When Ice Isn't Nice

When Ice Isn't Nice

When there's ice on cement, then beware!
Together, they can be a painful snare.

And if you're older, frailer, then your hip
May not survive that sudden, fatal slip.

I skate upon the ice in sneakers, while
I keep my body low. I glide and smile.

Both shoes on ground, a "safer bet", I call.
A base that's wider may prevent a fall.

A fall, relaxed, is gentler on the bones.
But never use, on ice, your mobile phones!

I understand this might not be your tea.
But gently go -- and always careful be.

2014  January 5th Sun., 8:05 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Poet’s Complaint

The Poet’s Complaint

I met today, amidst the snow, a man I’ve known awhile,
Who stood in ragged clothes, while I was bundled head to feet.
A poet was this man, and when I asked him then, discreetly,
Why he did not dress like me, he answered, with a smile,

“I dress the same, no matter what the season.  There are trees
That clothe themselves throughout the year – yet are, in winter, bare.
But just as there are men like me, who, whistling, blizzards dare,
So there are evergreens, like pines, that winter cannot freeze.”

But I had grown impatient.  So I cleared my throat and said,
“I’ve known you now for many years, and so I’ll speak my mind.
‘To those who best apply themselves, to them is Fortune kind.’
If only you were working, you’d be better clothed and fed.”

The poet, he was silent for a moment.  Then he turned
Towards me and he smiled again, although I knew I’d wounded.
“There’s work and there is work,” he said, “and just with that, I’d end it.
But I have also known you long.  Our friendship, each has earned.

“And so, I’ll speak now seriously, no longer just in jest.
I feel I should explain myself, at least perhaps to you.
For I have lived for long – and so, with years remaining few,
I should not leave, misunderstood by those who knew me best.

“I’ve lived a life of poverty, as others often said,
And yet not lacked for anything, except what can’t be bought.
By most of the Enticements, I have never yet been caught,
Except the Muse of poetry, to whom I’ve long been wed.

“So when I’m dead, if burial of ashes then is fit,
Upon the tombstone, you can write, ‘He wrote his fill of verses,
And for this crime, received in time his fill of all our curses,
But never seemed to mind – or ever made an end of it.’

“And if my writings then are burned – or verses thrown in trash,
Remember then, that though I worked as hard as any other,
I never did, throughout my life, cause much by way of bother,
And neither did my labors or my verses garner cash.

“So if I’m judged by standards that are mercenary or
Derived from views that value only what is deemed ‘productive’,
Then surely I will be condemned.  For I was neither active
In such pursuits – nor think that these are all we’re living for.

“But if I still have one complaint, it then is surely this –
So many ways there are to live awhile and then to die,
And yet we spend our lives ensnared by every dressed-up lie,
While leaving naked truth aside – and so, our chance of bliss.”

I’d listened to his verses, in his singsong nasal mumble,
And when he stopped, I saw that he was shivering from cold.
And if I were a braver man, or harsher, then I'd scold
This poet for his foolishness – that came out in a jumble.

But being who I am, I only told him, “I have listened.
Perhaps you ought to hurry now, to where you can be warm.
It’s freezing – and I fear that, in these clothes, you’ll come to harm.”
He turned to leave.  And at his chin, I saw a drop that glistened.

2013 January 4th, Sat.
(stanzas 2-5 added Sun., early morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn  
  

Sunshine Might Be Coming By

  
Sunshine Might Be Coming By

    

The skies are gray, with drizzling rain.

The cold that’s left will come again.

And that’s the bane of northern climes

That all must bear – though some complain.

Yet one, who lives in tropic lands

With palm-trees tall and coral sands,

Of summer’s sweltering heat complains

And cooler temperatures demands.

I wonder, whether there’s a clime

That’s cool enough in wintertime

And pleasant still in summers too.

So wondering, I might end my rhyme.

But I have learned there’s such a place

That’s suited to the human race,

Where seasons all are temperate –

As climates go, a shining ace.

I sometimes, in my dreams, ascend

To where it seems that spring won’t end,

Where in December flowers bloom,

On which the hummingbirds depend.

But that is there and I am here,

With drizzling rain – but spirit sere,

With winter’s cold about to surge,

And springtime’s blooming far from near.

So I can either sit and mope

Or with the gray and drizzling cope –

Of season’s cruelties complain

Or shrug – and for some sunshine hope.

On venturing in the rain, I spy

A patch of blue in the cloudy sky.

And so I smile.  I’ve learned to flow –

And sunshine might be coming by.

2013 December 23^rd, Mon. 
Brooklyn, New York

Reprieve--II

   
Reprieve – II

It's spring-like weather here in New York City.
Pedestrians open heavy winter coats.
A night of rain has left some curdled clouds,
But elsewhere there's a sky of baby blue.

A seagull sails across – and little birds

Have perched upon a tree.  They tweet and sing.
We watch, at solstice, Nature's sly burlesque –
December strutting like she still was May.

******
  
I'd thought the songbirds all had fled, but now
I wonder where their little nests are hid.
At winter's start, official, this reprieve
Unsettles me.  I can't find rhyming words.

And yet, it's solstice – so this shortest day
Is ending, yielding to the longest night.
A golden sun is sinking in the west
And painting, warm, the walls – as sun does best.

How many days like this has Brooklyn seen,
When winter teases men with show of spring...
But three more months of cold and dark remain,
Till April comes, at last, with true relief.

****** 
    
And if some say, "You're fighting Nature." then
I would reply, "For sure, I've failed to flow.
I wait, impatient, for the days like this.
But you are free to take delight in snow."

For soon enough, we will be blanketed.
And white, pristine, will turn to gray and black.
And some may still be smiling then – at that.
But I'll stay grim until the equinox.

2013 December 21 Sat.
Brooklyn