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 

  

More About Sex--Playing Coy--Buns, Bosoms and Hair

More About Sex / Playing Coy / Buns, Bosoms and Hair
                           
When my mind was near-exhausted, and my body was fatigued,
I then paused to write some verses, which, of all my torpor, reeked. 
I figured that, with “I” collapsing, Mistress Muse herself might flow
And in my lines, her form of beauty, quite bereft of clothing, show.

Alas, although I write this line as “I” is past collapsing,
I see no trace of her who should, to nudity, be lapsing.    
So I should end this poem now, if you permit that name for it,
And since Ms. Muse is playing coy, I might perhaps take blame for it.

But ending, at the proper times,
My verses, with their pounding rhymes,
Has never been my strongest point.
In this, I tend to disappoint.

So dear Ms. Muse, who’s playing coy,
Your presence, we would all enjoy,
Especially if (Am I being rude?),
You’d sing your songs while in the nude.

Aha!  She’s scolding!  Could it be,
Ms. Muse, herself, yes even she,
In matters that she deems as rude,
Is much inclined to be a prude?

But now I hear a woman’s speech,
A mortal, who presumes to teach
Another mortal, me, the manners
Requisite, displayed in banners.

“Men are low!”  the banners cry,
“We wonder why they do not die!
It’s time we stop from doing jobs
That we have done for those nabobs!”

And those assembled, women all,
With voices loud, for justice call.
Their slogans they repeat, and chorus,
“Men are vile – and worse, they bore us!”

And one by one, they raise complaints,
Reminding men of all their taints.
And singly, or in groups, they rise
And sing of men who aren’t wise.

“They do not see our faces, eyes,
And while they’re spouting out their lies,
They only look for boob and tushy,
Favoring regions round and cushy.

“A man-child sucks upon a nipple,
And some, when older, seek to tipple.
But all men crave, till end, to suckle,
Seeking bosoms till they buckle.

“They find no use for grace or mind.
They fasten on to bust, behind.
Some see our legs -- but then raise eyes
To see what else, between them, lies!

“To call them human is a stretch.
At best, they serve to fix and fetch.
And yet, it’s we who serve as donkeys
For these dimwit, hairy monkeys!

And some shout, “Down with men who’re rapists!”
I applaud, but “Those, who’re apish,
Should be slaughtered!”  I demur at,
Fearing we may all incur that.

The orator, beneath the signs,
For silence, in her hauteur, signs.
“It’s women who should rule this world.
And men should be, in gutters, hurled!

“We women, we have slaved for long,
Before we ever wore a thong,
Before we even dreamed of knickers,
Baring bottoms, hearing snickers…

“Long before our brassieres
Competed with our derrieres,
We have slaved for men, although
We’re better – as we all should know.

“We’re the ones with babes to bear.
The stallion mounts upon the mare
And then departs.   He satisfies
His lust -- and duties then denies.

“And men!   They have this tendency,
In matters sexual, to be
So crass, that we, the better sexed,
Do wonder why we still are vexed.

“For men are simply beings low,
Whose bestial cravings clearly show.
It’s time we put them in their place,
Perhaps in a subhuman race.”

And then I heard a group of nuns,
In habits, with protruding buns,
Proclaim, while rocking their behinds,
“These thoughts have long been on our minds!”

They stomped their feet and wiggled buns,
This group of callipygian nuns.
And slapping then their hips, they cried,
“We nuns have things unchaste decried!

“It’s time that we establish rules
With which to deal with men, who’re fools
In matters that are delicate,
More so, for those who’re celibate.”

And all of the assembled crowd,
Said lustily, in voices loud,
“It’s time for us to end their jigs!
For men are either dogs or pigs!”

On hearing this, I was perplexed.
Are women so, by mankind, vexed?
No wonder then that Mistress Muse,
My pleas, has chosen to refuse!

And thinking then of hounds I’d known
And boars I’d glimpsed (alas, unknown),
I wondered if we men should smile,
For dogs and pigs are not so vile…

I’d started on my verse, collapsing,
Into doggerel, relapsing.
And all that mostly came to mind
Were glimpses, past, of round behinds…

And then, as twin reflections, those,
That on pubescent torsos rose,
So’s to balance rear attractions,
Creating thus, in mankind, factions…

But though a woman’s form was fair,
At center was her best affair,
That called to men through several senses,
 When women used to air their menses…

But now, alas, a woman’s draped,
With fears, when nude, of being raped.
And some, who see them as possessions,
This covering up, they take as missions.

And so, perhaps they have it right,
These women.   Men -- they aren’t bright.
The things they crave, they try to hide,
While seeking eyefuls on the side.

But charms, when hidden from the light,
May cease, in time, to give delight.
For Nature meant for parts with hair
Access to healing light and air…

But see, by writing vapid verses, being then by buns accosted,
We men can still remain awake, even when we’re quite exhausted. 
And though Athena stays aloof, Aphrodite takes her place,
For she delights in showing us the teasing parts below her face.

And if, at this, some women sniff, while others frown or even glower,
And some advise that versifiers take, perhaps, a freezing shower,
I declare, that while collapsing, seeking bare Athena’s song,
I encountered, in my musings, Aphrodite, sans her thong.

2013  November 25th, Mon.
(with some stanzas added Nov. 27th, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

All About Sex

    
All About Sex

Flirtations, romances and flowers and hearts,
The nuances, flavors, of amorous arts –
If all of these bore you, then let me remind you,
They really are all about sex.

Now I've got your attention, be you woman or man,
As anything sexual, said flippantly, can,
For where Venus is present, in the past or the present
Or future, she beckons – it's sex.

And the sexes may differ, but in this, they're the same –
They spring to attention at the touch of that flame,
Be they young or much older, be they timid or bolder –
At the touch of the flame that is sex.

But the arts of arousal, for the sexes, diverge,
As they each have their senses that urge.
For the men, it is vision, despite the derision
Of women – who're also for sex.

But they much prefer hearing, through feminine ears,
The words that arouse them and chase away fears.
And some may be fooled, but the others have ruled
That a man has to pay for his sex.

And it isn't a dollar, or ruble or yen,
Which may be a lot for the stingiest men.
It's a life that is asked for, and that's how it's paid for.
And now, you've learned all – about sex.

******
                 
But the women, on hearing this nonsense, may yell,
“There's more to that thing than you've ventured to tell!
Or could it be this – ”  and the women now hiss –
“that you don't know a thing about sex?

“For the men may spring up – it's just one of their acts.
And parts of us do – but we mostly relax.
And there's sight and there's hearing, but there's also that nearing,
There's touch and there's scent – and there's sex!

“For the men may be thinking that the males are the studs,
But in matters that matter, the truth is – they're duds!
For though they have feared us and though they've repressed us,
It is we who know more about sex.

“For what we relinquished, as patriarchs ruled,
And women, as sexless, were drilled and were schooled,
Is our rightful domain, and will always remain
That of women – the realm that is sex!”

And the men, who were silent, at the thought of the dollar,
Now in finding their voices, may join in, to holler,
“We're tired of this crap, from this prancing old chap,
For what does he know – about sex?

“For it's sex that we've wanted, since reaching our teens.
And though, oh too often, we hadn't the means,
Since our teens, we've been surging, and so we are urging,
That you stop all this talk about sex!”

******
        
So the men and the women, in this, are united,
That I tamp down the flame I ignited.
But though it is rude to be publicly lewd,
I wish I could dwell more on sex.

For I'm told by my spies that they have detected
A tower or missile that Mars has erected,
And they tell me there's moisture where Venus has pasture,
Yet it's time to put end to this sex.

But I'd opened a window – and if I now close it,
To whom will you bring the deposit?
But I can't be a banker to every dear wanker,
Though I've led you along with the sex.

And if some would be arcing and seeking release,
I wish there were ways, by which I could please,
But others, more "moral", are giving me oral
Instructions to cease with the sex.
   
So alas, it is time, because they all urge it,
To zip up the verse.  If I'm leaving you turgid
On reading this ditty, then it's really a pity,
But I'll leave you alone with your sex.

And I also should say, as I bid you goodbye,
That I'm sorry that I cannot lie.
If you think I've been rude, because I've been crude,
Remember, it's all about sex.

2013 November 11th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

The Puzzle

The Puzzle

She asked him why he left her, but he never did reply.
So she was left to figure out the real reason why.
And though the years have come and gone, that puzzle still remains,
That never will be solved by her, whose time has come to die.

How many years, how many years, of asking for the reason...
How many tears, how many tears, on day and month of season,
The day and month on which he left, as autumn then was ending...
And still she pays, as ending nears, the price for lover's treason....

How lightly men may leave the maidens whom they courted, won...
How sadly ends the dalliance so happily begun...
How deep the wound that rarely heals, though time attempts its cure,
How strange that some have hearts with space for one -- and only one.

How many pitfalls life may lay upon a mortal's way,
How many traps that snare the one who stops from saying, "Nay."
How many mothers warn their girls, who yet succumb to love,
How many men, who leave the maid, with whom they've had their way...

When she was young, she tried, in vain, to youthful heart defend.
Now death approaches and she nears her tortuous journey's end.
We wonder if she'll ever have a chance to live again,
And in that life, for errors past, another will amend.

2013 September 18th, Wed.
Brooklyn
 

The Husband's Creed

  
The Husband's Creed
       
 Let me leave you here, my dear,
For just a little while.
And when I'm back, I'd like to see
A dinner and a smile.

An hour or two, perhaps a day,
A month or more, maybe...
How do I know, don't ask me more.
To tasks of household, see.

The duties of a wife, you know –
And that is all you need.
I will provide you wherewithal,
With which to children feed.

But do not ask me what I do
When I step out that door.
With what I say, be satisfied –
And do not ask me more.

I am a man – and men have needs,
As you, perhaps, were told.
Let that suffice.  Let those, who serve,
Refrain from questions bold.

So let me leave you here, my dear.
I'm sure you've work to do –
And I have mine.  We're married now
And I'll be watching you.
   
2013 July 21st, Sun.
Brooklyn
   

Remembering / Infidelities

Remembering / Infidelities
  
The pigeons, having courted, hatched their eggs,
Are busy feeding their insistent young,
And so are little birds that dart from trees,
Whose limbs are now with verdant vestments hung.

But beasts are blessed and cursed with memory –
And they can see the future too at times.
And so, while still in summer's hot embrace,
I lie with other seasons in my rhymes...

While walking underneath a brilliant sun,
As summer spreads its spell of warmth and light,
I still remember well the spring, the fall,
The winter's cold – the dark of longest night...

******

For summer's end, by orbit is ordained,
As every day the sun goes slowly south.
And this is known to birds as well as men –
With winter's breath on twig in sparrow's mouth...

The seasons dance in circles 'round and 'round,
And each has qualities that are its own.
In winter, I will walk this street again,
Remembering the summers I have known...

******
 
It's said that men are polygamous, while
The women are a monogamous lot.
I doubt that this is true, but then I smile,
Remembering I've stirred proverbial pot...

For though I have been faithful to my spouse,
As much, perhaps, by circumstance as will,
I still have lain in every season's bed,
And striven, there, to comic roles fulfill.

And since I then retained those memories,
I once recited verses in my sleep.
And those, who heard, then looked at me in doubt,
As all my secrets they could share – or keep.

2013 July 14th, 5:30 pm–6:30 pm
(walking on Bath & Benson Avenues
between 18th & 19th Avenues – and 
seated at the Guatemalan diner at 
the corner of Benson & 18th)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving


Let's give our thanks to spirits dispossessed
Of bodies and of their ancestral lands.
When they had minds to think, they never thought
They owned the prairies or the shifting sands...
But they were linked to that, which gave them birth –
The sky, the sea and this maternal earth...

The turkey gobbles, then we gobble it.
But men give thanks to that paternal god
That let the slaughter last in Jericho
And gave, to “cleansings” past and now, the nod.
Oh Yahweh-Allah, when addressed as Bohg
Or Deus, you remain the selfsame rogue!

******

We saw the Pujas come and go and there
We worshiped Durga with our pageantry.
And those, who'd drunk of bhang, at riverside
Did whirl and dance, of all their worries free...
We saw her slide into the waters dark –
And heard the dogs, that feed on corpses, bark...

But see, some worship still the buffalo-god,
Who's now the demon that our Durga slays,
Resplendent, fierce, upon her lion-steed
That bites the dying “demon” as he lays
His body, pierced by Durga's thrusting lance,
Upon that ground, on which her peasants dance...

******

The Lord of Dance lies comatose on earth
As Kali strides upon his ashen chest.
So Shakti rides on Shiva, who's prostrate,
As woman lays man's mortal myth  to rest.
So male is vanquished – and we suffer woes,
As “yes” of past is turned to echoed “no's”...

How bright, the threads that such as Gotam' wove,
How dark, the ones that these have overgrown!
How much of blood did Aztecs give to gods
Before they were, by fortune, overthrown!
We hear the medicine man, who stomps and wails...
The didgeridoo replies – as reason fails...

sjanah@aol.com
2012 November 22nd, Thurs.
(Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.A.)
Brooklyn