Orphan-2025-02-18

Orphan
 
I heard a distant wailing,
A moaning from afar.
I found an orphan crying,
Abandoned, in a war.

I found an orphan crying—
A little child, alone.
The sound was of a sobbing—
And then, at times, a moan.

I had heard a distant wailing,
A moaning from afar.
I had found an orphan crying, 
In the carnage of a war.

******

I went up to the orphan.
She looked at me in fright.
I bent to lift the orphan
As the daylight ebbed to night.

I lifted up that orphan.
I held her to my chest.
I saw her tears were shining
As the sunset lit the West.

I had found a little orphan
In the wreckage of a war.
I had found an orphan crying
In the madness of a war.

******

I looked for parents, siblings.
I found them, one by one.
A grandma lay there, dying.
Said, “Save the little one.”

I told her I would do that,
But did she understand?
She breathed her last and left us,
As I held her feeble hand.

******

How many little orphans?
How many children slain?
How many burned and crippled?
How many wracked with pain?

Whence—this cruel madness?
And why—these blinded hearts?
Go ask this, then, of “humans”,
As the light of life departs.

She once had loving parents—
But now was all alone.
Go ask them for the reason—
The ones whose hearts are stone.

******

I held that little orphan.
I held her to my chest.
I heard her growing quiet
As I walked towards the West.

I had found that little orphan,
Abandoned, in a war.
I saw a light was shining—
The brightening evening star.

I looked towards that planet
As it rose and shone above
The bodies, lying scattered,
That each was born of love.

2025 February 18, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Isolation

  
Isolation
 
We live on islands that are now connected
By pulses coursing swiftly through the lines—
Yet still, in much that matters, disconnected,
As fear and distance carve dividing lines.
 
So what was joined—and one—is split in two
And then in even more of pieces. These
Are pushed and pulled apart, as in-between
The chasms fill with ever-growing seas.
 
We spend our leisure time on mobile phones—
As work consumes the lives of those with jobs.
What time is left for looking in the soul
Or feeling in the heart that quietly throbs?
 
We seek to bridge the gulfs of distance, time—
And realize, too late, how hard that is.
And meanwhile, we neglect the ones nearby,
Who need the time for just a bit of bliss.
 
We each need solitude at times, but not
This fragmentation of the parts. The whole
Is part of what we are. A leaf that's plucked
Will shrivel. So, the isolated soul.
 
2022, June 13^th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Light upon the Bench

    
The Light upon the Bench 
 

While walking ‘round the circle in the park,
with midnight passed, and walking all alone,
the lamps that lined the path had blinded me.

I could not see the stars and clouds above.

But walking on, with emptiness of mind,
I saw the light reflected from a bench.

And though the slats were wood,
they seemed to shine
like metal—and the sight reminded me
of walks before, beside the moonlit sea.

2016 August 29th Mon, 1:28 am
Brooklyn, New York 
       
The Light upon the Bench—Pictures (5)
    

The Gibbous Moon

an image posted by A.K. Entingh

Dear reader,

I have fallen increasingly into the habit of adding images, captions and notes to my posts of poems.  I realize that these things might be distracting or burdensome, and I apologize for this.

In my limited experience, the words and lines of a poem only convey their full meaning on being read with full attention.  For all but the best of poems, this does not occur spontaneously.  Some sustained effort is needed.
 
One has to clear one's mental clutter and also not hurry through. The entire poem usually needs to be read through at least twice, in a somewhat meditative mode of mind.

Nowadays, for most of us, this is contrary to our usual mode of reading, especially when looking at a screen. Given the times we live in, this is understandable.

Some of us are also struggling to survive. We each have to try to cope with not only our routine duties and responsibilities but also the vagaries and blows of fortune. This can be overwhelming.

So an e-mailed link to a post on a poetry blog might not be the best of pairings.  Adding yet more distractions could be very unwise.

Images might at times enhance the experience of reading a poem, but extraneous textual material, acting like noise, often detracts from it.  Much more than in prose, the mood or flow is interrupted.

Of course, there is occasionally a need for a preface or for footnotes, but these need to be separated from the experience of reading the poem.

For those who have the patience for a second reading, that could be done while ignoring the notes at the end.  Alternatively, one might skip the notes at the first reading, or simply never read them—as I am sure many might do, even without my prompting.

I am finding it difficult to break free of this habit of adding images, captions and notes.

Meanwhile, if this extra clutter (added to the clutter of the verses and that of my e-mails in your inbox) perturbs you, I am sorry.

All of that being said, notes 1 and 2 should be read by those wanting a better view of the images, while notes 3 and 4 should be read by those interested in basic astronomy—who might also wish to correct any errors I might have made in note 3.

-- Arjun
------------------------------

The Gibbous Moon
 

Waxing gibbous moon with clouds.  A.K. Entingh http://photo.accuweather.com/photogallery/details/photo/134438/

I saw, tonight, the clouds on high
were drifting past the moon,
whose light they shaded with their streams
of hazy white and dark.

But as I looked, the sky grew clear.
The moon now floated free.
And I stood there, transfixed by light
reflected down to me.

I figured, from the gibbous shape
that pointed to the west,
where it might lie—that sun that lit
this moon that lovers seek.

How sweet that light, reflected in
the eyes of one you love.
How lonely then that moon appears,
when those you love are gone.

Moon and storm clouds, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, 2016-08-15.  © A. Janah

We're born to live awhile and die,
as others have before.
The moon sails in and out of clouds
and sees us come and go.
 
How long this moon has circled Earth—
how many eons through—
we do not know.  But it has seen
more things than I and you.

And some might say, "It cannot see."
And they may well be right.
No witness to our follies then—
as wolves look up and howl.

I saw tonight a gibbous moon
that still will wax a while.
And when that moon is full I'll look
at it with shining eyes.

 

Full moon above clouds and hills.  author unknown
http://d2dc8ug9yu03zt.cloudfront.net/images/22760/full-moon-moon-22778640-1024-768.jpg

2016 August 16th, Tue
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------

Bensonhurst Park after midnight, 2016-08-15.  © A. Janah

Bensonhurst Park after midnight, 2016-08-15—wide view.  © A. Janah
The path on the right leads towards the Bay Parkway and Belt Parkway exit.

Gables, windows, clouds and moon. 19th Ave, Bensonhurst, 2016-08-15.   © A. Janah

Notes:
  
1. To see the images in this post in a somewhat larger and clearer format, single-click on any one image.  Then use your keyboard's right and left arrow keys, or click on the thumbnails, to see each image in turn. To return to this post, click on the large white X near the top right of the dark background.  Pressing the escape (esc) key might also return you to this post.
------------------------------
    
2.  For an even better view of the images, go also to full-screen view. In most web-browsers on a PC, the F11 key can be used to toggle in and out of full-screen view.

The photographs taken by me are not the best. I am still struggling with the smartphone, including even with 'phone calls.

But I have included a black and white photograph (the third image: Full moon above clouds and hills) that is beautiful. I could not trace the photographer.

There is also a nice color photograph of the moon, with clouds in the foreground. This is the first image, which is repeated, with the second occurrence captioned: Waxing gibbous moon with clouds. 

This shows the moon in one if its two gibbous phases.  I found it, posted by A.T. Entingh, at a site on accuweather.com.  A.T. Entingh has a photography site (which I found once, but then could not find again), which says she is interested in weather photography. So the photograph was probably taken by her—although this image was not on that site.
------------------------------
    
3. The term "gibbous", as applied to the moon, refers to the shape of its lit surface, as observed by us, when more than half of the circle is lit, but not the full circle. The common names for the phases of the moon are "new" (completely dark and so invisible), "crescent", "quarter" (half the circle lit), "gibbous" and "full".

If, for a crescent, quarter or gibbous moon, the western side of the moon is lit, then the moon is waxing: the lit area will be growing larger each night, until full moon.  If the eastern side of the moon is lit, then it is waning: the lit area will be growing smaller each night, until it disappears at new moon.

That, at least, is how I figure it, noting that the moon revolves "monthly" around the Earth, in the same direction as the Earth rotates daily about its north-south axis—from west to east.

Do correct me if I am wrong.

The moon's orbital plane is tilted with respect to the Earth's equatorial plane. The angle of this tilt varies cyclically, over the years, from about 18 degrees to about 29 degrees. 

If you live north of the 30th parallel of latitude, then you should be able to see the moon (between moon-rise and moon-set) when facing south. The western side of the moon will then be on your right.
------------------------------
    
4. The first image is repeated in two sizes. That will only be apparent on viewing the images as explained in notes 1 and 2 above.

The photograph for the second image (Moon and storm clouds, Bensonhurst Park) was taken, shortly after midnight, at the start of Monday, 15th August. 

The moon's phase was then waxing gibbous. But the bright flare in the photograph hid the gibbous shape.  The three lights in a horizontal line in the clouds were not from 'planes or UFO's.  They are artifacts of the cellphone's camera.

The final image (Gables, windows, clouds and moon) was taken the next night, around 10 pm on Monday, 15th August. 
 

The phase of the moon was then still waxing gibbous—with the full moon being due on Thursday, 18th August. At the time of the photograph, only a bit of the moon was not obscured by dark clouds. Again, in the photograph, the light flare around that bright bit rounded out its shape..
------------------------------
     
5. Chronological details:
  
-a) composed stanzas 1 to 4 and 6:
2016 August 15th, Mon, late at night, while walking, with the moon as companion, from the crossing at 19th & Cropsey Avenues to Bensonhurst Park (near Bay Parkway and Cropsey Avenue) and then around the circular path there
  
-b) wrote those stanzas:
sitting on a bench in the park
  
-c) added stanzas 5, 7 and 8:
August 16th, Tue, at our apartment in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Stay Awhile

Stay Awhile
 
I’m grateful that you came and I
Am sorry that you’ll go.
But good things always have an end—
And this I’ve come to know.

So when it comes to say goodbye,
We’ll wave to one another.
So did I once to my sister and
My father and my mother.

And once I had a spouse but now
I’m left myself, alone.
I now depend on strangers, since
It rarely rings—that ‘phone.

And so, I deal with those, with whom
Connections still are slight.
And some do wrong, while others try
To do what seems is right.

Don’t leave me to their mercies yet,
But stay with me awhile.
It’s good to hear your voice again,
It’s good to see your smile.

At times, I tried to think  ahead,
But fled to safer ground.
For I could see, where I would be
If I was still around.

But now, I'm here, as I had feared,
And so I fear no more.
I live—and day by day I bear
Whatever is in store.

And so I know how it will be,
As days and months go by,
And even years, until it's time
To close my eyes and die.

The seasons, they will come and go,
But all I’ll see is walls,
And not the sky and sun and clouds
Or rain or snow that falls.

They’ll wall me in, within a room,
With the TV as a friend,
And wheel me out, in summertime
Or when I meet my end.
 
But so it is, and so will be.
And what are we to do?
But stay awhile and chat, my friend,
So I can smile at you.

2016 April 12th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Company-II

   
Company–II 
 
I had ventured out, on errands,
On a sunlit winter day,
And the curbside snow had melted
As I walked upon my way.
 
And turning ‘round a corner,
Of a sudden, I could hear
Some little birds conversing,
With loud and spring-like cheer.
 
******

The sparrows all were talking
As they sat upon their trees.
They gossiped, as they chattered
In their speech of chirps and tweets.

And I, who had been walking,
Alone, except for thoughts,
Had heard their pulsing twitter—
As if of ones and naughts.
 
But this was ancient nature—
And yet forever young,
Not digits coldly streaming—
But notes, with ardor sung.
 
And so I stopped and listened
And wondered what was said—
As I’d done with hieroglyphics
In books I once had read.
 
Of what were they then talking
Upon that winter day?
I stood awhile in sunshine
And went upon my way.

I walked along the streets then
And I heard the pigeons call,
As the sparrows flew from branches
To the streets, as leaves might fall.

******
 
But then, unlike the leaflets,
They would hasten back on high.
For all the sparrows' actions,
There are surely reasons why.

Their time to live is shorter;
They move at faster speed.
They notice things that humans
Might rarely know to heed.

And so they swooped and darted.
They chirped; they tweeted, trilled—
At all of which, the pigeons
Were not the least bit thrilled.

But some of these were cooing,
As if the spring was here.
They bobbed their heads and strutted,
And flew when I got near.

******
   
So all around was chatter.
The birds were giving voice
To things, perhaps, that matter—
Of weather or of choice.
   
So humans might have spoken,
When gathered by a stream,
Of what they’d hunted, gathered
Or what they’d chanced to dream.
 
The sun had brought the pigeons
And the sparrows out that day.
And I, for one, was lucky
To hear their serenades.
 
Or so I could imagine,
Although it wasn’t me
To whom the birds were calling,
From pavement, roof and tree.
 
And then, the skies grew cloudy.
I heard the birdsong fade.
The pigeons ceased their cooing;
The sparrows flew away.
 
I shivered, as the winter
Sent winds to chill my chest.
It’s time, I thought, for turning
Towards home—and warmth and rest.

******
 
I’d ventured, sad and lonely,
To brave the winter’s cold,
To carry out my errands,
Though weary, sore and old.

I hurried through those errands
And then, enlivened, back.
The birds, to me, had given
The company I’d lacked.
 
2016 February 7th, Sun
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Poets

 
The Poets

I asked a poet, “What do poets do?”
She answered, “We attempt to speak the truth,
as we perceive it, through the flow of speech,
and only rarely are we paid for this.

“We each must toil at other things to earn
the leisure that we need to write our verse,
and though at times we might get some acclaim,
the poets true prefer the wage of bliss.
 
“For poets, like the rest of humans, are
as filled with vices as with frailties.
Temptations rise, but those of wisdom know
their verse is still their truest sustenance.
 
“So should they caper with the passing troupe
and cater to the ones who suffer from
the damage wrought by commerce to the soul –
or should they write for those who nurture mind?
 
“They do not fashion what they write to please
the critic and the fashion of the day.
They choose to write instead to please themselves
and those not jaded, those who still have heart.
 
“We see, around us, beauty, ugliness –
and kindness, cruelty.  We stand in awe
beneath the sky that is our window to
the vastness of the universe beyond.

“And each of these is cause enough for each
to pause and then reflect – and even ask
those questions that have each been asked through time
and yet, like every breath, is each as new.
 
“We do not listen to the cynics then.
We write instead on what we sense and feel,
on what we think, on what is wrong and right.
We say, to those who’re jaded, “Wake and see.”

“We learn the forms, the disciplines, but then
We break from them, for we are not their slaves.
Respecting still the past, we walk awhile
with current trends, then go our lonesome ways.”
 
And so she answered me.  I thanked her then.
I’d fancied words – and so I’d thought to earn
My living through my writing.  Hearing her,
I told myself I’d better think again.
 
2015 April 8th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

March Encounter

 
March Encounter

So March has end, with hints of better days.
The twigs are taut with buds, but winter stays.
For though the city streets were washed by rain,
There’s snow that’s coming – so the forecast says.

I see an elder, trudging down the road.
He's stooped by winter and his heavy load.
I look at him, as in a reverie,
And I am him, in a transcendental mode.

He walks the streets and sees the buds and dreams
That winter’s gone, with all its harsh extremes,
And gentle spring is here, with smiling warmth...
So glaciers thaw and turn to babbling streams…

He bears his memories still of winters past
And wondrous summers that had faded fast.
And in his autumn now, he's walking slow
And wondering if this March will be his last...
 
But what is that, which sits within his head,
Where naught should be but there is snow instead,
Compacted into ice, and sullied, dark,
Awaiting spring, but still encased in dread?
 
I look away, for such a tie can lead
To knowledge that is misery indeed...
Let winter leave and spring arrive in haste,
So plants and beasts can have the warmth they need.

2015 March 29th, Sun.
(4th stanza added April 1st, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Winter Comes – II

 
The Winter Comes – II
 
We age, we falter, lose our strength and die.
And some of us may idly wonder why.
But each of us, in this, have little choice –
These truths persist – that many would deny.
 
And some escape, awhile, the costs of age,
And when they see they can’t, they’re filled with rage –
And others may accept them, noting death
And all that comes before, with mindsets sage…

The leaf will yellow, wither then and fall –
And death, in time, will issue each its call,
For everyone that’s born, in turn, will die –
So aging, sickness, death, await us all…

While walking slowly once beside the sea,
I entered in a sort of reverie –
And thought I heard a voice, speaking low…
And this is what that spirit said to me –

“Oh live the life you’re given and rejoice,
Be grateful for your blessings, giving voice
To gratitude – in speech and in your deeds,
For in these things we still have each a choice.”

I listened then – and ever since, I’ve tried,
Despite the blow, despite the chance denied
That came so many times, to me and those
I knew and loved, to still be gratified…

For death has never held for me, the dread
That others might perceive in it, and yet
So many things are still unkempt and will,
I know, remain undone when I am dead.

And those, for whom the winds of chance have laid,
On me, a duty, though I’m disarrayed –
I would not leave them prey to woes that I,
By minding duty, could perhaps have stayed…

We age, we sicken, lose our health, descend,
As others then neglect or condescend...
And some, perhaps, might lend a helping hand –
Or not.  We struggle, lonely, till the end.

But walking on the street, in autumn, I
Can see the leaves, that one by one, will die,
Upon the trees – and strewn along the street.
Who grieves for them?  And who dares wonder why?

The conifers are green throughout the year.
With antifreeze evolved, they need not fear
The seasons cold.  But even they will pass  –
And who, for a fallen pine, will shed a tear?

Ah – life and death, like yang and yin entwined…
Who knows, whence life arises, whence the mind –
And where they go, when autumn’s winds have blown?
The winter comes. Take solace – and be kind…

For when we’re gone, the freezing winds will blow
And cover then the remnant leaves with snow.
But in its time, there’ll also be the spring –
And little birds will sing, as grasses grow…
 
2014 October 26th, Sun., 2:12 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

টের (T'er–Sense/Perception–translation of Presence)

      
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence .
The version in the traditional script follows directly below.  After
that, there is a Roman transcription.  A summary of the transcription
scheme, serving as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at
Bharot Xadhin.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
টের

কোনো এক শহরের অন্তরে, কোনো এক দপ্তর-বাড়ির ভিতরে বন্দী হয়ে,
কখনো আঁধারে দাঁড়িয়ে দেখেছি দূরে জানালার অলো৷
আলোর টানে চলেছি তার দিকে, জানালা দিয়ে তাকিয়ে দেখেছি – আকাশ৷
জানি না কি কারনে, তাই দেখে জুড়িয়েছে মন৷

কর্ম-জিবনের আঁকা-বাঁকা রাস্তা দিয়ে, কখনো বনপথে,
তবে বেশিরভাগ শহরের ফুটপাথে চলেছি আমি৷
নগরের অলিগলির ময়লা  থেকে, যেখানে আইন-বেআইন সাথি, ডেকেছে আমায়
দূরে দেখা উর্দ্ধ আকাশ, হাওয়াতে দোলানো গাছ৷

জানালার পাসে দাঁড়িয়ে, অথবা কাজের শেষে ক্লান্ত হয়ে বাড়ির পথে হেঁটে,
গাছের পাতার নাচ দেখেছি, শুনেছি তাদের রব৷
কিছুক্ষন থেমে, দেখে, শুনে, আমি পেয়েছি তখন সেটার টের,
যেটা মাটি ও আকশের মাঝে বয়েছে চিরকাল৷
 
প্রত্যেক জীব, রয়েছে এই জগত-ধারায়৷ জোযার-ভাটা-স্রোত
বয়েছে মন-হৃদয়-শরীরে, ঘসে-মেজে রেখেছে তাদের পরিষ্কার৷
তবে যখন আমরা একলা হয়ে পড়ি, সেই স্রোতের থেকে বিচ্ছিন্ন হয়ে,
ভূত-প্রেত আমাদের ধরে বসে তখন, জ্বালিয়ে পাগল করে দেয়৷

প্রাসাদে রাজা, কারাগারে কয়েদি৷ শ্রমিক তার ঘুপ্চিতে খাটে৷
এরা প্র্ত্যেকে বেঁচে থেকেও মৃত হয়ে চলে৷
একলা বন্দী রেখে করেছ যাকে অসুস্থ, পাগল –
ছেড়ে দেও তাকে বন-জঙ্গলে৷ যদি সে বাঁচতে পারে, সেরে উঠবে সেখানে৷
    
ইহুদী নববর্ষ: বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৫-এ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খ্রিষ্টাব্দ
নতুন য়র্কের ম্যানহাটানের চীনে পাড়ায়, ডাক্তারের অফিসে
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায় অনুবাদ: শনিবার, ২৭-এ সেপ্টেম্বর)
    
 --------------------------------------------------------------------
  
T`er (translation of Presence)

Kono e`k xo`horer o`ntore, kono e`k do`ptor-bar’ir bhetore bondi hoe,
Kokhono a~dhare dar’ie dekechi dure janalar alo.
Alor t’ane colechi tar dike, janala die takie dekechi – akax.
Jani na ki karone, tai dekhe jurieche mon.

Ko`rmo-jibo`ner a~ka-ba~ka rasta die, ko`khono bono-po`the,
To`be bexir-bhag xoho`rer-phut’pathe colechi ami.
No`gorer oli-golir mo`ela theke, jekhane ain-be-ain xathi, d’ekeche amae
Dure de`kha urdho akax, haoate dolano gach.

Janalar paxe dar’ie, o`thoba kajer xexe, klanto hoe, bar’ir po`the he~t’e,
Gacher patar nac dekhechi, xunechi tader ro`b.
Kichukkhon theme, dekhe, xune, ami pe-echi to`khon xetar t’er,
Jet’a mat’i o akaxer majhe boeche cirokal.

Prottek jib, roeche ei jo`got-dharae. Joar-bhat’a-srot
Boeche mon-hrido`e-xorire, ghoxe-mejhe rekeche tader porixkar.
To`be jo`khon amra e`kla hoe pori, xei sroter theke bicchinno hoe,
Bhut-pret amader dhore bo`xe to`khon, jalie pagol kore de`-e.

Praxade raja, karagare ko`edi.  Sromik tar ghupcite khat’e.
Era protteke be~ce thekeo mrito hoe co`le.
E`kla bondi rekhe korecho jake o`xusto, pagol –
Chere dao take bon-jo`ngole. Jodi xe ba~cte pare, xere ut’thbe xekhane.

ihudi  no`bobo`rxo:  brihoxpotibar, 25-e sept’embar, 2014 khrixt’abdo
notun ior`ker me`nhe`t’an-diper cine par’ae, d’aktarer o`phixe
(ingreji theke banglae onubad: xonibar, 27-e sept’embar)
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
The above is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence.  
The version in the traditional script is at the top. Following that, there is 
a Roman transcription. A summary of the transcription scheme, serving 
as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at  Bharot Xadhin.
  

Loneliness

  
Loneliness

Loneliness, oh loneliness, you spawn of isolation,
How many find you empty, bleak, a field of desolation…
   
And few can last for long without some company of sorts,
At very least, the sky above, with all its changing shows,
Or for the ones, who’re blind, the sound of water, wind and life,
The scents and textures of the world, the tastes upon the tongue…
 
Yet some must live within the walls, confined to just a room
That shelters from the elements but also is a prison.

In the city, bustling, full of busy-ness and strife,
Amidst the hustle and the rush, you’ll find the unemployed,
And only they can fully feel the madness of the city,
Where strangers pass without a word, and even in an office,
A working lifetime well may pass with just a “Hi, hello.”

“Goodbye!” we say, in such a way, it’s robbed of all its meaning. \1
Yet only God, for those of faith, is with them as they leave.

Loneliness, oh loneliness, your beauty may be hidden,
But those who look will see it, when that looking is unbidden.
We’re born and live and die alone, amidst the company,
And so to loneliness alone we’re wedded, till the end.

2014 July 23rd, Wed,
Brooklyn, New York
  
1. "God be with you.",  "Allah/bhagwaan tere saath rahe."
    "Khuda hafiz.", etc. were meant to convey a deep emotion.
    The urban "goodbye", is increasingly used, instead, as a 
     dismissal.
   
 

Bleakness and Bliss

      
Bleakness and Bliss
  

Doodle-006

    
“Me and my loneliness…” a sister once wrote,
Phrasing her thoughts in the words that I quote.
They struck me, on reading. They stay with me still.
I try, with my verses, that vacuum, to fill…

Gotama the Buddha did methods devise
To merge with the silence, in ways that are wise.
And yet, we are lonely – and emptiness dread.
We try to be busy – until we are dead.

“Me and my loneliness…” a sister had written,
Expressing her mood in a manner unbidden.
She wrote this as prose – but the best of my verse
Is bested, by far, by those syllables terse.
  
******
   
If “Who is this sister?” is a question you ask,
Her privacy, then, with a riddle, I’ll mask.
Rhythm – her name.  In the heart of the atom,
She probes.  (“It’s for knowledge…” said Ava to Adam.)

All of our science and all of our art,
My verses of nuance, resembling a fart,
All in their total are bupkis to this –                               \1
“Me and my loneliness…” – bleakness and bliss...

Today, to the reader, I’m writing again.
But why I am writing, I cannot explain.
You with your loneliness, I with what’s mine…
In the eyes of a puppy, the essence divine…
  
2014 July 16th, Wed.
(last stanza added July 19th)
Brooklyn, New York
  
1.  bupkis:  nothing, worthless – a word, probably of
Yiddish origin, used by New Yorkers and others; also
spelled bupkus, bupkes, bubkes.
   

My Excuse

  
My Excuse
  
I once was broken-hearted. My remnant mind was crazed,
I wrote for you then verses. In abysses, I gazed...
In gauging then the meter, I sensed a silent calm,
And so it was that rhyming became a soothing balm.

And though you're long departed, I'm writing verses still,
For though they're my addiction, they do, a vacuum, fill.
And when my heart is weary and mind has paid the cost,
They give me back my essence – the quiet I have lost.

I write in a tongue that's foreign and wonder what's the use.
But when the muse comes calling, I rarely can refuse.
I wish that you could hear me and know that I am well.
The things that I've been thinking, I wish that I could tell...

How many write such verses, how many hold them in?
How few are given chances, in this, our world of sin?
There's grief and there's forgiveness, there's love and there is pain...
I wish that I could hear you and be with you again.

My heart, it still is broken.  My mind, it still is crazed.
That I am living, working – at this, I'm quite amajed.
But still, I'm writing verses – and wondering what's the use.
And this, that I am writing, is merely my excuse. 
  
2014 July 7th, Mon, 8:57 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

Easter Break

Easter Break
  
I went up to Manhattan today,
as once a year I do,
around this time, on Easter break,
or “spring break” as they call it here,
to see the doctor, for the test that tells me
how much longer I might live.    \1

So also, countless others do...                     

And when returning, heading south again
on a gray First Avenue, I saw, ahead,
the tall buildings far away, whose tops
had disappeared within the clouds
that swept across Manhattan isle in veils.

That’s something one can see at times
in what the Brooklyners of old still call
“New York”.

And though the traffic was as usual then,
while walking down the sidewalk there I felt
a distance from the madness all around –
a quiet peace, a place of solitude
where time itself was lost, so I could be,
in loneliness, alone with those who’d gone.

And something, other than my hunger, drew
me then to seek and find the cafeteria
in the main building of the hospital.  And there
I sat, remembering the times I’d been before
in hospitals, with parents, cousin, aunt –
and others too, my relatives and friends,
who ailed – and how I then would go,
when they were sleeping, for a bite to eat
in such a place. 

And almost all were gone…

And I remembered, too, my sojourns in
the hospitals, and how I chafed in them,
a patient in a bed, from childhood on,
and how, each time, I’d willed myself to walk
and so to exit out.

I’d found a window seat,
and there I sat and ate, while looking out
at people walking in the street below.

Manhattan, where my sister once had worked
and lived...

It was a rainy day, and overcast,
as I sat quietly and read
a chapter of a book – and savored then
this passing Easter break.

2014 April 15th, Tue. 3:58 pm
New York, New York
  
1.  I found out later that the test this time
      had turned out okay, which was a relief.
   

Poverty

Poverty

Can humans, who have lived, through all their time
As humans as we know ourselves to be
And even longer as the apes we are,
In little groups, with others by our side,
With whom we bonded and with whom we shared
Whatever we had found on which to live –
Can humans now survive, amongst the crowds –
And yet alone, as we have never been?

Within our houses and apartments, we
May live with luxuries we never had
Or still be poor and live from day to day –
Or know we'll end as paupers on the street.
But whether rich or poor or in-between,
We're sentenced now to abject poverty –
The poverty of utter loneliness,
In prison cells that we ourselves have built.

2014 February 24th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Language

                  
Language   
                   
A language is a living thing.
It breathes and grows and pulses.
It melds with us when we are young.
It’s always at our service.
And yet we are as cells that serve
The mind that lives in language.
  
How varied are our human tongues,
In rhythms, sounds and structures.
And yet they are projections, each,
Of that, which can’t be spoken.
        
******
   
A language is a living thing
That shifts and sways and dances.
The songs we sing are sung through us.
The singer true is hidden.
But in our speech, we hear it talk.
It lives in us as language.
  
So every dialect’s the same,
However each may vary.
And that’s because the mind’s the same,
That’s there, in every sentence.
      
******
  
There is a tongue that has no tongue,
And so cannot be heard.
And yet we know that it is there,
By inner sense inferred.
And each of us can feel it speak
In silence, if we listen.
   
So premonition, like a cat
That walks on velvet feet,
Comes padding by.  A faint “meow”.
We turn -- and it is gone.
      
******
  
A language is a living thing,
And yet, it’s like a shadow
That changes form with time of day,
With latitude and season.
And when the clouds are blowing wild
It vanishes.  We seek it.
 
And as the sun breaks through the clouds,
It’s born again.  We see it.
We know that it was always there.
So language is a shadow.
 
******
   
While languages, from others born,
May live their spans and fade,
In wanton acts, we murder them
As remnant speakers perish.
So as we kill the species, so
We kill our cultures too.
  
And what we’ve done is vaunted then
As progress.  Such advances
Bring tears to those remembering
The riches and the nuances.
  
******
    
As we may love a being that
Has a face and limbs and body,
So also we may love a tongue
That’s living or has perished.
As none can substitute for one
Who’s gone, so naught -- for language.
  
How tender is that love we feel
For a tongue we learned as infants…
How grievous is our loss when we
Have none, with whom to speak it…

******
   
As lovers are devoted, so
The poets are to tongues,
For a dialect has its flavor that
No other one can match.
As women have their essences,
So languages have musks.

For even as two siblings might
Have characters apart,
So sister tongues have melodies
As different as birds'.

******
   
How humble is a patois,
How regal, classic verse.
Yet each has provenance the same,
Like those, of women birthed.
They rise in rustic habitats
And end as they began.

And urban speech, where finance rules,
Is rapid, clipped and terse,
But where horizons far are seen,
The speech there slows and broadens.

******
   
Some languages are musical
And others seem more rough,
But that, imbibed with mother's milk,
For each, is sweet enough.
The lullabies of of mother tongues
Give sustenance to us.

And language can be used to lie,
To subjugate, confuse,
Or it can light the way to truth
And liberate, refute.

******
   
Like sea reflecting sky, a tongue
Can alter with our moods.
And so there's speech that's like a gun,
And that which soothes the heart.
But blame this not upon the tongue
Nor give it credit false.

For language is a living thing
That changes as we do.
When madness rules our lives, our tongues
Reflect that madness too.

2013 November 23rd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

City and Village

City and Village
     
A city offers much that a village can't.
And yet, it is our villages that give,
To each of us, a soul and sustenance.
We try, within a city's multitude,
To make our little clans, our villages.
And some succeed in this – and others don't.

Some work to live – and others live to work.
And work may fill a life, or lives consume.
But work will have an end, as all things do,
And those, whose lives were work, are then marooned.

There's air and warmth – and water, food that we
Require to live.  But there are other things,
Without which lives are bleak and sad indeed.
For some, it's music, art.  Yet others feed
On varied stuff, not just of atoms made.
But each, except the hermit-saint, has need
At times, of other mortals' company.

The villagers depend on others there,
And so do townsfolk, though they this deny.
Their shelter, water, food and more derive
From others' labor, oft invisible
To those who live in cities modernized.

And they forget how they, of two, were born,
How many then had aided them to live
When they were babies – or were still at school
And learning what they'd later use to earn
Their livings or enjoy their present lives.

If we've had one or more who lived with us,
How hard it is for us, when they are gone
And never will return.  A dinner then
Is loneliness – relieved, perhaps, by a screen
That flickers as it shows how others live.

So some have cats and dogs that occupy
The spaces that a human might have filled.
And as we age, and strength and work contract,
So do our spheres, until we're left as one.

And so, we wish that we were villagers
Where climes are warm, and air and children pass
Through open doors, with crying, laughter heard
By elders as they sit outside or walk –
Or lie on floors at night, in starlit rooms,
In touch with earth, beneath the sky – and part
Of human lives.

Yet villagers – they envy city folk.
The young depart to find employment in
The cities, fabled for their wealth and sin.
And some return – or send their monthly dues
To those they left behind, remembering...

But others never do, in newfound lives
Engrossed or trapped, in struggles there enmeshed,
Forgetting who they were, and giving birth
To children who might never know the woes
And simple joys that their ancestors knew.

2013 November 2nd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

That Heartless Moon

       
That Heartless Moon
            
She walked the streets, at end of working day,
Towards the place she rented with her pay.

She walked within the crowds, as yet one more
Among the city's toiling myriad,
A nameless, faceless one, who walked alone.

And as she walked, she saw on high, above,
That heartless moon of unrequited love.

******

How many, like her, had that ancient eye
Observed, among the cities' passersby?

How many past had been deceived by lies,
By lovers spun or by their own conceit,
From dreams of pairing woken, still unpaired?

How many more would walk the streets alone,
For hope of rapture, through their lives atone?

******

She walked among the city's milling crowds,
That eddied, forming, fading, like the clouds.

And as she walked, towards her rented flat,
She saw that she was followed by the moon,
And for a moment smiled at company.

And so it was, that satellite sans heart
Could soften her defeat, with lunar art.

****** 

How many others had Selena saved,
With silent mantra blessed and undepraved?

How many past, entrapped by lies of men,
Had seen her floating in the evening sky,
And from their toil and trouble then had pause?

How many more will walk as she had done,
Who'd lost a lover and, by Moon, was won?

2013 September 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn

On Moonless Night
   

Alien-II

Alien-II
                                                                  
The storm has scattered us across the seas,
And some have found a cove in which to live,
And others struggle daily with the tides.
Survival leaves but little room for thought.

We dwell within our shells in loneliness
And hear the ocean pounding on the rocks.
For when we pause awhile from daily toil,
We sense in full the maelstrom all around.

And each retains a trace of memory
And so desires to be again as one,
But often only dimly sees the cause
Of feeling incomplete and alien.

2013 August 29th, Thu. 2:50 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

The Gallery of Ghosts

The Gallery of Ghosts

As we journey through our lives, we see
the ones, to whom we're bonded, pass away.
And so, in time, we each are left to walk
alone, within a gallery of ghosts.

And as we deal with loneliness and grief,
amidst the crowds – or trapped within our rooms,
we turn away from what the present brings,
reflecting on the ones, who now are past.

And some of us have duties still – to those
who're still alive, among the generations,
to animals or plants, vocations, self –
or jobs that keep us stressed, but occupied.

And some are thankful for those duties, which
return us to the present, even turn
us towards the future, rosy-hued or dark,
while others may resent intrusive tasks.

For some of us have given of ourselves
to those now passed, while they were still with us,
but others feel that they had fallen short
on duties then – and now must make amends.

And whether true or not, such matters are
decided by the self in solitude,
and as we walk within that gallery,
you'll see us then conversing, silently.

And surely, it's a shadow-play at best,
for how can we attend to those who're gone?
And yet, it seems they still can influence
the ones who live, remembering the dead.

2013 August 21st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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