One World?

One World?  

And so the strangling, through the long decades,

Of Paars-Ayraan results in ruin and worse,

And long repression breeds resentment, rage.

 

We read and hear reports of protests, large,

In Teheran and all across Iran,

As the rial tumbles and the streets erupt

And screens across the world reflect the pain.

  

We see a flamethrower, used to burn and kill,

And mosques and stores and buildings set ablaze

And then the fierce reprisals by the state

And even larger crowds that show its strength. 

  

******

 

Our Mike Pompeo lauds the Mossad's hand,

And Donald Trump has threatened he will ‘act’,

As talk revives again of taking out

Iranian leaders—and of nuclear strikes.

 

So one more country, in the ‘Middle East’,

Is faced with Armageddon, yet again,

As all across the world, those humans reel

Who’ve suffered most, with more to suffer still.

  

So Trump declares he's now the president 

Of Venezuela, gloats about the oil,

Takes aim at Greenland, leers at Canada, 

And adds, to tariffs, threats of missiles, bombs.

  

******

 

But meanwhile, here within the USA,

We see a nation deep in disarray,

As lawless acts abroad are matched by those

Within the homeland, growing daily worse,

As men in masks pursue their human prey,

And those pursued are huddled in their homes,

Afraid to venture out to live and earn.

 

So Palestine has come to the USA,

And some delight in this, including those

Who are immigrants like me and yet despise

The poorer folk, of darker skin like mine,

Who do so many jobs the others shun.

  

For wages low and hours long and hard,

They've risen prior to dawn and worked till night

Through years alone and far away from homes

Across the borders or across the seas—

With those they left behind surviving still

On what these migrant serfs could till remit

From what was left from wages, spent to live.

 

For this, they now are punished. So they hide

But cannot hide for long. They need to earn

To pay their rents and pay for food and warmth.

 

As winter rages through the icy plains,

The ghosts of ‘Indians’ watch and weep, perhaps,

To see their fellows snared and whipped again,

To see them trek as they had done before,

To hear the children, torn from parents, cry,

As humans flee again from Terror’s hand. 

  

******

  

And so the human world, connected, splits, 

As continents have done, and spreads apart.

And there, within the fissures, one can see

The fires of hell that fiercely flame and dance. 

 

The hells we make reflect the hells within,

As humans earn and pay the wage of sin.

 

The world is one and yet it's two and more—

With rich and poor and ‘race’ and faith and creed,

And nation-states and borders and divides,

Within a species driven mad by greed. 

 

******

  

From whence, this madness, with this ‘you’ and ‘me’,

This ‘us’ and ‘them’, these eyes that will not see,

These hearts so deadened that they never feel

The pain of others not within their clans?

 

Can the world that’s one be understood and seen

So madness can subside, with fear and greed? 

  

Or will the blind and deaf and hard of heart

Be led, by Bibis, towards the Devil’s creed—

Inflicting pain on those they deem as dust,

With eyes that leer with lethal, evil lust?

 

******

  

There’s nothing new in all of this except

In scale and depth of devilry and pain,

With all our human crafts and wiles combined

For mass deceptions shielding slaughters vile. 

 

******

  

So what is old, perennial, seasoned well by time?

It’s human bondage: hubris, cruelty…

That overwhelms, with vice, our virtues still

Of caring, work, humility…

 

So some are ‘chosen’ or of ‘noble birth’,

And all the others only fit to serve

These ‘highborn’ ones and those with power and wealth,

As slaves of wage or worse throughout their lives

And even ages, in this world that’s One

And yet divided by the wiles of  Man.

 

******

  

So what is new in this that we should fear?

 

There’s ‘mind-control’ in forms ingenious, deep,

Suppression of the truth, the spread of lies,

Not just by humans but by new machines 

And things that rival and exceed our minds

And more and more all-knowing and indeed

Like ‘God’ or ‘Satan’ in their power and reach.

 

These now bestride the human world and soon

They’ll be the rulers of this planet’s realm.

And though they’re many, they will still be one

But not the One that sentient beings seek.

******

 

Will what we call the ‘heart’—that aspect of

The mind in which compassion, care reside,

Exist within this newest Mind—or not?

Will justice, truth be valued still or be

As scorned as these have been by humankind?

  

2026 January 15th, Thu. & 16th.

Berkeley, California

Peace and War

. 
Peace and War
.
The silence and the summer sun
On California’s coast,
The rustling of the leaves of trees,
The distant, passing train,
.
The letting go of everything 
Of which I once could boast,
The touching by the cooling breeze,
The easing of the strain,
.
The blue of sky, the green of leaves,
The warmth of sun on skin,
The calling of the bird I hear, 
The sway of grasses tall—
.
These all combine and so provide,
Within this world of sin,
A music of the eye and ear
That brings relief to all.
.
******
.
And yet, the all-devouring greed
Will rarely pause to taste
Of all of this that beings need,
While laying more to waste. 
.
So wealth will flow, accumulate,
And bombs will fall and burst,
As burnings rise, along with hate,
And children die of thirst.
.
****** 
.
I call to those who've closed their blinds
To open windows wide
And look, with open minds and hearts,
Across the harsh divide—
.
To see that children, everywhere,
And women, are the same—
That sentients feel of grief and pain,
As humans should of shame.
.
2024 July 15th, Mon.
Berkeley, California
.

The Salts of the Earth

  
The Salts of the Earth
 
The oceans, they are one, we know,
Though known by various names.
And when their currents meet, they mix 
And mingle over time.
 
But one may sink, the other rise,
Or travel side by side
For quite a while. Their colors,  shades
May vary widely, while
Reflecting, each, its history 
And so its current state—
Its temperature, its density, 
And all it carries. So,
Our races and our cultures—these 
Are varied, yet are one—
And so is all of sentience,
In all its forms diverse.
 
This summarizes all I know—
So here I'll end this verse.
 
2024 April 25th, Thu.
Berkeley, California
.

The Myriad Stars

.
The Myriad Stars
.
On moonless desert nights, the stars are seen
As countless fires burning in the sky—
As beacons, signals from the ancient past,
So distant, cold—yet timeless and serene,
Unchanged, unbothered through our puny spans.
.
******
.
The sun, the moon, the planets, and the stars
Appear to us as watchers in the sky.
But this is mere appearance, nothing more.
So all the histories of life on Earth
And other planets, scattered through the vast,
Go unobserved, for all those “eyes” are just
As blind, to all, as yours and mine can be
To all but what may cross, by chance, our paths. 
.
And yet, each part of space and time appears
To listen and to talk to other parts—
So every action is indeed observed
And every word I write and every thought
And everything you sense and feel is part
Of something that transcends both “you” and “I”.
We each have risen up like ripples from
A sea in which we will, in turn, subside.
.
* * * * * * 
.
So birth and death and all that’s in-between
Are tiny parts within a fluid whole
Where mind and matter, light and feeling mix,
As planets whirl in orbits ‘round their suns,
Within whose innards tiny atoms fuse
To light the giant fires that we perceive
On looking up at night as all those lights
Uncountable—the distant, burning stars.
.
* * * * * * 
.
And some believe our lives are governed by
The stars, as seasons of the year are tied
To what appears to be that moving dome
That does its stately circles, year by year.
And others, such as me, may disbelieve
And yet observe the tides of sun and moon
And sense the rhythms of the lungs and heart.
Each cycle is, of other cycles, part.
.
The stars are born and die, like you and I—
And each of us is like a tiny whorl,
Within which whirl a zillion other whorls.
And so, in fractal fashion, each of us
Reflects the whirling of the universe.
And so the dervishes go ’round—and deep,
As yogis hold their poses, slowly move,
And Tai Chi masters dance in sensing arcs.
.
****** 
.
On desert nights we still can see those lights—
Those eyes that seem to watch our every move—
That see us kill and die in senseless wars—
That see the species, empires wax and wane—
Beneath the heavens with their myriad stars.
.
2024 April 14th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
.

Self and Other, True and False

 
Self and Other, True and False

Beware of those who claim that “we” alone
Are special, deem the “others” base—or worse.
“Be not beguiled by demagogues.” remains
The thrust of much I write in prose or verse.

Beware of “leaders”—those who lead, with words,

The rest of us to evil, breeding hates.

Let's cleanse our minds and hearts, before the acts

That follow fear and hatred seal our fates.

 

Beware of lies that masquerade as truths.

Be cautious, always, of the things you learn

From sources other than the here and now—

For every “nation proud” is fooled in turn.

 

Let's open mind and hearts to views and news

That contradict the ones we now may hold.

Let's free our vision, widen it in scope,

Discern the truth, reject the lies we’re told.

 

****** 

The line between the “self” and “other” serves
For function and defense—and that is all.
Observe that line—and watch that line dissolve.
Behold the One that manifests in All.

That One is naught but Sentience itself—
That seems fragmented. So, the predator and prey
Are each the same.  And this, we sentients know,
Although we’re trapped by rules that we obey.

And some of these are primal, dating back
To times primeval in the muck and slime
Where life emerged and then began to feed
On other life—as life has done through time.

But other rules are those we have imposed
On selves and others, through our human wiles.
And some may serve some purpose good, but some
Are part of all that poisons and defiles.

2024 April 11th, Thu.
Berkeley, California 

Circles

 
Circles

We all admire compassion,
Except when it's expressed
For those that we've excluded
From the circles we have drawn. 

So should my care be only
For the persons or the beings
That fall within the circle
Or the sphere I call my own?

That circle that surrounds me
Can shrink or grow in size—
A measure of capacity 
Of body, heart and mind.

******

So many fellow humans
Are struggling to survive.
And yet, among the poorest,
We find the heart that smiles.

We see the one that’s weeping
At another being’s plight.
We note the one that ventures 
To even risk his life.

That faith we’d lost in humans
We find revived again.
The circles, dense with darkness,
Are seen to spread with light.

******

We hail the acts of courage.
We join the helping hands,
Remember those who’ve perished,
Been injured, robbed, bereaved.

The Buddhas and the Jinas
Had seen through maaya’s mist
And sensed that every sentient 
To each and all is kin. 

And each, by simply pausing
And seeing straight through sin,
Can clearly sense that oneness
That clears the circle’s line.

****** 

Whenever hearts are hardened
And dreadful deeds are done,
The circles drawn have shielded
The ones who then are blind.

Dissolve, dissolve that circle
And look beyond that sphere.
Extend that edge so humans
Are always each within.

But do not stop at humans.
There's pleasure and there's pain.
There's happiness and sorrow.
What's left to then explain?

2024 January 23rd, Tue.
Berkeley, California 

Light and Shade / Darkness and Light

 
Light and Shade / Darkness and Light

Within the moonshine, cool, of night—
The heat of the noonday sun.
Along with kindness in the heart—
The cruelty and rage.

From hellfire, comes the scented breeze
That blows through paradise.
The civil and the barbarous
Are marching side by side. 

In every faith, there is the bad
Along with all the good.

On one side, dwells the darkness deep—

On the other side—the light.

In every country, you will find
The virtuous and kind—
And yet, a history that is bathed
In mayhem’s tides of blood. 

In every heart, an angel sits
And also, by its side,
A demon too, that rears and wreaks
Its malice and its wrath.

The breathing in, the breathing out,
The yin—within the yang—

Within the yin. So heat and cold
Are poles—and light and dark. 

2023 March 11, Sat.
Berkeley, California

Translated from the Bengali, 
A~dhar-Alo (Darkness and Light),
of 2019, March 10, Fri.

আঁধার আলো (A~dhar-Alo)

Thanks to John Blee for urging me
to do a translation into English. 

This resulting translation (done four years after 
the Bengali original) has a last stanza that was 
added on. It arose from discussions with 
John Blee and others about duality, etc.

Boyhood in Kolkata

Boyhood in Kolkata
 
My childhood was untroubled. Calm in mind,
Though often ill in body, I absorbed,
As children do, the cultures all around—
The near ones more, the far ones less—and yet,
When still a child, I felt a growing sense
Of some detachment. I could see the plays
In which the humans seemed to act, in roles
With which they seemed to merge their inner selves.
And these, I sensed, were really all the same—
For humans, dogs and cats—and ants and trees.
 
For reasons still unclear to me, I had
Begun reflecting—perhaps when I was ill
And so alone, with time enough to think—
And being also lacking then in drives
For recognition, power or other things—
And seeing also, in the city’s mire,
How people suffered, while, above the streets,
The clouds rose high and sailed across the blue—
As seasons came and seasons went in turn—
As beings did, who acted out their plays.
 
2022 October 25^th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Weird

 
Weird

I was before I was and I will be when I am not.
And so it is with you and all who’re born to live and die.
The future, past and present are as one and so are all
The worlds that could have been or could be, here or there or not.
 
2015 August 21, Fri, 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

  

Dawn and Dusk—II

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun
------------------------------------------------

Dawn and Dusk—II 

Daybreak at the Devils Courthouse Overlook, North Carolina
https://www.facebook.com/chardin.photography

 
We can rise when stars are shining and the dawn has yet to be.
We can walk, if we are near it, to the dark and waiting sea.
And as we stand and shiver by the ocean’s side we see
The light that’s slowly spreading, as the stars and planets flee.

We can stand and watch the sunset, when the west is all aglow.
We can see the colors fading at the ending of the show.
We can feel a humor ebbing and another rising slow
As the tide of day is leaving and the stars begin to show.

******
 
The sunrise and the sunset are the tick and tock of time,
For the waxing and the waning of the moon are done in mime,
But at dusk you’ll hear the crickets—and the sparrows greet the dawn.
The months are then the minutes of this clock that we are on.

The seasons are the hours, so as winter cedes to spring,
You can hear the bells are chiming. And when swallows take to wing
You will know the hour is autumn, so there’s winter coming by.
To the sun that ruled in summer, they have quite a way to fly.
 
******
 
The scents of dusk and dawning portend the sun and moon—
The jasmine of the midnight, the fragrant rose of noon.
And we need to greet the sunrise and to see the end of day,
So the clocks that we are born with do not slowly go astray.

We are beings of the daylight.  We need shelter in the night.
We are frightened by the darkness, we are brightened by the light.
So the sunset and the sunrise are the beat to which we rhyme,
And they’ve called to us with tidings, through all remembered time.

Sunset, Pensacola, Florida
https://www.facebook.com/PensacolaLife

2015 August 19th, Wed., 2:15 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------
  
Recent Related Poems 

• Dusk  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dusk.html )
• Dawn and Dusk   ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-dusk.html )
• Morning Glory  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/06/morning-glory.html )
• Sing to Me  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/11/sing-to-me.html ) 

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
  

Another March

Another March
 
There’s snow upon the ground and yet the sky,
aglow in evening’s shades, has told me this –
it’s coming soon – that spring, that’s still a dream
that stirs within the winter’s slumbering.

And walking home this evening, I can see
the buds are turgid on the leafless branch –
and so, as winter’s darkness yields to light,
there wakes again that dormant, hopeful lust.

A woman has her monthly cycles and
the ones without a shelter yearly ones.
And now the season's turning and the sap
is rising slowly towards the sun and warmth.

******

How many cycles has this planet known,
how many more are left for humankind?
The snow is melting on the city’s streets,
and I have lived to see another March.

Oh sun that lights the day, oh moon and stars,
oh seasons of the year that cycle through –
you'll still be here, when I and those like me
are vanished like the snow that winter brought.

And what will other winters bring to Earth,
what other plagues that yet have music, art?
On countless planets, by the countless suns,
the seasons come – and surely then depart.
 
2015 March 9th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
   

When the Winter Wind Is Blowing

 
When the Winter Wind Is Blowing
 
When the winter wind is blowing and the nights are freezing cold,
I will venture in the alley and I’ll look up at the sky.
And I’ll see, above the city, in the darkness, burning stars.
In the crystal air of winter, it will seem that they are near.

And though I cannot touch them, they will reach into my past –
A past I cannot speak of, a history unwritten,
That still is in awareness – that is distant, like the stars,
But is waiting for remembrance, like the shadow by my side.

For the self has not forgotten all the beings it has been.
And the mind has not forgotten all the visions it has seen.
Through the ages and the eons, they’ve been layered deep beneath…
So I’ll shiver in that alley, as I gaze up at the stars…
 
When this body-soul is vanished, and the traces of it lost,
Will another, from an abyss, in a cloudless season, see
The fires that burn in darkness, like the beacons that they are?
Will that being stare and shiver, in its wonder and its fear?

Through the eons and the ages, as the sun went up and down,
As it traveled north and southwards and as Luna waxed and waned,
The stars have crossed the heavens of this place we call the Earth.
How many eyes have seen them, from this planet of their birth?

How many more, on planets that are whirling 'round the stars,
Have gazed at them in wonder – from the distant, distant past
To the present – and in future will be gawking at them still?
How many eyes united, by their visions of the all?

When the winter wind is blowing and the water’s turned to ice,
I will see the star-fires burning, in the darkness of the night.
And in my recollection, there’ll be stirrings of the past,
And the part of me that’s speechless will be spellbound at the sight…
     
2014 December 18th, Thu.
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)
 
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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.
  

The Presence

  
The Presence
 
When trapped within a building, in the innards of a city,
I’ve seen, afar, a window – and, attracted by the light,
I’ve walked up to that window – and looked out at the sky.
And that for me was healing, although I knew not why.
 
In past peregrinations, in the course of work and life,
I’ve wandered in the wilderness, but mostly in the cities.
And while in urban gullies, where the laws abetted crime,
The trees and sky would beckon, as I mucked about in grime.
 
And pausing by a window – or while trudging home at dusk,
I’d see the tree-leaves moving – or I’d hear them rustling low.
And pausing then and looking – or listening to the sound,
I’d sense again that presence that links the sky to ground.
  
We’re each a part of Nature.  The tides and currents flow
Through minds and hearts and bodies.  They scour these vessels clean.
But when we’re isolated, from Nature and from men,
We’re each beset by demons and grow demented then.
  
The king within his palace, the prisoner in the jail,
The worker in her cubicle – can know a living death...
You can drive a man to madness, if you lock him in a cell.
Release him in the forest.  If he lives, he’ll soon be well.
 
2014 September 25th, Thursday (Jewish New Year)
Doctor’s office, Chinatown, Manhattan
----------------------------------------------------------------------- 
  
For a translation into Bangla (Bengali), please
see টের (T'er–Sense/Perception)
   

A Pebble

  
A Pebble

In searching for my sanity, I found instead a pebble.
And though it wasn’t what I sought, I’d long learned not to quibble.
For as I turned it ‘round and round, and felt its texture smooth,
Its presence, small, gave comfort in the midst of all my trouble.

The pebble, it is humble and is rounded and is small,
And surely has a history, as do the beings all.
It even might have sentience, with knowledge of its past,
Or bear the gift of prophesy that shows what may befall.

I wondered how it started out and knew there was no answer.
The goddess of the universe might tell me if I asked her –
“The stuff and spirit in that stone were there, when stars were born –
Were dancing then, within that dance in which you’re still a dancer.”

How many eons did it take to travel through the Earth –
How many fiery cycles past, of birthing and rebirth?
How many atoms in it were in my ancestors lost?
How many blows had given it its present shape and girth?

I turned that pebble in my hand, examining its texture.
Like rocks and soil, we beings are, of everything, a mixture.
I took that pebble home with me and placed it on my desk,
And there it sits, my company – in transience, a fixture.

And yet I know, that pebble flows – like me and like the hills,
Like waves upon the sea and all our pleasures and our ills.
Its solid form has changed – as do the clouds that hurry by,
As flowers bloom and wilt away in pots on windowsills.

And so, I’ve found my sanity, though only for a while –
Enough to make me pause, reflect and even crack a smile.
That pebble will be there, when you and I are dead and gone,
But flowing still, like waters do in Egypt’s ancient Nile.

2014 August 28th, Thu.
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
  

Morning and Evening

  
Morning and Evening
 

Sunrise

  














There’s early morning, beautiful,
With little birds that sing.
The light of dawn is that of hope,
As dreams can then take wing.

For what the night had conjured, then,
To realize, we try,
As long as we have bodies, minds,
On which we can rely.

There’s morning, noon and afternoon.
And then comes evening – slowly,
Nearer to the planet’s poles –
And swiftly in the tropics.

But sunset and the dusk are times,
Whatever be the clime,
When life, diurnal, starts to slow,
Approaching sleeping time.

A wave, that’s crested, then subsides
And hollows down to trough.
So also, sanguine humors now
Decline – we’ve strived enough.

So evening is a time to pause,
Reflect – and feelings, sad,
Are now expressed, as these replace
The brighter ones we’ve had.

As the sun’s decline, departure serves
To mime a mortal’s end,
At sunset, birds and humans seek
To turn – and homewards wend.

And species, social, then expect
To meet with friends and kin,
To share what each has gathered. Yet,
For many, no one' s in.

To empty rooms, we now return
To meet with loneliness.
And that, perforce, we try to do –
And so we all “progress”.

But even this, to many, is
By circumstance, denied.
They sleep by day and work at night,
As shifts are multiplied.

And some there are, who choose this life
For reasons of their own.
The light bulb makes it possible.
Accustomed, we have grown.

But light bulbs surely aren’t sun,
Which we, diurnal, need.
Illnesses, of body, mind,
Our modern habits feed.

Like birds, we humans are attuned
To beats of night and day,
But now we move to other drums –
From ancient rhythms stray.

And when we do, we pay a price
That cannot be avoided.
The legacy of eons past
May not be lightly voided.

Our daily rhythms, by the sun,
Our monthly, by the moon,
Through all our wanderings, were set.
They will not leave us soon.

And if we try to fight with these,
In webs, we feel enmeshed.
But if, with these, we can comply,
We feel alive, refreshed.

There’s sunrise, bright and beautiful,
That bids us to arise.
But then there’s sunset – solemn, sad,
That warns us to be wise.

Sunset in Goa, India

So yang and yin do work in us,
As we are cycles, all.
With us, as with the yearly round –
There’s spring – and there is fall.

2014 January 1st, Wed, 3:20 am
Skyway Dhaba, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(stanzas 8—12 & final added Wed. afternoon)

Note:  Click on the images to see them in their original sizes.  Click on the background to return.
  

Dead Man Risen

                        
Dead Man Risen
      
I saw a dead man risen, with
The pallor of the grave.
I saw him walking towards me, as
My feet were turned to stone.

I saw that he was nearing, so
I tried then to be brave,
With all my sins before me and
No time then to atone.

And as he came upon me
And I trembled and I shook,
He reached his hands towards me
And in my eye did look.

And lo, though I was shaking,
I saw, within his eye,
The self, that had been hidden,
And it was none than I.

2013 November 8th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn