The Worst of Times

   
The Worst of Times 
 
The seasons come; the seasons go.
But summer will be leaving slow.
He likes to stay, so sheets are wet
From skins that pour at night with sweat.
 
The summer’s swelter starts when spring
Departs.  He slips, on us, his ring.
And so, when summer’s in our bed,
We sigh and yield, for we are wed.
 
A marriage made in hell, indeed!
So summer rides upon his steed
That neighs, protesting, but in vain.
So each must bear the summer’s pain.
 
And some seek air-conditioned bliss,
While others, at their weakness, hiss.
And others yet, by ocean-side,
Then find relief, with wind and tide.
 
There’s June, but then there is July.
By August, we are asking, “Why?”
But even when September’s here,
Summer’s heated breath is near.
 
October comes, and he departs!
And some might grieve, with broken hearts,
But others then rejoice.  We’re free,
By autumn’s grace, from tyranny!
 
We know, alas, that he’ll return,
And even more, with ardor, burn.
From summer, we might seek divorce,
And yet he’d take us with his force.
 
And so we pray that he will alter
Predilections—or will falter.
But it seems he does not age,
And every year we bear his rage.
 
So summer comes with all his sin,
For summer’s sun can burn the skin,
And even when the midnight chimes,
We suffer, in these worst of times.
   
2015 July 8th, Wed., 1:10 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

  

Summer’s Gold / The Lover Strong

For those who've always lived in the tropics, these chords might have little resonance.  But those who have spent years or decades in the high latitudes might buzz a bit when reading this.
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Summer’s Gold / The Lover Strong
 
How pleasant is the summer’s touch
To those who’ve borne the winter long.
For them, the spring’s the suitor but
The summer is the lover strong.

Caressing is the summer’s warmth.
It licks and opens every pore.
In plant and beast, the honeyed sap,
The musk and oils and juices flow.

In winter’s chill, it’s fit for yin
To counsel us to hibernate.
Then spring arrives.  Perhaps it’s sin,
But yang then urges us to mate.

As flowers bud and bloom in sun,
So humans do—and much besides.
The seasons strum—and we vibrate.
So seas and beings pulse with tides.

So autumn whispers in our ears
And winter nips and we retreat.
The spring then coaxes us from fear
To summer’s arms and kisses sweet.

******

The summer, in the polar places,
Releases us from winter’s cold.
We can’t escape its warm embraces
Or shy from all its urgings bold.

Although we wish that summer stays,
Its time with us is often brief.
When autumn’s gone, with all its blaze,
Then memory is our sole relief.

As with seasons, so with fate:
When spring and summer both are past,
Our autumn comes—and then we wait
For winter, when we’ll breathe our last.

And though a season comes again,
We know that we will not return.
We die, as we are born, in pain,
Yet in-between we live and learn.
 
So when we’re in our final years
And shivering from those fingers cold,
As death, with winter’s visage, nears,
We still remember summer’s gold.
 
2015, July 1st, Wed., 6:07 pm
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York
   

On Marriage

On Marriage

It seems a marriage gains in strength and lasts,
when eros wanes and plays a lesser part.
For in its time that tide may ebb and yet
the fullness of the bond be unimpaired.

And if that mixing wild of metaphors
has given pause, could one alone suffice
to paint in words a wedding’s aftermath –
that light embrace in which the spouses dance?
 
Their thoughts, their words and most of all their acts
of caring build the friendship and the trust –
the rooms and girders of the house in which
the eros is a guest that comes and goes.
 
A guest that's welcome, one that gives delight –
but still a guest who's free to leave or not –
so all should be, including man and wife,
despite the ring and all it signifies.
 
We seek for permanence – to feel secure,
to give another shelter in our warmth.
And yet we know the winds that blow about
could take with them the ones that we have loved.
 
A structure built on eros might collapse
more easily than one that’s built on trust.
The guest is here tonight, tomorrow gone.
The house remains and waits for her return.
 
******
 .
In all the tumult and the ceaseless flow,
the dwellings couples make are ripples mere.
Yet in that space, however small it seems,
there still is room for all the universe.
 
For each has strength – and when the two are one,
the strengths they each possess are multiplied.
And weakness, each may have. The friend, the spouse
may know it well and yet not stint in love.
 
And two can make a space that one cannot –
a space in which to nurture that which comes,
a space that’s not reserved, with room enough
for laughter, love and all the grief and woe.
 
But some of us are single – never wed
or though once wedded, now no longer so.
And some may pine for what they missed or lost,
and yet survive and even be of cheer.
 
We need our company – we need our friends,
but friendship true is hard for us to find.
And married bliss – or married hell – are things
that few may ever have or bear for long.
 
And when we’re single, we return to homes
that often lack in human company.
A product, this – of that insanity
that empties villages and even towns…

******
   .
But those who marry and remain as joined –
they know the wedding marked a turning point.
They once were two – but then were made as one,
for better or for worse, till death’s divide.

The wedding is remembered and the years
before and after.  Children might be born
or not – and grow to adults, leave, return.
The spinster still outlives her sisters all.

For that divide will come – for some, with death,
for some, before – and only half remain,
with memory that's bittersweet, until
that remnant half in turn to nothing goes.

By chance, we're born.  By chance, we meet and wed,
perchance to then give birth, to nurture, tend –
and then to part, so one is left behind
to mark the time and wait for chanceful death.

So marriage?  “It’s a wondrous thing.” we’re told
by some, “It’s just a vestige of the past.”
by others.  Whom should you and I believe?
I've said my piece before – and now should leave.

And so I end my ode to marriage, though
my knowledge might be scant, and others say,
"He knows as much about it as a priest
who's celibate and yet gives brides advice."

2015 January 29th, Thu.
(some stanzas added Jan. 31st, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Eros

  
Eros 

For every woman who, from pleasure, sighed,
For every man who heard that sigh and felt
The bond between be strengthened even more,
I now put pen to paper.  I had knelt
In supplication, in my callow youth,
Before the ancient goddess and had prayed
But when I served instead her human form,
I knew my faith would never be betrayed.

For though a woman, like a man, can stray,
The thrill that’s felt, when hands have touched or when
The consummation reaches inner depths,
Will still be there - as insight stays, in Zen.
And you might say.  “It’s foolishness to place
Such weight on fleeting things - like sun and rain,
The passions and the loves of humans pass -
But leave behind their residues of pain.”

And you are right, of course, but so am I,
For even though my love be only such
As I imagined in my dreaming,  I
Have felt, in every cell, its tingling touch,
And feeling this, awakened, saw anew
The outer and the inner worlds and so
Was by that eros so transfigured that
I needed then divinities no more.

For every woman who has uttered sighs
And heard her lover’s utterance as well,
And felt that bond between be strengthened, I
Now write these lines and in that sighing dwell.
And some might say that this is foolishness
And they are right, of course, but so am I.
But who agrees with me, excepting when
From parted lips there rises, soft, the sigh?

Like mother’s love and all that’s innocent,
The joy of eros cleanses heart and mind.
It sweeps away the dirt and dust of time.
Where harshness was, it leaves perception kind.
It cures the dullness that’s our time’s disease.
It levels high and low, for eros comes
Unbidden and cannot be kept by force
Or wages, but in joyful freedom hums.

And so, when eros leaves, do not attempt
To lure it back or threaten it with woe.
Be grateful then that you were touched by it,
And being grateful, let it freely go.
For though the loss is painful, let it be.
The pain of losing love - of woman, man -
Of parent, child or friend - is harsh, indeed -
And eros is where all of these began.

2015 January 26th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York