolina
http://vacationorholiday.blogspot.com/2009/03/north-carolina.html

Noah (Bud) Ogle Homeplace, built late 1880's, Roaring Fork Motor Trail,
Great Smoky Mountains, by L.D. Coffey
LD Coffey Pics     https://www.facebook.com/ldcoffeypics

View from Blue Ridge Parkway, autumn

So I thank you all kindly for the “likes” for the verse,

though my use of the "ye" made it worse. 

I have tried to rewrite it, so the gods will not smite it,

as I'm stuck with the scrivener's curse.

For the lines that I scribble--they often are drivel,

but at times they have sound and have sense.

So I'll scribble my drivel, but then I will quibble,

and erase and rewrite what I'd scribbled.

The lines that I write are written despite

what my reason might tell me is right,

for Ms. Muse is dictating, and I merely am writing,

and often not hearing her right.

But then she will tap me and gently correct me

or give me a slap and a scold.

And then I will grumble—but slowly or swiftly

I'll do as Ms. Muse might direct me.

******
  

When Cecil posts pictures of the blue Appalachians,

or those of ancestors of Crees or of Cajuns,

I feel in my heart then a singing and so

I type then that song as my drivel and go.

  

2016 August 6th, Sat.

Brooklyn, New York

Cree encampment

Cree boatwomen
http://usclibstore.usc.edu/Edward-Sheriff-Curtis/The-North-American-Indian-V-18

Cree couple in front of tepee (tipi)

Souwangesheick and his squaws, Cree Indians

Cree man
http://usclibstore.usc.edu/Edward-Sheriff-Curtis/The-North-American-Indian-V-18

Cree woman

Cree man

Cajun house and a tree, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Cajun cafe and a tree, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Back porch waltz, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

La Boucherie Des Cajuns (the Cajuns' butcher shop/meat cooking?), by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Cajun boy and girl in Mobile County, Alabama

James Carville, canny and vocal political consultant,
known as "the Ragin' Cajun".  He is from Louisiana, as
is quite evident from his speech, but  he may not be of
Cajun descent.

Acadian to Cajun

http://www.medschool.lsuhsc.edu/genetics_center/louisiana/article_cajunhistory.htm

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

Notes on "Morning in Berea"

 

A) Connection to Berea, Kentucky
  

Mu Facebook friend Cecil has been living in Kentucky for a very long time.  I had first "met" him on Facebook via a cousin of mine, who had also been in Kentucky for a while, during and after her college years. She had followed another cousin to college in Berea, in eastern Kentucky (part of Appalachia).  She had subsequently lived for some years, deep in the wooded hills of Kentucky, in an isolated cottage not reachable then by road.  She had bravely lived there--without modern utilities and conveniences, while still enjoying the wilds.

Of course, other than the pictures of the mountains and some references to them in the verses, those who have actually lived in Berea or other parts of Kentucky might find little in this post that relates to their lives and experiences there.

Do feel free to add these and other things and thoughts in the comments, at the end of the post.
 
-- Arjun
------------------------

B) Context for the verses

I was a latecomer to Facebook, but I have been spending a bit too much time on it lately--mostly "sharing" posts that I think merit this for various reasons, and also commenting on some posts, occasionally lapsing into verse in my comments.

Cecil had recently posted a picture of blue-green mountains, rising from the mist, taken in Berea, Kentucky.  Seeing it, I wrote the first two stanzas above--as a comment to his Facebook post. Subsequently, I added a third stanza, which was a repeat of the first, but with the archaic "ye" replaced.

Soon after, I wrote, in a follow-up comment,  some rhymed notes of thanks to Cecil and to some others who had read the verses and "liked" them on Facebook.  I also apologized for my acquired habit of fussing over my verses--by revisiting them and trying to "fix" them.

I have now combined those two versified Facebook comments and and have posted them together, here (above) at the Daily Poet blog, as "Morning in Berea". 

    

I  have included, at the start of the verses, that photograph of the mountains, taken from Berea, that Cecil had posted on Facebook. I have also added, after that, some more images from the Appalachians as well as some images pertaining to Amerindians. Both of these are often the subject of Cecil's Facebook posts.
------------------------
   
C) Crees and Cajuns

I should note, however, that neither the Crees nor the Cajuns, whose faces, figures and dwellings are pictured here, were residents of the Applachians at the times of the photographs and sketches.  The Cree happen to be one of the largest surviving Amerindian tribes. They were found, in historical times, to be mainly living in the region from Lake Superior westwards. But most of the survivors are now stretched over Canada, with some Crees still left in Montana.

The Cajuns are mainly of "mixed blood"--as are we all, come to think of it. So it might not be correct to refer to them as "Amerindians." Indeed, they are mostly descended from French and other European settlers in Acadia, a French colony in northeastern North America, which later became part of eastern Canada and northern Maine (the most northeastern U.S. state).

The Acadians, who were mainly Catholics, faced persecution, imprisonment and deportation after British victories in the northeast.  Many fled south to Louisiana--at that time a Spanish colony.  Both while in Acadia and after resettling in Louisiana,  they intermarried with local Amerindians and others. Their common speech used to be, until quite recently, a distinct form of French.

But anyone who has tasted Cajun cuisine will note the influence of Amerindians and also perhaps of Africans.
------------------------

D) Appalachians and Appalachia

I have used the term "Appalachians" here as shorthand for the "Appalachian Mountains".  The main spine of these mountains begins in eastern Canada.  It then runs roughly southwest along much of the eastern U.S., mostly parallel to the Atlantic coastline, and ends in the southeastern U.S. state of Alabama.

Long ago, when these mountains were younger, they were as high as the Rockies are now.  Over the eons, they have been weathered down to their current much lower heights.

The main spine of the Appalachian Mountains
http://nowiknow.com/the-mystery-of-the-appalachian-bend/

Great Appalachian Valley
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachian_Mountains

The term "Appalachian" may also be used to refer to a resident of Appalachia--a hilly region, with some distinct cultures, that spans part of the Appalachian mountain chain and runs from New York State through western parts of most of the mid-Atlantic states to areas in the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi.  All of West Virginia is in Appalachia. The eastern parts of  Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee lie in the western section of this region.

  

Appalachian region of the United States
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachia

   

Ro`kto Xagor—রক্ত সাগর—Blood Ocean

Dead Trees and Blood Ocean, Andaman and Nicobar Islands
© Rohan Chakravarty, 2012
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150652260999823&set=a.10150497812639823.382002.502754822&type=3

Please see also: http://www.rohanchakravarty.com/

Blood Ocean

The storm came—the great typhoon.
All was swept away.
At sunset, the ocean turns to blood.
Who calls for me?

2016 June 10th, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------

Blood-Ocean

Storm blew—typhoon immense.
All (emphasis) went, alas!
Stayed only blood-ocean.
Who calls me?

Friday, 10th June, 2016
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------
রক্ত সাগর

ঝড় বইল—তুফান বিশাল৷
সব-ই গেল, হায়!
রইল শুধু রক্ত সাগর৷
কে ডাকে আমায়?

শুক্রুবার, ১০ই জুন, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
------------------------------------

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Ro`kto Xagor

Jho`r boilo—tuphan bixal.
Xo`bi ge`lo, hae!
Roilo xudhu ro`kto xagor.
Ke d'ake amae?

Xukrubar, 10i Jun, 2016 khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
------------------------------------
  
Rakta Sāgar

Jhaṛ ba'ila—tuphān biśāl.
Sab-i gēla, hāẏ!
Ra'ila śudhu rakta sāgar.
Kē ḍākē āmāẏ?

Śukrubār, 10i Jun, 2016 khri
Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
  

Mitzvah

Mitzvah
 
Soft and gentle was that music,
Soothing to the souls who’d sinned,
Healing to the ones they’d wounded,
Like a whisper in the wind.

Faint and fading though it sounded,
Seeming close, yet seeming far,
Yet it still was soothing, healing,
After all the sounds of war.

Whence this music of the angels,
Floating in the summer breeze?
Who were they, who made that music,
Setting tortured souls to ease?

So we wondered, while that music
Lasted, captured by its art.
How and why this blessing, fashioned
So to touch and heal the heart?

Just as it had risen, softly,
So it ebbed and then was gone.
Years have passed, and yet within
Our minds it still is playing on.

Some have said it was a mitzvah,
A message from a source divine.
All I know was that I heard it,
And it now is yours and mine.

If a human hand had made it,
Guided by a gentler god,
Then I thank the maker for it,
And I’m grateful for that god.

2016 April 20th, Tue. 
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Yemenite Jew blowing the shofar (ram's horn), circa 1935
U.S. Library of Congress archives

Boy playing flute, Peru
Werner Bischof

 

Yemenite Jews studying the Torah in Sana'a, Yemen
https://uk.pinterest.com/explore/yemenite-jews/

Sitting Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

 

Tranquil Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

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

  

Winter's Gifts

  
Winter's Gifts
 
I have heard my footsteps crunching
On the freshly fallen snow.
I have turned and seen my footprints
Where I just had been before.
   
The brine from running nostrils,
The crystals striking lips,
The chill of air on cheekbones—
These all are winter's gifts.
  
The trees that stand in silence
And don their cloaks of snow,
They too are gifts of winter—
And who could ask for more?
 
****** 
 
I can hear the sound of footfalls
On the softly falling snow.
I can see the trail of footprints
Where I've slowly walked before.
 
But then the winds grow stronger
And sharp enough to pierce
The layers in which I'm huddled,
As the blizzard turns to fierce.
 
And yet, I thank, while freezing,
And blinded by the ice,
The winter, for its presents,
Though some are not so nice.
 
******
   
And later, while I shovel,
With aching back and arms,
Or when the snow gets blackened,
I'm grateful for its charms.
 
And though that snow, in melting,
Has soaked my socks and feet,
While fingers still are frozen,
My thanks, I still repeat.
 
For the hardships of the winter,
For the cold that numbs my hands,
I am grateful.  These are blessings
That a seeker understands.
 
******
  
I have heard the crunch of footsteps
On the white and virgin snow.
I have seen the trail of footprints
Where I once had trudged before.
 
I have watched the snow get blacker;
I have seen it turn to slush.
I have shoveled and I've grumbled
But I've told myself to hush.
  
For only in the winter,
In the cold and wind and snow,
Am I grateful, though I'm living,
That I soon will have to go.
  
******
   
As I shiver, while I'm standing
As I'm waiting for the bus,
While I'm holding in my urine,
I am tempted then to cuss.
 
But I turn towards the heavens
That are dreary, dark and gray.
Though the wind is chill and biting,
To those heavens then I pray:
 
“I am grateful for your presents,
For the hardship that uplifts.
If you'd only take me swiftly,
You could spare my share of gifts.”
     
2016 January 23rd, Sat.
(during winter storm Jonas)
Brooklyn, New York
   

Beer and Wine

 
Beer and Wine

It is said that there are blessings
With an origin divine.
I’m not sure of where it came from,
But I’ve quaffed of Nature’s wine.

I have drunk of Nature’s beauty,
I have sipped her honeydew.
My spirit, parched and weary,
Those potions did renew.
 
Mere alcohol may serve awhile
To take away the pain,
But there’s an antidote that lasts
That’s served with sun and rain.
 
On the land and on the water,
There’s the softness that delights.
There’s the scent of early mornings,
There’s the fragrance of the nights.

There are visions, tastes and textures,
There’s the cold that shades to heat.
There are sounds of speech and music,
There’s the tune and there’s the beat.

And even in the silence,
In the darkness, all alone,
When I’m touched by wind or water
Or by earth, I’m not alone.

We have issued from the Mother.
To her flowing, we’ll return:—
When we’re buried in her tillage;
On her pyre, when we burn.

For as mother speaks to daughter
And as father speaks to son,
So do earth and air and water,
So do cloud and moon and sun.

So the starry night has spoken,
And the dawn has softly sung.
So I’ve hearkened to the noontime
And I’ve listened to the dusk.

There’s a grace that comes from heaven
And alights upon a few,
So I’ve read—but I have sensed this
When the heavens were in view.

I have savored Nature’s brewage,
I am tipsy from her beer.
But unlike when I was sober,
My mind and sight are clear.

2015 December 28th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  
See also:  Nature's Wine
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/natures-wine.html )
   

The City’s Trees

 
The City’s Trees
 
The city’s trees are beautiful.
They comfort, through the year,
The harried folk who’re passing by
And chance to stop and see.

******

In spring, their tender leaves appear
And some are lit by blooms.
In summer, dressed in richest greens,
They shimmer in the sun.

In autumn, as they shed their leaves,
They blaze in many hues.
In wintertime, they’re stripped and bare
And yet are clothed in grace.

We see their twisting symmetry—
The balance in the dance.
We marvel at their nudity
Beneath the winter sky.

******
 
That winter sky can be as gray
Or clear as mind and soul.
All winter long, the trees will stand
As clouds go floating by.
 
The clouds are changelings and we too
Are changing, day by day.
The trees are slower beings, yet
They dance, as humans age.

We wait for spring and so do they—
For spring will surely come.
And summer then will follow soon—
And autumn in its time.

******
 
The seasons come, the seasons go—
And in the city’s streets
The workers rush about—and some
Find comfort in the trees.

2015 December 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 
     

Departure-II

 
Departure—II

“So tell me then, my father,
The reason you depart.
How long will you be staying
From all of us apart?”

“I am going now, my daughter,
To that land that’s over there—
To trade the things I’m taking
For the other things we need.

“I will climb upon those mountains
To that windswept pass on high,
And I’ll walk beside the glacier,
As the cloud goes streaming by.

“And I’ll follow then the streamlet
To the river’s gorge and hear
The roaring, rushing waters,
As they tumble cold and clear.

“Descending past the boulders,
Towards the valley—shaded, green,
I will view the river, coursing
Through the plains below, serene.

“To that land beyond the mountains,
I am going, through that pass—
But when I am returning,
I do not know, alas!

“But when I come from there, love,
I’ll come with things for you
And mom and all the others—
So be a good girl, do!”

“Go then, my dearest father.
Be careful on your way.
We’ll wait for you, our father,
And for your safety pray.”

Arjun Janah
2015 Dec 13th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------

Please see also:  Departure
      
     

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 )