Here and Now

 
Here and Now

There’s east and west and north and south
And then there’s where we are. 
From all of these, we each can learn—
From near as well as far.

To learn is good—but knowledge won’t
Replace our eyes and ears.
We need the open mind and heart,
Embracing smiles and tears.

******

The past is gone and won’t return. 
The future’s still not here.
And then there is this present time, 
In which we disappear.

For if we dwell within this now,
There is no you or I—
Nor other. There is only this—
This flow we can’t deny.

****** 

The past and future call. We hear—
Remaining, centered, still. 
In pleasure or in pain, we breathe— 
And drink, of now, our fill.

So also with the east and west—
And all the zones of mind.
It’s only here that we can be— 
And hell or heaven find.

2022 October 6th., Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

Past, Present and Future

 
Past, Present and Future
 
Without the memory of the past, we would
Be ignorant, without identity—
And might not then survive for very long.
 
Without anticipation, how could we
Prepare to deal with what might come our way?
Again, without this, we would perish soon.
 
But when the present is intruded on
By memories of things that now have passed,
This could then cloud our clarity of sight.
 
So also, when our worries grip our hearts,
We cannot savor then the present time.
A mind that’s crowded leaves no space for light.
 
Too often, we are prisoners of our past
And hostage to the future. Let us breathe,
Enjoying both the breathing in and out.
 
The disciplines of body and of mind,
When gently practiced, lead to habits sound
That then sustain us through our grief and stress.
 
And so, the present, with its challenges,
Can be the focus. Starting with the breath,
Awareness spreads and gives us clarity.
 
2022 September 13th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Gotama Got it Right

 
Gotama Got it Right
 
When you're filled with fear or want
Or raging for a fight,
Then pause to breathe, remembering
Gotama got it right.
 
Observe the fear or want or rage
And watch it rise and crest—
Then feel it ebb, like the lunar tide
That circles east to west.
 
The tide—it harks to the call of the moon,
But what propels a mood?
In quietude, the whisper’s heard—
Along with the urging rude.
 
The world “outside” and the thoughts “inside”—
They speak and are heard in turn—
And we respond—as the fire may dim
Or flame with the breeze and burn.
 
The body-mind, when so observed,
Is understood in time—
And its turbulence is slowly calmed
As things begin to rhyme.
 
So our actions flow from calm within—
And so enhance the peace.
The past and future cede to now.
We savor then some ease.
 
2022 August 26^th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
 

 

The Silent Sea

        
The Silent Sea
  
I walked, today, towards the waiting sea.
And soon enough, near sunset, I was there.
I saw it stretching outwards, dark and green,
towards the circle where the sky descends…

And standing there, by that Atlantic shore,
I saw the westward sun go slowly down
behind the Verrazano’s arches.  East                   \1
was Coney Island, arcing boldly south –
and in-between – the dark and silent sea…
   
******
  
How often, once, I'd walked along this shore…
How rarely I had come, in recent years,
to visit here, a leisured walk from home –
and yet another world – and still for free…

When hurricanes come storming up the coast,
the waves then pound upon the rocks that men
have laid, creating land, where only sea
had been before.  And just two years ago,
the sea swept in, as humans watched in awe…    \2
  
******
 
But here, this evening, as I write these lines,
the light is fading – and the breeze, though brisk,
does little to perturb the placid sea...
A time to breathe, to meditate and be…

The tide is low, with mossy rocks exposed.
A gull stands watch, as people walk the shore…
The sea is silent, but the people talk...
I hear their voices, and the tongues they speak    \3
are many, softened by the sky and sea…
  
******
  
Behind me – traffic, whooshing down the “Belt”. \4
I turn my head and see the headlights’ glare.
And turning back, there’s still that sea, that sky…
I wonder, marvel, asking – why, oh why?

A little pause – for peace – and then it ends…
So many marvels, men and women make –
and yet – our slaughters rarely ever end…
There was a time, when we had reverence
for Nature – and, perhaps, for life as well…
  
******
   
And when I'd lost my sister, then I came
to walk along this shore and ask the sea
the questions that I asked it yet again
when both my parents died – with me away…

I rise – and make my lonely way towards home,
in a pensive mood, at peace and yet aware
of all the problems that are mine – and those,
unsolvable, it seems, that plague our race…
The sea is silent, as the stars appear…

2014 July 22nd, Tue.
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn
    
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes:
 
1.   The Verrazano suspension bridge, built in the 1960’s,
connects Brooklyn to Staten Island, crossing the Verrazano
Narrows, which separates Lower and Upper New York Bays.
In 1776, British forces crossed the straits, from Staten Island
into Brooklyn, routing Washington’s army at the Battle of 
Long Island.

Verrazano Bridge, from Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, looking west
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verrazano%E2%80%93Narrows_Bridge

 


2. Hurricane Sandy, coinciding with a full moon and high tide,
caused much devastation in the region in the Fall of 2012.
  

Sandy approaches New York, October-end, 2012,  (c) Carlos Ayala
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/07/16/hurricane-sandy-track_n_3606456.html

 

3.   Among the languages I have frequently encountered in this
area are: Spanish; Quechua and other Native American languages
of Central America; Portuguese; English in its many varieties;
Haitian Creole and French; Arabic; Italian and its dialects (this
having been, until recently, an area dominated by immigrants
from southern Italy and Sicily); Sub-Saharan languages; Albanian;
Yiddish; Romany (Gypsy) dialects (related to the Indic tongues);
Russian and other Slavic languages; Greek; Turkish; Georgian;
Armenian; Hebrew; Farsi (Persian); Uzbek and other languages of
Central Asia; Gujarati, Punjabi, Urdu-Hindi, Nepali (Gurkhali),
Bengali, Tamil and other languages of the subcontinent; Tibetan;
the Chinese dialects (several distinct spoken languages, unified by
a common, ancient ideographic script); Burmese languages;
Vietnamese; Korean; and many others.

4.  The Belt Parkway expressway that girdles southern Brooklyn
and Queens runs mostly along lower New York Bay.  In this part of
Brooklyn, this busy highway is often just a few yards away from
the walkway along the shore, separated from it by a narrow strip
of grass and small trees.
   

Words

     
Words
  
The Buddhists say that neither praise nor scorn
Should lift or sink the ships that we are on.
But just as sailors yearn for sailing winds
And fear the lulls and storms, we're tossed by words.

But when we think – that what we were before
Those words, we still remain – no less, no more,
We then can take the measure of the words
And use them or discard them, centered, strong.

******
 
But sticks and stones may break our bones –
And hard it is to heal them.
As sorrows such afflict our lives,
Should words and thoughts be burdens?

Yet words may wound and thoughts may plague
If these become possessions.
We breathe and watch our thoughts and so
We shed our dark obsessions.

2014 June 22nd Sun
(last stanza added 23rd Mon)
Brooklyn, New York
 

Ripples--Part II

    
Ripples--Part II
    
There is, we sense, a mind, to which our minds
Are tiny windows – wavelets on the sea.

We're of that ocean – and will always be –
No matter that our minds and bodies burn.

From where we came, to there we each will go.
And there we are, although we might not know.

The nature, true, of mind, is emptiness.
From no-thing born, to no-thing we return.

The madness that we’ve made obscures the truth.
In moments calm, we glimpse it once again.

A ripple runs across the placid lake,
A shiver runs across the body-mind.

And many ripples run and cross, reflect.
So all is busy – till it’s calm again.

And each of us is but a ripple, yet
We’re caught in fancies, so we each forget.

Let’s face our fear and our tormentors too,
With peace within our hearts, as endings near.

From all entrapment and enslavement free,
Our inmost selves, we each can gently be.

And so, amidst the violence around,
We watch ourselves, as sailors watch the sea.

We see the anger rising – or the fear.
We watch it rise and crest and disappear.

We know that we are passing through today.
Tomorrow will not see our presence here.

And knowing this, we each can choose to love,
Forgiving those content to blindly walk.

For vision shows us suffering and pain.
And yet there’s joy – and love that seeks no gain.

2014, June 3, Tue
Home, Brooklyn

Ripples--Part I

    
Ripples -- Part I
   
Could meditation help us when we’re burned alive?
Perhaps it might permit a peaceful death.

And could that be, when flame is burning flesh?
Or when a body, charred, is filled with pain?

Who'd wish to try this horror on himself?
So should we ask the ones that we have bombed?

We've also seen the images of monks,
Who sit in lotus pose amidst the flames.

And who are we to judge?  And yet we ask,
Can violence to self prevent or heal?

Perhaps the act's a shout to call awake
The consciences we've stilled or lulled asleep.

Yet knowing mind might help us deal with pain –
If “knowing” means we're growing whole again.

For how can mind know mind, except by this –
By letting go of conflict, discontent?

For only then can mind begin to see
Its nature true – unclouded emptiness.

We see a star or ant, we hear a bird –
But who is it that sees and hears and feels?

Of our awareness, we can be aware –
Too often, briefly, in a patch of calm.

And then, we’re like a lake reflecting sky –
Until the wind picks up and ripples run.

But ripples too are ripples of the mind,
As clouds and storms are faces of the sky.

So being mindful, we are one with mind.
We sense a calming, while we breathe and be.

And when we’re tortured and afflicted, then
We might remember that we’re born of mind. 
   
2014 June 3rd, Tue.
Common Core Examinations Day
New Utrecht High School
Brooklyn
  

At a City Park in August -- Parts I & II

  
At a City Park in August 
            
Part I – Dreaming

Throughout July, we had but little rain,
And all the trees were parched, with drooping leaves
That browned and fell, as if the fall had come
Already.  Rains arrived, at last, and trees
Revived.  It rained till well past noon today.

It's August now – a cloudy afternoon,
with traces of a drizzle, drifting past.
I'm sitting in an asphalt city park,
beneath a tree recovered from the drought,
with little leaves in rows of two that weave
a curtain, oriental, underneath
a sky of white that's rimmed by shades of  gray.

Those little leaves are waving in the wind,
in silence, as I hear the muted sound
of water gurgling from a fountain set
at the center of this little park, where kids
would now be swinging, running, shouting and
be climbing on the slides and jungle gym,
if the sun were out this August afternoon.

And though that sun attempts to pierce the clouds,
with light reflected brightly from the slides
and shadows briefly cast upon the ground,
it's hid again, as denser clouds arrive
and breezes cool and even chilly blow.

The pigeons too were scared away by rain,
and I am left in solitude today
in busy Brooklyn, as the cars go by
at intervals along a road I see –
and even they have noises that are hushed.

So I can hear that gurgling water and,
when gusts arrive, the metal clank of chain
against a flagpole tall that flies
the flags of nation, city, state and parks...

I sit in meditation, in that park,
as time goes by, this August afternoon...

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

Part II – Waking

The drizzle's gone, the sky begins to clear...

I wait awhile – and then the birds arrive –
and as it nears to three, the smaller kids.
And gone are now that stillness, solitude
and quiet – with those faint and waking sounds...

It's life, not that of patient trees alone,
but active beasts – the pigeons, sparrows and
the swallows that are wheeling in the breeze,
the kids who run upon the clanking “bridge”
and chase each other 'round and ride their bikes
and scooters, those who mount the stairs and slide,
with all their squeals of joy, on play intent –
this life now fills this city park that wakes from sleep.

The adults, few in number, come to sit
on benches, basking in the tempered sun,
and watching children play and run and shout.

I sit and watch and wonder where it went –
that park that was before – and then, again –
a moment's quiet, as the sun breaks through –
and there – I hear it – still, that gurgling sound...
A little baby cries – and it is gone.

I look and see – that fountain, small, in sun.
It rises but a foot or so above the ground.
A little girl approaches, circles, squats
and wets her hand awhile and prances off.

I feel the sun upon my aging legs –
a benediction.  But it's time to go...

2013 August 3rd, Sat. afternoon
City park at Bath and Bay
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

The Play and the Audience

 
The Play and the Audience
    
A thought finds voice – and I can hear its speech.
Emotion rises.  I can feel its rise.
Thought, emotion then converse.  I watch.
In time, they dwindle and depart.  I stay.
Another thought inquires, “So where's this I?”
 
2013, July 18th, Thu.
Manhattan, Chinatown

Love and Zen

Love and Zen
  
When there is caring, there is also sight
That sees what's wrong as well as what is right.
And if there's power, there is action then,
And if there's not, the old familiar plight...

In each tradition, seers prophesied,
To draw attention to the problems tried...
A few succeeded and were honored men,
But most were laughed at, shunned or vilified.

There is compassion and there's cruelty.
And both of these, so many will not see.
And those who do, no matter how or when,
Are then accused of lacking sanity...

We're born and live and love and wonder why
Our fellow men embrace the easy lie.
The truth is there for those who care to ken.
Some care and try – but then it's time to die...

But this is not a paradise, this Earth,
In which, in pain, we each are given birth.
Yet there is love and there is also Zen.
Let's practice both – and then return to dirt.

We've some who only see in black and white.
They swing from love to hate, from ease to spite.
But others note the shades of gray and then
In brightness see the dark – in darkness, light.

2013 July 17th, Wed.
Brooklyn
Notes: 

1. The word “men” is used as shorthand here
for “men and women”, to keep the rhyme and
meter.

2.  The Japanese word zen (Chinese chan)
derives from the Sanskrt dhyana, which may
be translated in English, depending on the
context, either as attention or as meditation
(deep, relaxed attention, especially the quiet
observation of one's own body-mind in the
present moment, beginning, for example,
with the breath).
 

The Darkened Hall

The Darkened Hall

The curtain's fallen. The players all have left.
And yet I sit within the darkened hall,
The voices of the play still echoing...

And if I sit enough, perhaps I'll see
The curtain rise -- and see the play begin --
Another play, perhaps, and yet the same,
As I sit watching in the darkened hall...

2013 July 6th, Sat
Brooklyn
 

Eventide

Eventide

The day was quietly leaving – and the night was at the door.
It was raining, softly, softly, as the light was ebbing slow.
From the water in the gutters, the lights, reflected, shone,
As all across the city, those lights were turning on...

I was treading, slowly, softly, on my aging, sneakered feet,
And I'd hoisted my umbrella as I walked the city street –
For the rain was softly falling while the light was ebbing slow,
As the day was quietly leaving and the night was at the door...

I heard a neighbor talking as I passed her darkened house.
I could hear her quietly talking as I walked beside her house.
I could hear what she was saying, for my tread was soft and slow,
As the trees grew dark and looming as the night came in the door...

So the tide, it ebbs and rises – and the moon, it waxes, wanes.
And the city slows at evening as it's touched by gentle rains...
The night, it enters softly as the day has quietly left.
As the tide of light is turning, we remember those who've left...

The day, it had departed as I entered in my house.
And I waited, in the gloaming, for the coming of my spouse...
I would wait till it was midnight, then I'd call her on the 'phone,
As she left her ailing parent and she traveled home alone...

I wished that I could do as she had done so many years,
Remembering the ones I left behind while shedding tears...
But I waited there in silence and my cheeks and eyes were dry.
It was only for the living that I've ever had to cry...

2013 July 2nd, Tue.
(last two stanzas added July 3rd Wed.)
Brooklyn

The Summer Starts

The Summer Starts

It was evening.  I was walking towards the sunset in the west.
The light of day was ebbing but the heavens were alight.
The air was still and humid and the trees were silent, dark.
The rain had kissed the streets and washed the city's grime away –
And water, clear, in curbside pools, reflected sky and clouds...

I walked in silence, breathing in the moisture in the air.
The schools and work had ended, freeing me, awhile, of care...
I walked towards a funeral home.  Another one had died...
I asked the clouds who next would leave.  But none of them replied...

So summer starts – and freedom brings awareness and release.
And yet, I hear, in solitude, the clamor of the crowd.
So little fishes in a pool, beside a waterfall,
Might hear the ceaseless roar – and sense, perhaps, their transience...
And so might soldiers question clouds, expecting no reply...

2013 June 26th, Wed. & 27th, Thu.
Brooklyn

By the Sea

By the Sea

I wandered like a jackal by the sea,
Searching for my dinner, endlessly,
While finding morsels here and there to munch,
With feces, dry, enough for jackal's lunch.

I wandered, slowly, by the sounding sea,
And knew that little time remained to be.
And from that sea, these phrases soft I heard,
“The body leaves, but there remains the word.”

I wandered lonely, by the wind-swept sea,
With thoughts of us and them and you and me,
And wandered how, from sea of floating turds,
There still might rise, perhaps, immortal words.

And so I sat to scribble down some verse,
Not knowing what was bad and what was worse,
But trusting that, perhaps, from mangled line,
A future jackal might make dinner fine.

And so I looked upon the rolling sea –
And drifting there, I saw, were you and me
And those departed, drifting in that sea,
With wind-swept waves that murmured endlessly.

And then I knew, while sitting on that bench,
Beside the sea, that from the sordid stench
Of sewage, there can rise, with passing time,
The trees, the grass and this – my waving rhyme.

I wandered then, beside that roiling deep,
And knowing I had nothing left to keep,
I was content to let my verses go
And homewards turn, with footsteps measured, slow.

2013 June 16th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

It's Raining Now In Brooklyn

It's Raining Now In Brooklyn

It's raining now in Brooklyn as the sky is lit in grays.
It's raining now in Brooklyn as the trees are glowing green.
It's raining now in Brooklyn as the congregation prays.
It's raining now in Brooklyn on this evening so serene.
It's raining now in Brooklyn as the day is ending slow.
It's raining now in Brooklyn as I slowly homeward go.

It will rain tonight in Brooklyn as the water slowly seeps.
It will rain tonight in Brooklyn as the cars are whooshing by.
It will rain tonight in Brooklyn as the tired city sleeps.
It will rain tonight in Brooklyn as the clouds become the sky.
It will rain tonight in Brooklyn as the world is turning slow.
It will rain tonight in Brooklyn and the dreams will come and go.

It will rain tomorrow morning and through all of Saturday.
It will rain tomorrow evening, as the skies grow dark again.
It will rain till it is dawning, when I will wake and I will say,
“The rain has finally ended.  And there's nothing to explain.”
And I will rise to walk in Brooklyn as the sun is rising slow,
I will rise to walk in Brooklyn as I've nowhere else to go.

2013 June 7th, Fri.
Brooklyn