Brooklyn at Dusk

Brooklyn at Dusk

It was mid-November, here at Brooklyn’s edge,
Where land and ocean meet—and city folk,
Returning home, can see the sky again.
And so I’d paused awhile, beside the door,
As I had done so many times before.

The day was ending and the air was chill.
The clouds had covered up the sky in grays.
I watched them moving, slowly, west to east.
The trees had very little left of leaves.
They stood outlined, with all their limbs revealed.

And as I watched, the light of day was drained
And in its place there came the gloom of eve.
I felt a sadness, yet I sensed a calm,
As all the hustle of the city ebbed—
And one by one I saw the stars again.

2018 November 20th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Evening Show

The Evening Show 
  

unfinished

I saw the moon beneath the drifting clouds,

above the city’s lights, at eventide.
The clouds were dark, the moon a shining orb
and all the sky a stage for this display—
until the clouds had veiled the moon again.

And then, beneath that shrouded moon, I saw
a blinking firefly-plane go sailing by.

And as I watched, the moon peeked in and out—
a lamp suspended in the eastern sky,
as clouds, like wind-tossed curtains, parted, closed—
and I stood staring, through the city’s lights.

2018 October 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Winter neared its end, I saw a tree,
Denuded, waiting patiently for Spring,
With limbs outstretched towards the white and blue
And towards that sun in which the trees delight.

It was the sun that whispers of the time
When roads will shimmer in the summer's heat,
And leaves will flutter as the branches sway
In pleasant breezes blowing from the sea.

And as I stood and squinted at the sky,
I saw the balance and the grace in trees,
Whose trunks and branches reach towards the light,
As roots we cannot see dig downward, deep.

I looked awhile in wonder and in awe
At this—this beauty on the city's street,
And then resumed my walking towards the train,
As trees stood waiting, near to Brooklyn's shore.

2018 April 9th, Mon. afternoon
D train from Brooklyn to Manhattan
 

There's a Fog Tonight in Brooklyn

There's a Fog Tonight in Brooklyn

There's a fog tonight in Brooklyn
And it brings back memories.
I can hear a fog horn wailing,
And I remember times.
I can see the street lights haloed,
I can see the signals change,
As the fog is slow drifting
And a horn sounds out at sea.
There's a fog tonight in Brooklyn
And it brings back memories.

2018-02-20 Tue
Brooklyn, NY

Related:
There's a Mist Tonight in Brooklyn
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/theres-mist-tonight-in-brooklyn.html )

Baba (Dear Father)

Baba (Dear Father)

The summer solstice came and went—and now
the date approaches when you left this life
and so returned to nothingness again.

So mother too had left, a month before—
like you, before the school-year came to end
and set me free, for August and July—
too late, that year, for her—and then for you.

And so your daughter too had gone—before
you both—and left us all disconsolate.

******

Now school is ending—and there’s time to pause,
returning home—to sit within a park,
the playground of a school, bereft of trees—
with tar and concrete, where there should be grass.

So here I sit and bask in summer’s sun—
or swelter, as those summers come to mind,
beneath those skies that arced in brilliance,
beneath that sun that burned our darkened skins—
and in that land where you and I were born.

******

How close and distant were the father, son—
how rare and dear the tears that you and I
had wept, across the years and continents.

By culture, I was bred for reverence—
and more for elders than for all the gods.

But here I sit and weep, in quietude,
with little children’s voices wafting by,
remembering you, who once was little too—
and flew your kite, beneath that tropic sun.
 
******

How many children cry for parents lost,
how many parents for their children gone—
how many for a sibling or a friend,
or elder, younger—who is now no more…

So little time for joy—or even grief,
amidst the hustle of the city’s streets,
amidst the passage of a harried life…

How precious then, this time at summer’s start—
to pause and find the time to think of you.

2017 June 22, Thursday, 4:31 pm
playground, Public School 186
between 76th and 77th Streets, off 16th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

  

Below and Above

Below and Above

The train careens through darkness for a while
and then we see the columns flashing by.
Along the other side, the people wait
upon a lighted platform for their train—
but then we plunge in darkness once again.
  
In time, the next one—not a soul in sight,
just advertisements on the shining walls.
And so, with alternating darkness, light,
we ride the subway, through the tunnels, till
we surface and we sight the open sky.
   
****** 
  
We only were beneath for half an hour—
yet how we missed these arcing blues and whites,
these greens, that passing glimpse of russet earth,
and there—a bird that lightly takes to wing.
 
There now are buildings, people, cars on streets,
a sun that hides behind the clouds—and then
strikes out with dazzling brilliance.  We squint.
So zombies might awake—to live again.

2016 October 4th, Tue, 4:25 pm
(on the D-train from Manhattan)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Autumn Afternoon

Autumn Afternoon

The summer should have ended. It is now mid-September, but the warmth remains. It’s only in the early mornings that we feel at times the season’s warning chill.

The memory of winter, faded through the year, revives. The laxness of the summer’s days is now replaced by tightening. The reaper comes, although the trees and all resist.

An autumn afternoon, within the park: the sun is slanting through the leafy trees; it could be summer, but the heat is gone, the shorts are scarce—and the grounds are strewn with leaves.

The adults and the children stroll and play—as elders, on the benches, contemplate. The sky is bright, although the sun swings low. The grass has faded from the lack of rain.

A breeze stirs up the dust. It’s lit by sun that falls, in shafts, upon the yellowed grass beneath the trees. Those trees are mostly green, with just a few that now are losing leaves.
 
The days have shortened. Soon, the sun will set. Then all the lamps that line the path around the central lawn will glow, as dusk descends—and children leave the park to those like me.

2016 September 17th, Sat., 6:20 pm
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York 
(2nd & 4th stanzas added Sep. 18th)
 

A Bit of Peace

A Bit of Peace

The rain had ended when I reached the house.
I entered then the paved and fenced-in yard—
a little rectangle, before the stairs,
that then was strewn with wet and yellowed leaves.
And there, upon a wooden bench that still
was damp from rain, I sat and ate my lunch—
my store-bought sandwich halves of bread and cheese,
while sipping coffee from a paper cup,
my dollars paid—for just a bit of peace.

The fence was low and made of bars and curves
of iron, painted black but rusted through.
It offered no obstruction to the view
of houses and a street with lines of trees
that then were shedding leaves as fall approached
but still were clothed in waving foliage.
They soared in all their grace and majesty,
as shades of gray and white and hues of blue
were backdrops to the dances of the trees.

The tree across the pavement from the yard
rose up and arced against the clearing sky.
It seemed to be as old as me—or more.
And if the storms and humans spared it, then
it surely would outlive my span—and so
another, after I am gone, might sit
and eat his lunch and gaze at tree and sky,
upon this bench or on the stairs, at peace,
and like me, wonder—whither, whence and why.

2016 September 1st, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The City’s Trees

 
The City’s Trees
 
The city’s trees are beautiful.
They comfort, through the year,
The harried folk who’re passing by
And chance to stop and see.

******

In spring, their tender leaves appear
And some are lit by blooms.
In summer, dressed in richest greens,
They shimmer in the sun.

In autumn, as they shed their leaves,
They blaze in many hues.
In wintertime, they’re stripped and bare
And yet are clothed in grace.

We see their twisting symmetry—
The balance in the dance.
We marvel at their nudity
Beneath the winter sky.

******
 
That winter sky can be as gray
Or clear as mind and soul.
All winter long, the trees will stand
As clouds go floating by.
 
The clouds are changelings and we too
Are changing, day by day.
The trees are slower beings, yet
They dance, as humans age.

We wait for spring and so do they—
For spring will surely come.
And summer then will follow soon—
And autumn in its time.

******
 
The seasons come, the seasons go—
And in the city’s streets
The workers rush about—and some
Find comfort in the trees.

2015 December 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 
     

To Family Members Fleeing the City’s Summer

 
To Family Members Fleeing the City’s Summer

In summertime, we sweat a lot
And wonder, should we leave or not
The city, with its heated air,
Or stay, as if we didn't care.

And some depart, in buses, trains
And those with means in speeding 'planes
And others in their private cars,
While I remain.  It's in my stars.

So go, and let the gods give wings
To those like you.  The distance sings.
It calls—and you respond and go.
But some of us are always slow.

We flow like treacle and molasses.
We sit and slowly grow our asses
If we're women, or our bellies
If we're men—and watch our tellies.

But wait!  I'm sorry, I forget
That now it is the Internet.
I sit and type—and on my screen
Appear those images serene.

So you may hurry hence, while I
Am asking, whither, wherefore, why.
For using only keystrokes, see—
I'm down by the Aegean Sea.

And if I tire of boobs and muscle,
I then can very swiftly hustle
And lo!  I'm high up in the Andes
Or praying by the river Ganges.

So go, and have your bit of fun.
I know from what you need to run.
But I shall stay within this sauna,
Melding with the city’s fauna.

Perhaps I’ll wander to the shore,
As I have done in years before
And slowly walk by Gravesend Bay,
While all of you are far away.

And who of us has rested less
And had perhaps the greater stress,
We’ll see, when we are reunited
And all we’ve done is then recited.

And yes, I’m sure my own account
Might then be deemed as not to count.
So I, with yours, will be content.
Contentment is my main intent.

So whether on Virginia’s beaches
Or deep in DC’s inner reaches,
If you ever think of me,
Know, from wanderlust, I’m free.

I’ve climbed upon the Himalayas,
And whiskered tigers in their lairs.
I’ve done this, while within this city,
Which might or might not be a pity.

2015 July 9th, Thu, 12:49 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Ablaze

Ablaze

At the solstice, as the summer sun
was fiercely beating on the city’s streets,
I stood beside the bus stop for a while
and then took shelter underneath a tree.

And from that shade I looked around and saw
that roads and sidewalks both appeared ablaze.

And yet, amidst the flames, the people stood
with squinted eyes and peered and craned their necks,
impatient for the bus and its cooling bliss—
an air-conditioned heaven, sent on wheels.

But when it came, the bus was crowded, with
a press of bodies, radiating heat—
the women with their curving flesh exposed,
the bearded Jews, perspiring in their suits,
and all the others, from around the world,
as if about to fuse from summer’s heat.
 
I stood and breathed the humid air and thought,
in time, I will be home and free from this.
 
There was no a.c. in our flat. The fan
was only in the kitchen, waiting, still.
But I could strip off all my sweaty clothes
and in my vest and shorts await the eve.
 
And with that thought in mind, I stood and swayed,
from time to time in touch with a neighbor’s skin,
as damp as mine and just as warm or more,
as Brooklyn's south passed by, by summer lit.
   
2015 June 23rd, Tue, around 3:45 to 4:15 pm
(returning home to Bensonhurst from grading NY State examinations at Grady High School in Brighton Beach, waiting first at the bus stop on Ocean Parkway and then riding on the B1 bus, which runs locally along Ocean Pkwy, Ave X and 86th Street) 
southwestern 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
  

American Fatalism

 
American Fatalism

The poor in India, suffering much, might say
that fate and fortune are the gods that rule
and when these make decisions and decrees,
the mortals then, who whimper, must accept.

But strangely, here, in these United States,
in New York City, I have found again,
among the teachers in the city schools,
the same acceptance, midst the murmuring.

“That’s how it is.” they say, and so accept
inequities and things so clearly wrong
for those they teach and also for themselves,
their foreheads should be tattooed with this phrase.

So each must earn the paycheck. This we know.
But so might soldiers say – and those, who brought
their prisoners to be gassed in Europe’s hells.
The same obedience – and the same excuse…

But soldiers suffer consequences worse
than teachers who, in open, disagree.
To tell their bosses, what is right and wrong,
they still decline.  The sad results, we see.

It’s more than that.  As wave on wave, sans sense,
are breaking down the fragments that remain
of reason and of decency, we hear
a mantra new. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

So snake-oils, by the priests of Mammon blessed,
by merchants marketed, are now purveyed.
And teachers make their students swallow it.
For we are workers, doing as we’re told...

Indeed, the factories that pass for schools,
that look like jails, in which we do our years,
as students do, were never built to be
the places where we learned to reason free.

But since they’re all that still is left of that
which humans had, when most had villages –
it’s time perhaps, to set the prisoners free –
so schools admit the light and hope again.

A simple thing – to say, to bosses, “No.
this isn't right.” – to say it softly, then
to say it loudly, once again – and yes,
not just alone – but in that chorus free…

There’s still a choice – to walk upon the path
on which we’re set, avoiding present pain –
or else to pause and choose the path that’s right,
before we enter more in hell again.

So do not say, “That’s how it is.” But say,
“That’s how it shouldn't be.” And do not say,
“That’s how it’s going to be.” But firmly say,
“That’s how we’re going to make it be.” instead.

We each can work until we’re worked to death
or find the many ways to seem to work,
while cutting corners. Or we each can say,
“We’ll do the work, but only what makes sense.”

No parent should be forced to do what’s wrong
for children that they've birthed and reared. So too,
no teacher should be forced to do what’s wrong
for students they've been trusted with to teach.

And if we lack the vision, ethics, guts,
to say this loud, to see, to judge for selves,
not things that others do, but we ourselves,
and then to act, what hope – and why complain?

When asked to dig the graves in which we’ll lie,
we either can comply or not.  To say
that’s there’s a middle way is nonsense, yet
we see the teachers shrug as they obey.

Our paychecks and our pensions – surely these
are things we work for.  Let’s admit that both
depend on what we all, in tandem, do
or not.  Marauders long have breached the gates.
 
2015 March 28th, Sat., 6 am
Brooklyn, New York
   

Ghouls

  

Ghouls

   

When living in a city such as this,

One wonders where the virtues all have gone.

For here’s a source of much of all the vice

That darkens this, the planet we are on… 

   

And some will say, “This place is not the worst.”

And this might be, for famine, war, disease

Are horrors – that our burghers here are spared – 

Whose ravages, in places far, increase.

   

And surely, there are decent folk who live

In cities such as this, where Mammon rules.

But these are quiet. They accept the vice,

For those who don’t are treated here as fools.

   

What place is there, in such a city, for

The ones who dream – or even write in verse?

Along with those, who point to right and wrong,

Such folk receive the cynic’s shrug – or curse.

   

What space is there, in such a race as this,

For those who pause or even dare to stand?

For both of these require a state of mind

The racers shun and will not understand. 

   

There’s sugar piled in heaps along the streets

But even children do not pause to taste.

And only when the pavements too are glazed

Do passersby attempt to check their haste.

  

For this is New York City – as in towns,

Across the world, of industry, finance,

The citizens are racing.  Each awakes

To those alarms that start the fevered dance.

   

You’ll see them running, so’s to catch the train.

You’ll catch them napping, while they ride, because

They’re short of sleep. So workers feed the fire

In which they burn.  The mills can never pause.

   

Some race because they must, to just survive,

But others have the dollar in the eye.

“Accumulate, and in the hustle, thrive!

And shove aside the ones, who question why!”

   

So finer instincts yield to coarser ones

As each competes and pushes, pulls in turn.

So men and women turn to zombies crazed,

As spirit’s ashes fill the urban urn.

     

It’s winter.  So the heaps are fallen snow

That’s sullied by the city’s soot – with light

Reflecting still from crystals – in the day

From angled sun – and from the lamps at night. 

  

But soon enough, the snow will turn to slush

And people, as they wade the pools, will curse,

As poets too, whose shoes and socks are soaked

With fluids dark and chill, neglect their verse…

   

So beauty is ignored, until it turns

To ugliness that taxes weary souls.

For this is New York City – like its twins,

Around the globe, whose denizens are ghouls.

  

They came from places far, from villages

Where people had the time to sit, converse – 

Or even towns where paces might have been

A little slower, and the speech less terse.

   

What happened?  You can see it in the kids.

In places such as this, you’ll often find,

Among the ones who still are whole, the ones

Afflicted with the illnesses of mind.

    

2015 February 7th, Sat.

(with stanzas added Feb. 8th, Sun.)

Brooklyn, New York 

   

Winter’s Rain

  
Winter’s Rain
  
The steady drip of rain on winter days
is better than the snow, for those who fear
the shoveling and mess that snow can bring.
 
And if my job had less of misery,
I then might welcome this as grace
that wets the earth and feeds the lakes – and so
prepares us for the coming of the spring.
 
But now, I walk the city’s pavements hard,
with grays of skies reflected in the streets –
and grimace.  “More of winter’s woe.”, I think –
and sourly wish I’d stayed between the sheets.

But while I walk and hear these phrases rise
and ebb like sighs within my mind, I think,
“By writing these, I’d burden others too,
who might perhaps be needing some relief.” –
and so I turn my mind to better things.
 
The grays of winter, in the polar climes,
could be our payment due for autumn’s leaves
and our deposit for the blooms of spring –
a happy thought, to mull and store away…
 
And thinking next of summer’s greenery,
I walk the streets and savor winter’s rain…
 
So such things yield – to weak philosophy.
 
2014 January 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Urban Epiphany

    
Urban Epiphany
    
On exiting the school, he saw the sky
And then the row of tall, majestic trees
That lined the street, beside the football field.
He stood and quietly looked awhile at these.
 
He saw – the trunks that dwarfed the ones like him,
The mighty arms outspread – as tentacles
That reached towards the light for nourishment,
The branches, twigs – the leaves, by autumn crisped…
 
He stood and stared awhile, and went his way,
A little being, walking to his nest,
Humbled by the trees – that would remain,
When he and those he knew were memories…
  
He trudged along, a weary working man
Who trundled home his workload for the eve.
And in the concrete “park”, he stopped to sit
And pen these lines and slowly sip his tea.
  
And as he writes of what he saw and felt,
The sky has darkened much. The traffic lights
Are flashing yellow, red and green –
And silhouettes are heading home, like him...
  
On reaching home, he’ll sit and type these lines
And post them in the ether, there to stay
Awhile, be read, perhaps, then fade away –
As even trees are lost, like men and leaves…
   
2014 October 21st, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Zombie

 
Zombie
 
In the canyons of the city, where the traffic winds its way,
I had wandered for a lifetime, so it seemed, that autumn day.
And the frenzy of the city, where the workers run and toil –
It had entered in my being, it had rooted in my soil.
 
I was born of man and woman, but had grown to something else.
For the god who reigned was Mammon, who is lord of human hells.
And all that is of Nature – of  water, earth and air,
Was routed, extirpated – what remained was my despair.
 
For so it is with workers, who must labor in the mills,
Where our demons are our masters, so our virtues there are ills.
Not the cycle of the seasons, not the surging of the tides,
But the pulsing of the street-lights is the rhythm that resides.
    
In the canyons of the city, in the factories of hell,
I had turned into a zombie, as I then could clearly tell.
As the winds of fall were blowing, as the rivers flowed to sea,
I was standing at the crosswalk, and I knew I’d ceased to be.
  
2014 October 10th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Pilgrimage—II

   
Pilgrimage—II 
 
I crossed today the river and I stood on Mammon’s isle,
On this October afternoon, as leaves were coming down...
And as it was a Saturday, I dallied there a while,
Remembering the times when I had time to walk and smile...
 
From the canyons of Manhattan, I saw the spires afar
That swam in western sunlight, with winter drawing near.
The autumn’s winds were blowing, as I ambled to the park.
I shivered as the leaves do.  It would soon be growing dark.
 
In the alleys of the boroughs, where the litter drifts like leaves,
I had wandered, as a worker, for a lifetime, so it seemed…
And the parks had been a refuge, for the ones who were like me,
Who were weary of the hustle and were neither brave nor free.

The park in which I settled was a sorry city thing,
But with trees along its margins and a tattered plastic green.
In that park, I watched the soccer, as the ball went to and fro,
And I thought of all my autumns – and the plays I’d seen before…
  
They were drawn from all the nations – all those players in the park.
And they trapped and kicked the leather, as they practiced for the game.
Then a referee (southern English) separated reds and whites.
And the players, friends and strangers, did their simple pre-game rites.
 
So hands were quickly shaken, with names and smiles exchanged.
They didn’t know each other – but they surely knew the game.
And this was quickly obvious, as the goals were deftly scored.
They’d sized up one another, and all else was now ignored.
 
I wrote my muse's verses, as I sat and watched the game.
And I blessed the ones who’d put in wooden benches, long ago.
The reds were doing better, till the whites reversed defeat.
The light grew soft and golden, as the battle gathered heat.
 
The beauty of a pastime – of a sport, as soccer is,
Is it doesn’t really matter, where you’re from or how you speak.
What matters is the playing – the enjoyment of the game.
And a win may be a glory.  But a loss is not a shame.
 
And so it is with soccer, by “white” colonials spread –
Across the widest oceans – to “yellows”, blacks and browns.
And so it with cricket and other games we play,
As season follows season – and schoolmates’ heads turn gray…
 
But the players here were young ones.  And mostly, they were men.
But women too were playing.  There were natives and the rest –
From Asia and from Europe, from the “new world” and the “old” –
From warmest parts of Africa – but here in New York’s cold.

The reds at end were rounded.  They gathered, by a bench.
The whites – they went on playing – and the blacks were now their foes.
The colors were of jerseys – and not of human skin.
And the play was not for commerce, and was mostly free of sin.
 
The whites in turn retreated.  Now blacks and reds would joust.
So tribes had once competed – and yet remained on terms.
But floodlights now were glaring.  They sky was drained of light.
‘Twas time to head on homewards, to dine at home at night.
 
And so I’ll end my stanzas and pack my notebook soon.
I’ll walk then to the station and take the D-train home.
I’ll leave the play to players, to play in blinding light.
The autumn day has ended.  Why take away from night?

I’ll walk towards the station, trying not to step on leaves –
And I’ll hear the words of nations from across the heaving seas.
I’ll find a place to pee in, as the ride to home is long.
Let’s hope the stalls are open, as that’s where our pees belong…
   
And as I travel homewards, I’ll think of what I’ve seen –
Of those enthused with soccer, who chase and kick the ball –
And those like me who wonder – at them and at the spires
That rise above Manhattan – as humankind aspires.
 
2014 October 4th, Sat.  6:40 pm
by Grand St. & Christie St., Chinatown, Manhattan
(some additions made October 5th, Sun. morning, 
 at home in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn)
---------------------------------------------------------------- 
Postscript
 
And as I neared the station, with its urine-stench in mind,
I glanced towards the playground – and upwards at the sky.
A quarter-moon was floating, above the white-limbed trees,
Whose remnant leaves were waving, in the chill October breeze.
 
The sky was of a color that I cannot quite describe.
It was blue at very deepest – it was dark and yet aglow.
It was beauty, like a gemstone, like the trees and like the moon.
In the midst of urban squalor, it was beauty, none too soon…
 
I paused for just a second, amidst the human stream,
But now my mind was smiling, as I descended down –
Down into the subway, to the cavern underground,
Where the D-train came with rumbling and much attendant sound.

And then, across the river, on the old Manhattan bridge,
With views of sky and river, and the towers of the city –
Then down again, to Brooklyn, to the tunnel deep below –
And there I sit and scribble, as I homewards, homewards go.

I’d gone to see the doctor, for the wife and for myself –
A sacred yearly ritual.  So I’d schlepped across the bridge
And I’d trod on Mammon’s island, and I’d looked upon its spires
And I’d seen the pilgrims playing, in the manner that inspires.
 
2014 October 4th, Sat., 7:34 pm
below western Brooklyn, approaching the 36th St. station
(some additions made October 5th, Sun. morning
at home in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn)
  

Twilight Therapy

     
Twilight Therapy

As the start of school was nearing, I was agitated, tense.
My progress on the clearing of my papers had been slow.
And panic was my shadow in my waking and my dreams,
As forty years of teaching turned to torture, more and more.
 
I walked towards the sea at dusk and halted, at a crossing,     
From where I saw the ocean as a darkness in the distance.
And there, as colors changed upon the traffic lights, suspended,
I stood and watched the airplanes fly across the western sky.
 
I saw their wing-lights blinking as they arced towards the north,
And I watched the sky-hues draining as the daylight slowly ebbed.
And when the streets had darkened and the trees had lost their green,
I wandered slowly homewards, feeling slightly more serene.

The drivers that were passing might have seen me standing there,
As I stood and looked to westward, at that ever-changing show.
But I doubt that they suspected I was drinking of the stuff
That could turn a mind that’s racing towards a state of healing, slow.

2014 August 26th, Tue. 8:23 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Another Leaf

     
Another Leaf
 
In the city’s loneliness,
alone, among the crowds,
she spent her final years and then
she sickened and was gone.
 
And only one or two were there
who called, before the message
said, “disconnected”. That was that.
Her e-mail goes unanswered.
 
How many like her? “Well, that’s life.”
the city dweller says.
“We meet at work and on the streets
and go upon our ways.”
 
Relatives?  She did have some,
but all in distant places.
Friends?  She’d some. But then they died,
or moved to better climates.
 
The super threw out all her stuff.
What else was he to do?
And walking on the sidewalk, I
picked up a thing or two.
 
A picture.  She was with a boy.
“Her son, perhaps?” I wondered.
“But where was he?” An idle thought.
I left it on the sidewalk.
   
******
   
I’d seen her walking, slowly, by.
I used to say hello.
She sometimes would respond and pause
to lean upon her walker.
   
The summers, autumns, winters pass.
The springs are celebrated.
But who remembers her, who so
to live and die was fated?
  
The autumn nears, and brittle leaves
are drifting on the road.
I step upon a leaf and hear
it crunching underfoot.
   
I stop and with regret I look
at the little leaf I crushed.
But then I think, “That leaf was dead.”
and leave its bits behind.
 
2014  August 10th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York