Myth

Myth

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154582087620950

Who knows the truth?
Not I, forsooth!

I'll vouch for what I've witnessed, yet
In time I'll age and I'll forget.
I only might be sure of this—
That mortal life is far from bliss!

I cannot tell, although I care,
What happened when I wasn't there.
And though I've delved and though I've read,
I cannot question those who're dead!

And when I go, so goes my truth—
Unless it finds, in others, root.
But I could notice, while I die,
My truth, transforming to a lie!

We reach the pith—
And find it's myth.

2017 April 26th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Quartz and Calcite

Quartz and Calcite 

https://www.facebook.com/dan.nave.1/posts/10208821879645289

Quartz and Calcite waged a battle.
For Quartz declared, "I know I'm brittle.
But I can scratch you. There, I've done it!"
Calcite roared, "You'd better stop it!"

But easier started, harder stopped,
Their battle lasted, till they dropped.
And Quartz had only lost a shard
Or two, for Quartz's core was hard.

But Calcite, felled by strike and thrust,
Was shattered—scattered into dust.
And from that medley, rose the cry,
"From Quartz's mischief, now I die!"

2017 April 27th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Pale Blue Dot

 
The Pale Blue Dot

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/videos/10154567820250950/

What indeed is poetry?
I really wish I knew,
Although I spout again in verse
Which often seems to veer from terse.

And Riaz earlier was wise
In saying there's a difference--
For I can persevere in meters
Or echo rhymes, as poetry peters.

And as for science, what is it?
Our Trump would say, "A lot of s**t!"
Unless it adds in cash for him,
Who grabs at p******s at his whim.

And we might say, "What's wrong with money,
Or sipping on a bit of honey?"
But others then might counter, "Naught!
But yet there's more than can be bought."

What cash can come from Andromeda,
What pleasure from a comet's tail?
And yet we might be more bereft,
If Carl were mute before he left.

For though he spoke in measured prose,
It's poetry that Sagan wove.
As Saumen too has said, it's wonder
That gives, to poets’ words, their thunder.
 
2017 April 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

The Winter Has Ended

The Winter Has Ended

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741

We know that we're transient.
We come and we go.
But we sense there's a stillness
in the midst of the flow.

There's a light in the gemstone,
there's a star in the eye.
We'll remember that twinkle
till the day that we die.

The song that is ancient
is tinged with a sorrow,
and yet it is saying
"There is still a tomorrow."

The song that is recent
may bring joy to the heart.
And yet there's the whisper—
"Tomorrow we part."

How brief are the colors
and scents of the spring!
But the winter has ended
and our fancies take wing.

2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
    

At the Start of the Spring

This was written after seeing a picture of Matt and Julie Posner, standing together, by a cherry blossom tree at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741 

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

At the Start of the Spring

When the schools were not open,
at the start of the spring,
we stood by the blossoms
and our fancies took wing.

How precious, these moments,
like blooms in their lives,
when the flowers have faded,
for husbands and wives.

So also for others,
who stood by the trees
or looked at the heavens
or gazed at the seas.

We arrive and we travel
and we exit in time.
And yet there are moments
that we treasure in rhyme.

For some, it is verses;
for others, it's prose.
Yet others remember
the scent of the rose.

There are feelings for which
we may find the right words
and others that shimmer
like the singing of birds.

And then there are things
that we sense, but that speech
cannot utter—the things
that our words cannot reach.

So we stand in the open
at the start of a season.
And a picture is taken
for which there's a reason.

And whether we knew it
or not, in a year
or in forty, we'll see it
with a smile and a tear.

2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------
  
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741  
   

Humans

 
Humans
 
https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154554801155950

We murder the children, we maim and we burn.
We follow the ones who give orders and funds.
And yet we lift strangers who're wounded and risk
our lives for the children who have nowhere to turn.

How hard are we humans, how cruel and mad!
How senseless our slaughters, how ruthless our drives!
But still, in the mayhem, we heal and we nurture.
We tend to that labor, no matter how sad.
 
2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Contradictions-II

Contradictions-II 

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.wickham.52/posts/10156054098866562 

How strange are men and women! We
have humors mixed within.
And so by day we're sainted, yet
at night we're mired in sin.

******
 
My father was a gentle man.
He never raised his hand
against us, yet at times his acts
were hard to understand.

My mother was admired, beloved,
except by those sans heart.
And yet she made us suffer, though
without design or art.

My sister had a star within
that shone in all she did.
And yet, within the dark, too soon,
she bravely went and hid.

How strange indeed I am myself.
I've never carried malice.
But still, I've caused my troubles by
refraining from the chalice.

And so it is with everyone
and so it is with all.
We climb up to the shining peaks,
and then, in turn, we fall.

So those that seemed so pure, we learn,
are hardly free from taints.
And those we saw as sinners have,
at times, exceeded saints.

From contradictions, though we seek,
we rarely find release.
But now my rhymes grow tiring and
it's time for me to cease.
 
******
 
Within the yin, the yang resides;
within the yang, the yin.
So also, love and hate are twined,
and grace is tied to sin.

2017 April 16th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Nutty

Nutty

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154547984390950

There are nuts all around us.
They're nutty as hell.
But till they start spouting,
you really can't tell.

If you doubt what I'm saying,
then just stick around.
When I'm finished, you'll holler
and run for high ground.

There are nuts that are tinies,
there are nuts that are bigs.
There are nuts that are crazies
that like to wear wigs.

But then are are nuts
that are nutty like me.
And those are the ones
you don't want to see.

For while I am mouthing,
you'll be wanting to yell.
But I still won't be finished,
until you're in hell.

2017 April 15th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Light and Shade

Light and Shade 

https://www.facebook.com/wendell.pye/posts/1736121643081412

What can I add, except to say
We greet the dawn that starts the day,
But then, when sunset comes, we sigh,
For night, and all it means, is nigh.

We sigh in pleasure as in pain.
We grimace and we laugh again.
So sorrow too is part of life.
If joy's the husband, she's the wife.

And now before you tire of this,
I should retire and wish you bliss.
We suffer pain and wish we'd die,
And moan and ask for reasons why.

What reason can we find, my friend?
We suffer till the very end.
So let's embrace the joy and sorrow.
We live today and die tomorrow.

******
 
Pleasure, pain, we live and find,
Like yang and yin, are intertwined.
From light and shade, we find our depth—
From joy and sorrow, life and death.

To wooden crosses, three were nailed.
Such cruelties had long prevailed.
But one of those had brought us sight,
Or so we hope, who seek for light.

But then, behold how darkness spread,
And evil was, with cunning, wed.
And still their offspring brings us woe.
So who is friend and who is foe?

I wish I knew the answers, but
I am myself within a rut.
And so I now should go to sleep,
And hope it will be long and deep.

2017 April 14th, Thu, 3:08 am
Brooklyn, New York 
   

I Wrote Me a Song

I Wrote Me a Song

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154543106580950

I wrote me a song in a minute or ten.
I don't know the why and I don't know the when.
It came to my mind and it came to my pen,
And I wrote out those verses for women and men.

I wrote me a song in a minute or two.
She asked me to write it—I don't know who.
I wrote it for her and I wrote it for you.
I wrote it because that's just what I do.

Was there a reason for writing that song?
Did I wish to set right what was clearly so wrong?
You can pick your own reason, and argue it strong.
But I hadn't a reason. I just wrote me a song.

2017 April 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154543106580950