For Me and You
We humans weren’t ever meant to be
As lonely jackals, wary of the rest.
We need at times our solitude—and yet
We need some others too, to be our best.
In nature, there are solitary beasts.
The male orangutan may munch alone.
But lonely humans at their lunches ask—
What sin was it, for which they now atone?
We hurry to our schools or jobs and there
We meet with fellow humans—more than less,
And this may tire us or sustain us, so
Our lunches may be respites from the stress.
******
But when we are confined, at home or work,
And see and hear no others for a while—
That might be days or weeks or even months—
We might forget to laugh—or even smile.
And now—in exiles or in prisons or
In lonely houses or in sterile wards,
We humans wither, torn from those we loved,
Who now are distant—or forever gone.
We pine for scents and tastes and textures that
Are now but memories—fading, even lost.
The years go by—and then the decades too.
And this is progress—with its human cost.
******
And so we worry and we wonder how
We might fulfill our duties to the ones
From whom we parted. Mothers rise to speak
In daughters’ dreams—and fathers, in their sons’.
As sap is what sustains the cells of trees,
And flows, within us, keep our own alive,
And like the air and water—and the foods we eat,
So also is this
join, on which we thrive.
We need to feel the earth and see the sky,
To hear the plants, the beasts—and humans too.
There is a
vibrance that connects and heals—
And so I write this verse—for me and you.
******
And yet—we age and in our age despair
Of ever having strength to reach across
The oceans and the continents—for some
Have hardly strength to bear the local cross.
How often has an exile wished to be
Not one, but two or even more—so she
Could be in places far apart at once—
And realized that this could never be.
So all that we can do, it seems, is this—
To do as needed in the place we are,
For we are locals, like the nesting hens
That cannot wander, from their clutches, far.
******
We're blown apart by commerce and by war.
The wealth is drained from villages to towns
And thence to hubs of industry or where
The bankers rule and presidents are clowns.
In dreams, our bodies may be imaged, and
In waking, minds are often split in two—
And only half is present where we walk,
The other being where we’re needed too.
But let me dwell no more on sorrows here,
For surely you have had enough of those.
I can’t be near to you in body, but
Remember—that in spirit, I am close.
2018 April 5th Thu. & 7th Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
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