Stay Awhile

Stay Awhile
 
I’m grateful that you came and I
Am sorry that you’ll go.
But good things always have an end—
And this I’ve come to know.

So when it comes to say goodbye,
We’ll wave to one another.
So did I once to my sister and
My father and my mother.

And once I had a spouse but now
I’m left myself, alone.
I now depend on strangers, since
It rarely rings—that ‘phone.

And so, I deal with those, with whom
Connections still are slight.
And some do wrong, while others try
To do what seems is right.

Don’t leave me to their mercies yet,
But stay with me awhile.
It’s good to hear your voice again,
It’s good to see your smile.

At times, I tried to think  ahead,
But fled to safer ground.
For I could see, where I would be
If I was still around.

But now, I'm here, as I had feared,
And so I fear no more.
I live—and day by day I bear
Whatever is in store.

And so I know how it will be,
As days and months go by,
And even years, until it's time
To close my eyes and die.

The seasons, they will come and go,
But all I’ll see is walls,
And not the sky and sun and clouds
Or rain or snow that falls.

They’ll wall me in, within a room,
With the TV as a friend,
And wheel me out, in summertime
Or when I meet my end.
 
But so it is, and so will be.
And what are we to do?
But stay awhile and chat, my friend,
So I can smile at you.

2016 April 12th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Company-II

   
Company–II 
 
I had ventured out, on errands,
On a sunlit winter day,
And the curbside snow had melted
As I walked upon my way.
 
And turning ‘round a corner,
Of a sudden, I could hear
Some little birds conversing,
With loud and spring-like cheer.
 
******

The sparrows all were talking
As they sat upon their trees.
They gossiped, as they chattered
In their speech of chirps and tweets.

And I, who had been walking,
Alone, except for thoughts,
Had heard their pulsing twitter—
As if of ones and naughts.
 
But this was ancient nature—
And yet forever young,
Not digits coldly streaming—
But notes, with ardor sung.
 
And so I stopped and listened
And wondered what was said—
As I’d done with hieroglyphics
In books I once had read.
 
Of what were they then talking
Upon that winter day?
I stood awhile in sunshine
And went upon my way.

I walked along the streets then
And I heard the pigeons call,
As the sparrows flew from branches
To the streets, as leaves might fall.

******
 
But then, unlike the leaflets,
They would hasten back on high.
For all the sparrows' actions,
There are surely reasons why.

Their time to live is shorter;
They move at faster speed.
They notice things that humans
Might rarely know to heed.

And so they swooped and darted.
They chirped; they tweeted, trilled—
At all of which, the pigeons
Were not the least bit thrilled.

But some of these were cooing,
As if the spring was here.
They bobbed their heads and strutted,
And flew when I got near.

******
   
So all around was chatter.
The birds were giving voice
To things, perhaps, that matter—
Of weather or of choice.
   
So humans might have spoken,
When gathered by a stream,
Of what they’d hunted, gathered
Or what they’d chanced to dream.
 
The sun had brought the pigeons
And the sparrows out that day.
And I, for one, was lucky
To hear their serenades.
 
Or so I could imagine,
Although it wasn’t me
To whom the birds were calling,
From pavement, roof and tree.
 
And then, the skies grew cloudy.
I heard the birdsong fade.
The pigeons ceased their cooing;
The sparrows flew away.
 
I shivered, as the winter
Sent winds to chill my chest.
It’s time, I thought, for turning
Towards home—and warmth and rest.

******
 
I’d ventured, sad and lonely,
To brave the winter’s cold,
To carry out my errands,
Though weary, sore and old.

I hurried through those errands
And then, enlivened, back.
The birds, to me, had given
The company I’d lacked.
 
2016 February 7th, Sun
Brooklyn, New York
  

City and Village

City and Village
     
A city offers much that a village can't.
And yet, it is our villages that give,
To each of us, a soul and sustenance.
We try, within a city's multitude,
To make our little clans, our villages.
And some succeed in this – and others don't.

Some work to live – and others live to work.
And work may fill a life, or lives consume.
But work will have an end, as all things do,
And those, whose lives were work, are then marooned.

There's air and warmth – and water, food that we
Require to live.  But there are other things,
Without which lives are bleak and sad indeed.
For some, it's music, art.  Yet others feed
On varied stuff, not just of atoms made.
But each, except the hermit-saint, has need
At times, of other mortals' company.

The villagers depend on others there,
And so do townsfolk, though they this deny.
Their shelter, water, food and more derive
From others' labor, oft invisible
To those who live in cities modernized.

And they forget how they, of two, were born,
How many then had aided them to live
When they were babies – or were still at school
And learning what they'd later use to earn
Their livings or enjoy their present lives.

If we've had one or more who lived with us,
How hard it is for us, when they are gone
And never will return.  A dinner then
Is loneliness – relieved, perhaps, by a screen
That flickers as it shows how others live.

So some have cats and dogs that occupy
The spaces that a human might have filled.
And as we age, and strength and work contract,
So do our spheres, until we're left as one.

And so, we wish that we were villagers
Where climes are warm, and air and children pass
Through open doors, with crying, laughter heard
By elders as they sit outside or walk –
Or lie on floors at night, in starlit rooms,
In touch with earth, beneath the sky – and part
Of human lives.

Yet villagers – they envy city folk.
The young depart to find employment in
The cities, fabled for their wealth and sin.
And some return – or send their monthly dues
To those they left behind, remembering...

But others never do, in newfound lives
Engrossed or trapped, in struggles there enmeshed,
Forgetting who they were, and giving birth
To children who might never know the woes
And simple joys that their ancestors knew.

2013 November 2nd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

That Heartless Moon

       
That Heartless Moon
            
She walked the streets, at end of working day,
Towards the place she rented with her pay.

She walked within the crowds, as yet one more
Among the city's toiling myriad,
A nameless, faceless one, who walked alone.

And as she walked, she saw on high, above,
That heartless moon of unrequited love.

******

How many, like her, had that ancient eye
Observed, among the cities' passersby?

How many past had been deceived by lies,
By lovers spun or by their own conceit,
From dreams of pairing woken, still unpaired?

How many more would walk the streets alone,
For hope of rapture, through their lives atone?

******

She walked among the city's milling crowds,
That eddied, forming, fading, like the clouds.

And as she walked, towards her rented flat,
She saw that she was followed by the moon,
And for a moment smiled at company.

And so it was, that satellite sans heart
Could soften her defeat, with lunar art.

****** 

How many others had Selena saved,
With silent mantra blessed and undepraved?

How many past, entrapped by lies of men,
Had seen her floating in the evening sky,
And from their toil and trouble then had pause?

How many more will walk as she had done,
Who'd lost a lover and, by Moon, was won?

2013 September 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn

On Moonless Night
   

The Gallery of Ghosts

The Gallery of Ghosts

As we journey through our lives, we see
the ones, to whom we're bonded, pass away.
And so, in time, we each are left to walk
alone, within a gallery of ghosts.

And as we deal with loneliness and grief,
amidst the crowds – or trapped within our rooms,
we turn away from what the present brings,
reflecting on the ones, who now are past.

And some of us have duties still – to those
who're still alive, among the generations,
to animals or plants, vocations, self –
or jobs that keep us stressed, but occupied.

And some are thankful for those duties, which
return us to the present, even turn
us towards the future, rosy-hued or dark,
while others may resent intrusive tasks.

For some of us have given of ourselves
to those now passed, while they were still with us,
but others feel that they had fallen short
on duties then – and now must make amends.

And whether true or not, such matters are
decided by the self in solitude,
and as we walk within that gallery,
you'll see us then conversing, silently.

And surely, it's a shadow-play at best,
for how can we attend to those who're gone?
And yet, it seems they still can influence
the ones who live, remembering the dead.

2013 August 21st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Meetings

  
Meetings
  
Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

******

Shall we meet by chance on a country road,
As the end of the day is coming?
And shall we dally there awhile,
With the crickets loudly humming?

Or shall I find you by a lake,
On another day, at evenfall?
And shall we linger by the shore,
As the frogs and the birds returning call?

Or shall we meet  in a wooded glen,
At the sunset hour, in another season?
And shall we stand there, in the dusk,
And wonder then if there's a reason?

Shall we cross upon the field,
At twilight, in another year?
Will you know that it is me,
And will I know that you are near?

******

We met and walked together awhile,
And then, in time, we parted.
But still, I think of you and smile,
Who far too soon departed...

I always feel that we'll meet again,
But then again we'll part.
And so it's always the end of the day,
When I sense that you are there.

But if I smile as the sun goes down,
Will I weep in the light of the dawning,
As I see you walking on the dew-wet grass,
And I know that you're gone forever?

How sad is the gloom of the evening,
How glad is the sun of the morn...
And yet, when I think of your passing,
I smile as I weep that you're gone.

******

Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

2013 July 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn   
   

I Saw the Moon

     
I Saw the Moon
     
I saw the moon beside a cedar tree.
I saw her moving as she walked with me.
And if I'd ventured to the dancing sea,
Her silver trail upon the waves, I'd see...

The moon is aged and yet is ever new.
She's watched the ancients and she watches you.
How many past have stood and marked her rise,
Or seen her shining in a lover's eyes?
 
I saw that moon, at full, on night of birth.
And in her rhythms, like the sea and earth,
She's followed me, an ever-watchful eye,
In all her guises, from the changing sky.
 
I might presume this old, familiar friend
Will watch this mortal as he meets his end.
And I will now request that on that day,
Beneath her gaze, I'm sent upon my way.

So if, as likely, I will lie within
A room, enclosed, with memory and sin,
I do beseech, whoever's at my side,
To take me where I sense her lunar tide.

And if there's none to help me leave this earth,
Remembering the moon I saw at birth,
And how she slipped behind the cedar tree,
From remnant coils, I'll lift my spirit free.
     
2013 July 19th, Fri.,  around 9:30 pm,
walking home from Gravesend Bay
along Shore Parkway,
between 17th & 18th Avenues,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(second stanza added later)
    

By the River

    
By the River
    
By the river's side, we met,
By the currents flowing.
We did not know, from where we came
Or where we would be going.

I still remember well the day
Our meetings there had started.
And I remember too the night
That we, in sorrow, parted...

How cool, the shade of leafy trees
On sun-kissed afternoons...
How wonderful, those nights we lay
Beneath the shining moon...

To every life, there comes a time
When darkness turns to light.
And so it was, that interlude
Of your and my delight...

We looked upon the waters then,
Reflecting moon and sun,
And on the dancing waves, we saw
The threads of being run...

We looked across the river and
We saw the other side.
We wondered if we'd ever cross
That river, flowing wide...

How many dreams we entertained,
How many thoughts we shared,
How many little things to show
That each, for other, cared...

How pleasantly those nights had passed,
Those days of dreaming then...
How sad it is, to think that we
May never meet again...

Oh how I long to see again
That river wide – and you,
To walk where river breezes blow
And kinship old renew...

The strands that intertwine and part,
In time are joined anew,
But memory is lost with death,
And so are I and you.

By the river's side, we'll meet,
By the waters flowing.
We will not know, from where we came
Or where we'll next be going...

2013 July 19th, Fri.
By New York Bay,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(added later: 4th stanza)
  
Note:  The following three stanzas were also added later, to follow before the last.  But they were subsequently excised and moved below.  They are kept there for those seeking some attempted explanation for that last stanza.
   
The river is the same and yet
Its waters, never old.
So we will pass away and yet
Our tale will be retold.

The river is the same and yet
The waters, ever new.
To others we will yield, who are
The newer I and you.

For even waters seeming new
Are from that mother risen,
To which they all at end will flow –
The deep and ancient ocean...
  
Also, a disclaimer:  This, like any other such from my pen or keyboard, is a romantic fantasy, no more...;-)