Basics

Basics

 
Give me a man of a simple sort,
With an open heart and mind,
Who is free of schemes and of meaner thoughts,
With a soul that is pure and kind—

 
For he’ll gladden my heart and cleanse my soul

And turn me away from sin.
And this is true for a woman too 
In every land that I’m in.

 
We live in a world that is full of woes
That are born out of greed and hate,
So we need such men and such women too,
Before it is far too late.

******

 
Where caring and courage both are alive—
There, I will send my heart.
Where one or both have disappeared,
From there, we should all depart.

 

****** 

But if we are stuck in a land we loved
That is blighted by hate and fear,
We should think of the men and women—those 
Who had made it so special and dear.

 
I bow to the man of a simple sort
And a woman, too, of the kind—
For they are the salt of the earth—the best
That I ever could hope to find.

I will not ask of their tongue or faith

Or the land in which they were born,

Except to bond and to hear and talk

With a heart that is free of scorn.

 

2025, April 20th, Sun.
Berkeley, California 
 

Grace and Strength

 
Grace and Strength

The rogues and rascals rise and rule.
Some cheer—as others weep.
Some say, “It's always been this way.”
Some search for reasons deep,
And others say that might is right—
And so enjoy their sleep.

We watch the scenes, on TV screens, 
Of horrors far away,
And wonder when these things will end—
And lo—it’s break of day—
But not the dawn of hope that brings
The peace for which we pray.

And here, and where I first saw light,
The time for polls is close.
Some lead the others by a mile
And others by a nose.
But whom to choose, among the rogues,
Is something no one knows,

Who’s taken time to see, to read—
To delve a little deep.
The more we learn, the worse we feel,
The more we’d like to weep!
But never fear—and persevere—
Until the final sleep!

For every three steps forwards, there
Are two steps back again.
And so we struggle now, as did
The ones who struggled when
The generations past had fought 
Their battles—but in Zen—

For when we lose that inner sight,
We also lose our way,
And so are led where rascals lead 
Us—more and more astray.
Inhale, exhale, and smile to greet—
The grace and strength of day.

2024 March 27th, Wed.
Berkeley, California 

Kon xubhagge-কোন শুভাগ্যে

 
কোন শুভাগ্যে?

ভোরের আলোয় জ্বলছে দেখি 
পাতায় শিশির ফোঁটা—
শিশুর চোখে আলো যেমন, 
ছোট্ট মুখে হাসি।

এই জগতের ঝড়ের মাঝে 
যতই বাড়ে কাল, 
বৃদ্ধ চোখে এসব দেখে, 
বুকে জাগে বাঁশি।

ছোট্ট পাখির ডাক শুনি গো, 
শুনি বর্ষা, হাওয়া। 
দিনে দেখি রঙের খেলা, 
রাতে অন্ধকার।

মনে আসে রাজস্থানের 
রাতের লক্ষ তারা। 
কোন সুভাগ্যে, পিঁপড়ে হয়েও, 
এমন অধিকার?

 মঙ্গলবার, ১৯ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Ektuku Sneho-একটুকু স্নেহ+A Little Bit of Love

একটুকু স্নেহ

এই জগতে কত জীবের কত দুঃখ, সুখ।
তারি মাঝে রাখি মনে কেবল কটা মুখ।
জীবন পথে যাদের সাথে হেঁটেছি কিছুদিন,
যাদের থেকে নিয়েছি, আছে বাকি কিছু ঋণ, 
দূরের থেকে দেখি, তারা একে একে যায়,
পাওনা কিছু ফেরত দিতে পারি না যে, হায়!
খালি ভাবি, অন্যদের দিয়ে যাবো, তাই,
একটুকু স্নেহ আর সহায়তা, ভাই।

রবিবার, ১৪ই জুন, ২০২০ খ্রি, 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

A Little Bit of Love

How many beings, with their sorrows, joys,
That come and go in this, our universe!
Of all the faces, there are just a few
I've kept within my mind—the ones with whom
I’ve walked a treasured mile—and those I owe 
A gift of labor or an action kind.
From far away, I see that one by one
They leave—and yet my debts remain unpaid.
And so, before I go, I'd like to give
Some others too a little bit of help—
And from my heart a little bit of love.

2020, June 14, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day

Love's Labor Lost?
(Broverbs for Valentine's Day)
    
We can sit and scribe our verses
From now until we die,
But who, if asked to read them,
Will find a reason why?
 
We can sow our seeds of wisdom--
And weep, that all our toil
Was wasted, since the seedings
Were all on barren soil.
 
We can spend our waking lifetimes
In struggles, pay the cost
From what we left neglected,
Yet see our labors lost.
 
We can teach and we can nurture;
We can fuss, as carers must.
We can build, with patience, structures--
And see them turn to dust.
  
****** 
  
So when we're in the twilight,
With darkness drawing near,
We then might slow from slaving
And pause to shed a tear.
  
But then it's time to wipe it
And wistfully to smile,
For if, with heart, we labored,
It was surely worth our while.
 
And if some satisfaction,
Some pleasure in the task,
For a year or for an instant,
Was ours--what's left to ask?
 
Let's leave what's past to others,
And what's to come to fate.
The present time is precious
And not for waste in hate.
  
****** 
  
There's joy in our creations,
However small they be.
We bring them through gestations
And then we set them free.
 
Like children, they may flourish.
Like seedlings, they may die.
How many are our hatchlings--
How few will live to fly?
 
We seek for recognition.
A smidgen should suffice.
We warm our hands with praises--
For soon, we'll meet with ice.
  
Our children may be stolen.
With broken hearts, we cry.
But if we know they're tended,
With souls content, we die.
  
******
  
We labor for the joy of it.
We labor for our bread.
We labor for the smile we get,
From duty and from dread.
  
And when we shirk our labor,
We're often in torment.
Some say they live for pleasure,
Yet rarely are content.
  
Our lives are often muddles.
What hubris, then, to say
It's pleasure, love or duty
Or work that clears the way.
 
We can live for just this instant;
We can live for what we lost;
We can live to build the future.
In each, there's always cost.
  
******
 
And those, who're truly humble,
Of their virtues, might be proud,
But equally, of those failings
That they rarely speak of loud.
 
For those, who see no failings
In themselves, are surely blind,
And those, who see them clearest,
Are souls of deepest mind.
 
A vice that's partly conquered
Is like a foe defeated;
It's best to leave it extant,
Lest hubris be repeated.
  
The greatest pride of humans,
We're told, is that of pride.
Yet pride, in honest labor,
Is a lion each can ride.

****** 
 
In all things, there's a balance;
There's yang that waits in yin.
Too little--and we're tortured;
Too much--and we're in sin.
    
What's savored best at leisure
Is rarely sensed in haste.
Who never knows of hunger,
Can scarcely know of taste.

So too, a length of failure
Lends flavor to success.
And each is best, not scanty
But neither in excess.
   
Let's take what we are given--
And that, with gratitude.
Why pine for what was owed us?
We owe, in plenitude.
 
2016 February 14th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

How Beautiful—III

 

How Beautiful—III

 

How beautiful this world is,

in which we chance to live—

the blues and greens of sky and plants,

the warmer hues of earth,

the flowers dancing in the breeze,

the wondrous forms of beasts,

the sounds of water and of air—

the tinkle, rustle, swoosh,

the drumming of the raindrops,

the roars of waves and storms,

the scents of rose and jasmine,

of fruits and musks and earth,

the light that’s always changing—

the wonder of the dawn,

the clouds that soar and tumble,

the brilliance of noon,

the starry skies of midnight,

the phases of the moon…

******

I have heard the children laughing,

I have watched the puppies play.

I have seen the mother smiling

at the infant she had borne.

I have seen the sad, the evil,

the horrors of this world.

and yet, when I’m despairing,

I see its wonder still.

 

And so, when I’m departing,

despite the pain I’ve borne,

I’ll leave this place in gratitude,

and bless the ones that live.

To those who have departed

and those who're still unborn,

I'll send my silent greetings,

before I leave this world.

2014 September 24th, Thu.

(last 4 stanzas added Oct 3rd, Sat., along

with lines 4 to 7 from end of 1st stanza)

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Two earlier poems with the same title:

 *   How Beautiful—II  

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/how-beautiful-ii.html )

 *   How Beautiful    

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2012/12/how-beautiful.html )    

    

What Workers Built

    
What Workers Built

While walking home from work today, I saw
the roads and sidewalks, elevated rails,
the houses – and the rows and rows of trees.

And all of these were silent, mute and still,
and yet it seemed they quietly spoke to me.

For as I walked, in end-of-day fatigue,
I thought of those who’d worked their days like me…

The city’s workers built those asphalt roads,
those concrete sidewalks and those iron rails –
and all the drains beneath, the workers laid.

And houses then were built, on vacant lots,
by other workers, in their many trades.

And yet more workers planted rows of trees –
so ravaged, ‘prisoned earth could yield again
its balm of grace to salve demented souls…

And those, insane, like I – and you, perhaps –
who dwell in cities, feeding off its veins,
while laboring to feed its grinding mills –
can walk these city streets, at end of day,
with gratitude – or not – to those before,
who built those things – and even planted trees,
so from our madness we could pause – and sense
there still is sanity and beauty left…

2014 May 29th, Thu. 8:21 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

The Touch of the Rain

The Touch of the Rain

I walked in a gossamer springtime rain,
As much of a mist as a drizzle.
The sky was gray and the sun had set
But my heart, it was lit like the day.

The bark of the tree, it was glistening dark,
And its branches were flung to the sky as it prayed.
The rain of the spring, it was gentling the tree,
That was waiting for warmth for its buds to spring free.

I'd stepped from the schoolhouse and into the street,
And the air, it was chill as I bundled myself.
But the touch of the rain, it was gentle and sweet,
Like the lips of a lover, in tenderness met.

There's grief for the ones that we loved, who are gone,
There's sorrow we carry for things left undone,
There are tensions and worries we all have to bear,
But then there's the kiss of the rain in the spring.

I walked in the fine, thin springtime rain,
And all of the worry and sorrow I'd borne
Was lifted away by the touch of the rain,
And just for a moment, the grief.

I'd worked through the day in the school till the eve,
And my being was worn to a frazzle.
But that touch of the rain, like the grace to a soul
Of a sinner, was granted today.

2014 April 4th, Fri, 8:45 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  
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Recent posts related to spring:  Signs of Spring (March 30), We Call for Spring (March 9)

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Walking Home

  
Walking Home
    
The trees, now skeletal, with snow-draped limbs,
Are reaching towards a darkest-violet sky.
And in that sky, the moon is shining full,
With Jupiter, resplendent, by her side.

When all the madness of the day is done
And I am walking home in deep fatigue,
I see these wondrous things and then am touched
By that which gives me just a bit of peace.

How many, as they travel homeward, see
The trees, the sky with clouds and moon and stars,
And so return, for just a little while,
To that which was – and will for longer be…

If only those like me could call aloud
Or silently, to others, “Do desist!
For what you do is madness.  Stop and be.”
But all we do instead is breathe awhile.

I wonder, if the city’s lights were dimmed,
Would zombies wake and then, in reverence,
Beneath the deep, return to life again,
Or would they, fearing looters, reach for guns?

Let’s leave them be.  Come walk awhile with me.
No words are needed – just the sky, the trees,
That shining moon, that planet jewel-bright.
Who still needs more, let them demented be.

2013 December 18th, Wed.  8:26 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Encounter–II--A Little Bit of Rice

                                
Encounter – II  /  A Little Bit of Rice
                               
I was wandering in the country, when I met an aged man.
And it seemed that he was starving, so I offered him some rice.
He sat down then to eat it, and he ate it very slowly.
Each grain of rice, he savored, as he put it in his mouth.

I watched him as he sat there, but I felt that I would cry,
So I moved away and circled – and when I had returned,
I saw that he had eaten only part of what I'd given,
Which itself was but a smidgen, as I hadn't much myself.

And I saw that he was wrapping, in a leaf, what he had left.
So I asked him, was he saving it for eating later or
Was there someone, who was waiting, whom he'd saved a portion for.

But he only smiled and nodded, for his language wasn't mine,
And I watched him as he hobbled down a dusty country path.

I was hungry, so I settled down and ate my rice myself,
With a bit of precious lentils that I'd salted – and a pickle.

And I felt that I was guilty as I'd only given rice
To that aged man who seemed not to have eaten for a while.
And as I sat there eating, I remembered still his smile.

I sipped then on the water, that I'd carried in a bottle,
And I rose and walked to westwards, towards a village that I knew.
And I saw the sun was sinking – and my heart was sinking too.
For the stores I had were dwindling – and my stores by then were few.

But that aged man was walking, as I walked, within my mind.
And I saw that he was smiling, for that little bit of rice.

2013 November 4th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Some Earlier Encounters

The Teacher -- 2013 Sep

Encounter -- 2013 July

Strange Encounter -- II -- 2011 Nov

The Watcher -- 2006 Sep

Strange Encounter -- 2006 April
   
       

The Trees that Stand

 
The Trees that Stand

How beauteous is a tree that stands against the sunset sky,
With all its limbs outspread – and topmost branches reaching high...
And when the morning sun is seen, that tree is standing still,
As sunlight catches dew-wet leaves – while hearts, with hymnals, fill.

Its grace and balance can't be matched by those who walk and run,
For it must stand as seasons pass and draw its strength from sun.
In stormy winds and pouring rains, in droughts and blizzards too,
It still must stand, where we would flee, as those, who're like us, do.

It happens that we're walking in the mist – and then we see,
Appearing, in that whiteness, with its darkened limbs – a tree!
And though at first we're frightened by its hugeness, we perceive
It holds for us no danger – and, in gratitude, we leave.

But when the sky is clouded and the rain begins to fall,
Then birds and beasts take shelter with the trees, and so do all
Who wander in the open and from nature's wrath must flee.
And in the tropic noontime, these find shade beneath a tree.

We come and go, the trees persist for generations more.
And some are standing still, that stood and silent witness bore
To all those things we've read about in sutras or in bibles,
Or even when it's claimed the gods we worship battled rivals.

And though they're strong as edifices that we humans build,
In elegance they stand – and are, with Nature's beauty, filled...
And though, at times, they're clothed in leaves that flutter in the breezes,
And at other times are standing nude, their structure always pleases.

And so, against the sky at dusk, with all its changing hue,
A tree may stand and be as one – and human faith renew...
And when the dawn lights up the sky, the tree is standing there,
To greet the rising sun – and those, whose eyes, that witness bear.

2013 August-end & September14th, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park and at home, Brooklyn
  

Rites of Passage / Vespertinal

  
Rites of Passage / Vespertinal
  
The seven-horse chariot's done its daily beat; 
And over there, where sky and earth commune,
The evening star sheds limpid, icy fire 
Against a cyclorama amber-blue.
  
A breeze from west, gently insistent, blows 
Streamers of sand off crests of velvet dunes, 
Whispering reminder, prickly on the soul: 
The intimation of a threshold passed.

Through dim and misty distances in time
Loom memories of dreams that went unlived; 
Of songs unsung, of feelings unrevealed; 
Of deeds not done, of promises unkept; 

Of cheery smiles received and not returned; 
Of leaps of faith across uncharted streams 
Landing in quicksand, and being helped from there 
By waiting arms that never stayed for thanks.

And as the canvas is daubed more and more, 
The tints turn muddy, chiaroscuro fades 
To shades of grey, darkly illumined from 
The tunnel's end, a weary age away.

Threescore-and-ten was granted, half is spent. 
What rests is but a half-life of decay, 
Of keeping count of acts, noble and base, 
At every rite of passage on the way. 

Vivek  Khadpekar 
Osian, Thar Desert, Rajasthan
and Benares (Varanasi)
India, 1988/89 
 
By the same author:  Midnight

In Bensonhurst Park (Benso`nharst' Parke)

  
In Bensonhurst Park

An afternoon in August, with the temperature still high –
And yet, in the slanting light, a sign that fall will soon be here...
We had so little rain, the trees were parched throughout July,
But now, with rainy nights, those trees, in fresh-washed greens, appear.

The air is clean, the sky is blue, with cirrus high above.
The greens of trees are lit by soft and slanting golden sun.
So summer ends and autumn nears – with time enough for love,
But not for those like us, who spend their lifetimes on the run.

I've walked the city streets to sit awhile amidst the green,
To watch the elders play at chess and chat beneath the trees,
To see the mothers with their kids, to breathe awhile, serene.
With gratitude for all a slave, for a precious instant, frees.

I wonder who designed this park, who built the promenade,
The circle green where ball hits bat, the courts where children play,
Who planted then the stately trees that cast their dappled shade,
Who tended saplings as they grew, who tends to all today...

I know the answers may be found, by those who persevere,
But I shall leave that work to you, and idly sit awhile.
I'll watch the little parrots wheel, as fall is drawing near...
In winter, when they all have left, remembering them, I'll smile...

2013 August 23rd, Fri. afternoon,
by the flagpole at the upper level of Bensonhurst Park,
near Cropsey Avenue & 21st Avenue,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Benso`nharst' Parke

Grixxer xexe, O`gast-maxe, xo`horer fut'path marie,
xobuj parke exe boxechi ami, haoae jibon jurie.
Julair go`rome ekhankar gachgulo xukie gechilo prae.
Aj dekhi, rater brixt'ite snan kore darie ache, xobuj, xundor.

Nil akaxe, u~cute, kichu megh, aloe ujjo`l.
Xonali-rodre-choa xobuj patagulo dulche haoae.
Kichu din bade, din chot'o ho`be, pata xukie porbe to`khon.
Xuru ho`be abar sromiker o`xex khat'ni, pagol chot'a-chut'i.

Aj exechi ei parke, boxe dekchi xo`bar axa-jaoa.
Bur'ora, gacher chaeae, bencite boxe daba khelche.
Bolche, ko`to kichu go`lpo, purono dexer ko`tha...
Maera, baccader pre`m t'hele ber'ieche bikele...

E-xo`ber jonno, ei modhur alo-haoa-chaya pe-e,
krito`ggo ami.  Je`no muhurter khalax, bondir...
Bhabi – kar matha theke jonmechilo ei parkt'a,
kar khat'nir dorun toiri, ke koreche de`kha-xona?

E-xo`ber uttor ache jani – khujle paoa jabe.
Aj ami, ekhane aloxe boxe, tomader ei prosnogulo dilam.
Dekhchi – chot't'o t'ia-pakhir do`l, akaxe anonde ghurche...
Xit ele cole jabe ora – roibe to`be, ei manuxer mone...

bikel-be`la, Xukrubar, 23-e O`gast, 2013 kri.
Bensonharst Parker opor to`lae, fle`g-poler paxe,
Kro`psi e`bheniu ar 21-e e`bhiniur kache,
Benso`nharst', Bruklin

Company

Company

I have dusted shelves and tables,
I have swept and mopped the floors.
I have cleared away the cobwebs
On the ceiling, by the doors.

I have cleaned the greasy kitchen.
And the bathroom, how it shines...
I've cooked and set the table,
Lit the candles, opened wines...

But the guest that I've awaited
Hasn't rung the doorbell yet.
I've been feeling rather anxious...
It is late... Did she forget?

But the place is looking better
Than it's been, for quite a while...
And I've company for dinner –
A little roach, at whom I smile...

2013 July 4th, Thurs.
Brooklyn
--------------------------------------------------------------------- 
 Note:  This may have been sparked by a
recollection of a poem by Robi Thakur
(Rabindranath Tagore), in which the poet
writes of waiting for his guest, in a room 
that has been swept clean in expectation.

This was probably meant to be an allegory,
with the sweeping of the room representing
the clearing out of clutter and distractions
from the body-mind-soul, and the guest
being none other than the Divine. Of course,
all that the poet can do is wait for that guest,
who may or may not come...

Attempting, perhaps, to recast this dimly
remembered piece (perhaps from Tagore's
Gitanjali) in a modern, urban context, I was
led, by the vagaries and dictates of rhyme and
meter, to candles and wines, neither of which
have ever been part of my dinner preparations...

And into that inner realm there came also that
little being that, for all I know, is as connected
to the divine as any other... and so may be as
good a stand-in as any other for that uncertain
guest...

How Wondrous

How Wondrous

How wondrous is a living tree,
Resplendent in its leaves...
In summertime, it spreads its shade
And from that sun relieves,
On which it feeds, eschewing what
We animals must do,
Devouring naught that lives, unlike
The likes of me and you...

How beauteous, a living tree,
With branches spreading high...
How varied are its greens, when lit
By light of laughing sky...
How sweet, the scent of blooms, to those,
Who pass by it in spring...
How succulent, its fruits, for those,
Who light on it on wing...

How beauteous, the tree remains,
When standing in the nude...
How sensuous and strong, those limbs
In frozen interlude...
How poignant is the tree in death,
Majestic as it falls...
And even when it's dead, it speaks,
As little bird that calls...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Returning Home + Bradley's Way

Returning Home

How peaceful are the shades of blue above,
With streaks of white that arc across the deep...
How glorious, the greens in slanting sun,
How restful, those in shadows cool below...
How comforting, the reds and browns of bricks...
The city seems at peace as sunset comes...

And soon enough, it will be dark again,
As blues give way to indigos and blacks.
And far from city lights, a villager
Will see, afar, the myriad burning suns...

How beautiful, this world, in which we are,
How wonderful, this fleeting chance to see...

Returning home, from frenzied place of work,
With no one home, to whom to hurry to,
A little time is found, for breathing free,
A little time, to lift the head and see,
Remembering the ones that are no more,
With sorrow – yet with gratitude to be...

2013, June 4th Tue.
Brooklyn  
---------------------------------------------------------------
 
Bradley's Way

How peaceful seem those shades of blue above,
Until they see those streaks of white appear,
Those villagers, who scatter if they can,
Who seek the shadows where the elders hide,
Uncomforted.  And then, the dreaded blasts
That shred the children, who were on their way...

How further, this pretense that cannot last,
This city, driven wild by Mammon's lust,
Where children go to school to be the tools
Of those that wage those wars that have no end?

And in those growing children's eyes, we see
The kindled fires of that insanity...

And when will soldiers sent abroad return,
And those, that fly the drones, from horrors, turn,
To see, with eyes renewed, the sky, the trees,
To watch their elders and the setting sun,
To lift their children in their arms and say,
“No more of sin. We walk on Bradley's way.”?

June 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn

Trees--Part I--Deciduous Trees in Spring

Trees – Part I

(Deciduous Trees in Spring)

How varied are the leaves of roadside trees
That grace this city that is hard and bleak,
Lending softness, soothing urban eyes,
Recalling sylvan past to memory...

Their sizes range from tiniest to large,
Their shapes, from feathery to boldly splayed,
With concave polygons and fractal forms –
And quite distinct from conifer and grass.

For planted here are mostly “broad-leaved” trees,
Whose unprotected leaves, in wintry climes,
Are shed in fall and then return in spring –
With hues, in seasons both, inspiring rhymes.

******
 
And now, the shades of green are darkening,
With some still light, as was the tender growth.
And yellow flames are seen in canopies
And shades of red in maples and in plums.

How wondrous are the colors of a spring
That deepen as the summer sun arcs high
And ripen into riot of the fall –
That's swept away as winter's broom clears all.

And here, amidst the ever-changing forms
Of trees deciduous, conifers maintain
A somber dignity, as adults may
As all around them children run and play.

******
 
How many kinds of life can coexist –
And even trees are manifold in form.
And yet, the madnesses we suffer from
Insist that all, to single mode, conform.

So I, who daily walk upon the streets –
And when returning home have time to see,
May owe my remnant sanity to these,
The motley trees, content to simply be.

By humans chosen, planted in their rows,
Unbalanced, stunted by our savage saws,
They still regain their balance and their grace – 
And though they're hemmed, grow wild and beautiful.

2013 May 18th Sat.(1st 6 stanzas) & 23rd Thu. (last 3)
Brooklyn, New York
Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >
  

Blessing II

Blessing II

It's May and it has rained – and Brooklyn's green.
I'm walking now, with grasses growing lush
On either side of walkway – and with trees
That stretch and soar and arch in foliage.

How tender is the green – of grass and trees,
With leaves fresh-washed by storm that thundered by.
As evening comes, the air is still, the streets
Are silent, till a car comes swooshing by.

How rarely, in the hustle of the city –
That Mammon's workers built, in which we live
And work at speed to feed His appetites –
How rarely are we blessed with moment's peace?

And so I'm filled with gratitude for this,
This grace that gives me pause to breathe at ease...
How many more have sensed this evening's calm,
And so give thanks for blessing of release?

2013 May 11th, Sat., Brooklyn, New York
– at  the park I just found between 66th & 67th Streets
and between 8th Avenue & Fort Hamilton Parkway.

******
 

This park is part of a long, narrow stretch of green, cut

through by some of the Avenues that run roughly north-

south. The stretch starts between 4th and 5th Avenues and

runs south-eastwards to F. H. Pkwy. I believe this strip is

called Leif Ericson Park, at least at the northwestern end.

I lived right by that end for a year, at 66th Street and 4th

Avenue, when I first started working and living in Brooklyn

in 1987. It has taken me 26 years to discover the south-eastern

end.

Leif Ericson (Leiv Eriksson) was the leader of a Norse

expedition to North America. He allegedly landed on this

continent many hundreds of years before the Italian Christoforo

Colombo, financed by the Spanish Queen, reached the islands

of the Caribbean, with his crew of southern Europeans and possibly

Moors.

The area where Leif Ericson's statue now stands – and where his

park commences -- was once populated by Scandinavian and Dutch

immigrants, some of whose descendants are still to be found in the

area known as Bay Ridge at Brooklyn's southwestern tip.