The Green Balloon

  

The Green Balloon

  

A green balloon had fallen to the ground.

Its color glowed as the daylight changed and ebbed.
  

Its string was sticking to the rain-wet road.

With every little breeze, it seemed to fight

to free itself—to fly beneath the vault  

of rain clouds racing in the somber sky.

  

On looking at that green balloon, I felt—

There lies a one that’s much like you and I.
  

2016 August 21, Sun

Brooklyn, New York

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 
   

Mulk Chor Kar Aaya Tha -- ملک چھوڑ کر آیا تھا -- मुल्क छोर कर आया था

  
This is a translation, into Urdu-Hindi, of:
  
I Left My Country

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-left-my-country.html
   
which is itself a translation, from Bengali, of:

Dex Cher’e Elam-দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/dex-chere-elam.html
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mulk Chor Kar Aaya Tha

Parhne ke liye, mae~ mulk chor kar yah vilaayat me~ aaya tha.
Soc raha hu~, kuch paese ikat't'he hone ke baad, ghar laut' jaunga.
T'han'd'e gali pe baet'ha, mae~ ab bhiik maang raha hu~,
ta ke, bewakuufi siikhkar, mae~ apne mulk ko waapas ja saku~.
Dekhie, saahab -- mae sardi se kaa~p raha hu~.
Khuda ke naam se,
jeb se do kuart'ar dijiega.

budhvaar, 4-tha farvari, 2015 iisvi
(urdu me tarjama, iidvaar, 8-vi farvari)
(hindi me anuvaad, ravivaar, 8-vi farvari)
bruklin, nyu yo`rk
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ملک چھوڑ کر آیا تھا

  

پڑھنے کے لئے، میں ملک چھوڑ کر یہ ولایت میں آیا تھا.

سوچ رہا ہوں، کچھ پیسا اکٹٹھے ہونے کے بعد ، میں گھر لوٹ جاؤنگا.

ٹھنڈی گلی پر بیٹھے، میں اب بھیک مانگ رہا ہوں،

تا کے، بیوکوفی  سیکھ کر، میں اپنے ملک کو واپس جا سکوں.
دیکھئے, صاحب, میں سردی سے کانپ رہا ہوں.

خدا کے نام سے ، دو کوارٹار دجیگا.

بدھ، ۴ فروری، ۲۰۱۵ ایسوی

(اردو میں ترجمہ،اتوار ۸ فروری)
بروک لین، نیویا

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

  

मुल्क छोर कर आया था

पढ़ने के लिए, मैं मुल्क छोर कर यह विलायत में आया था।

सोच रहा हूँ, कुछ पैसे इकट्ठे होने से बाद, घर लौट जाऊंगा।

ठंडी गली में बैठा, मैं अभ भीक मांग रहा हूँ,

ता के, बेवकूफी सीखकर, मे अपने मुल्क को वापस जा सकूँ।

देखिए, साहब -- मैं सर्दी से काँप रहा हूँ।
भगवान के नाम से,

जेब से दो क्वार्टर दीजिएगा।

बुधवार, ४था  फ़रवरी, २०१५ ईस्वी

(उर्दू-हिंदी में अनुवाद, रविवार, ८ वि फ़रवरी)

ब्रुकलिन, न्यू यॉर्क

I Left My Country

 
I Left My Country
(translation of  Dex Cher’e Elam-দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম)
 
I left my country to educate myself.
If I could save some money, I’d go home.
I sit on the cold pavement and beg,
so I can return to my land, having learned
ignorance.
Can’t you see I’m shivering, sir?
How about a couple of quarters?

2015 February 4th, Wed.
(translated into English Feb. 6th, Fri.)
Brooklyn, New York

This is a translation, from Bengali, of:
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/dex-chere-elam.html
 

Dex Chere Elam--দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম

দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম
  
দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম সেদিন, বিদেশে শিক্ষে নিতে৷
পয়সা জমলে পরে, ভাবছি ফিরব বাড়ি৷
ঠাণ্ডা ফুটপাতে বসে, বলছি ভিক্ষে দিতে,
যাতে মূর্খমি শিখে দেশে ফিরতে পারি৷
দেখছ ত সাহেব, বড় কাঁপছি শীতে৷
জেব থেকে দুটি কোযার্টার দেও তারাতারি৷
  
বুধবার, ৪ঠা ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৫ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ যর্ক
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Dex Chere Elam
 
Dex chere elam xedin, bidexe xikkhe nite.
Po`exa jomle po`re, bhabchi phirbo bari.
T’hand’a phut’pate boxe, bolchi bhikke dite,
jate murkhomi xikhe dexe phirte pari.
Dekcho to xaheb, bo`r’o ka~pchi xite.
Jeb theke dut’i kuart’ar de`o tara-tari.

budhbar, 4-t’ha phebruari. 2014 khri
bruklin, niu io`rk

for a guide to the Romanization scheme used in this
transcription, please see the preface at the link:
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------
For an imperfect translation of this into English, please see:

I Left My Country

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-left-my-country.html
   

The Softer Voice

 
The Softer Voice
 
Be it chicken, pig or human, or a fish that swims the seas,
There’s an eye in every being, that’s recording what it sees.
And the record of the ages is a tale of endless woe,
And the promise of the future is of sorrows, even more.
 
And we glorify our species, and we name it “man the wise”,
But our history is bloody, though it’s hidden by our lies –
Horror heaped on horror, through the eons since the flood,
On us humans by us humans, in a world awash in blood…
 
Are we angels, are we devils, are we somewhere in between?
We are surely born of demons, for our actions are obscene.
But in babies as in puppies, and in grasses growing green,
For the eye that knows to see it, there’s the essence soft, serene.
 
There’s the pup that softly whimpers, there’s the little kitten’s mewl.
There’s the girl in class who’s ailing, but who follows still the rule.
There’s the leaf that’s sadly drooping and that soon will die of thirst.
There’s the gentle voice that’s calling, in a world with deafness cursed.
 
Should we go about our business, should we hurry even more?
Should we speed upon the highways, should we shun the byways slow?
There’s that softer voice that’s calling, there’s the silence of the stars.
We can choose to see and listen; we can choose to end the wars.
 
In the stillness of the sunset, in the quiet of the dawn,
In the trusting eyes of children, who were here but now are gone,
We can sense that there’s a heaven, in the midst of all the hells.
For there’s such a thing as healing – and there’s still the love that wells.
  
Forgive the ones who slaughter, forgive the ones who slay.
They know not what they’re doing, as their demons, they obey.
But don’t forget the slaughtered; have them ever in your mind.
As you go about your business, remember to be kind.
 
2014 December 17th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

In the Eye of the Cyclone

     
In the Eye of the Cyclone

We’ve had a stormy night and now the leaves
Are scattered, dead and dying, on the streets.

The winds of war are blowing strong again,
And in their eddies, dead and living swirl.

The wars of men had ended, they were told,
And yet, they’re lying wounded, dying, dead…

******
 
When caught between the sides, they ran or hid –
And when those paths were closed, they turned and fought.

The end result appears to be the same –
The odds are for injustice, darkness, death…

The great typhoon, the hurricane, destroys –
And spawns tornadoes that assist its work.

******
 
I walk the city streets, that now have sun,
And wonder where to hide and where to run.

For even though we’ve long been in the eye,
The whirling wall is moving hourly nigh…

I look upon a little leaf and see
A little girl, who will no longer be.

2014 August 13th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Comfort

   
Comfort
 
It’s strange – and sad – that some may spend their hours,
Their days and months and years – and even lives –
In labor – that of duty or of love,
And yet – have only scars to show for this.
 
For when in luck, they then were left alone,
When not, they earned their reprimands and worse.
And as they worked, they came to bear in mind
That punishment could follow labor hard.
 
Discouragement is practiced, as an art,
By some, who "supervise" the ones who work,
Who’re punished, not for callousness or lies,
But for adherence to the truth – and heart.
 
But others might survive and even thrive
By doing as they’re bid, not questioning.
They mind their business – or they claw and climb.
They know the price for deviance is high.
 
So some might find what I have written strange,
But others, who have labored, felt the lash,
May recognize the things of which I write,
And find some comfort then in company.
 
2014 July 27th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Muddle

 
Muddle
  
So many, simply seeking love
And longing for a cuddle,
Can find themselves, before they know,
In such an awful muddle,
That, broken-hearted, by themselves,
They sit – a and cry a puddle.
  
2014 July 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Two Na**d Women

        
Two Na**d Women

Doodle-007-Discord

I saw a lady, walking nude –
A dame of Nordic stock.
And people stared as she went by.
They giggled, gaped in shock.

But she was shod – in fu**-me shoes,
With leather straps 'round calves.
And as she passed, I saw tattoos
Between her buttock-halves.

But though I squinted then to see
What the markings meant,
She strode away – and out of sight –
Unclothed – but fed, content...
  
******
   
I later saw a woman, who
Had not a shred of clothing.
She sat, despairing, in the street,
Subjected, there, to loathing.

She'd neither shoes nor sandals and
Her face and frame were gaunt.
Her eyes were filled with anguish – eyes
That will, my nightmares, haunt.

And as I walked, embarrassed, by,
And offered her no hand,
I saw, upon her wrist, some marks
I could not understand...
  
******
   
The first I saw was pink of skin,
The second, she was brown.
The first was smiling to herself,
The second made me frown.

I wondered what the tracings meant
That graced the first's behind.
It mattered not – that cryptic sign
On her I'd left behind.

And in another dream, I saw
The two, reversing roles.
I wondered what that signified
And whether parts were wholes... 

Doodle-002a-Concord

    
2014 July 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York    
    

Kaler Phondi

Kaler Phondi

Nodir dhare, chaeae boxe, jhilik dekhechi jo`ler,
Bo`rxa kale, xunechi dure kalo megher dak.
Karkhanate korechi cakri, xunechi go`rjon ko`ler.
Jo`njale xexe ahar khu~ji, t’hokrae kager jha~k.

Dupur be`lae, gache ut’he, per’echi peara, am.
Pata bhenge, xu~khechi to`khon brikkher xugo`ndho.
Xo`horer base, xu~khechi po`re dizel dhoa, gham.
Pulix theke pet’ani khe-e, karagare hoechi bo`ndo.

Cher’echi ga~e, poe`xar kho~je, xo`kol poribar.
Pe-echi cit’hi, ke~dechi dukkhe, roechi kajer bondi.
Pat’hiechi t’aka, maxer xexe, khet’e khet’e protibar,
Hariechi tobu, xo`bare ami – ei to kaler phondi.

Moner dukkhe, baki kichu t’aka d’obai xexe xo`b,
Pagol hoe, kajer xexe, nexae khu~ji mukti.
Nexar ghume, mrito priyo exe ko`re ko`loro`b.
Nexa cher’e, matha khure, xuni xei ba~car jukti.

******

Mone po`re bar-bar, jo`nmo jekhane.
Trene-base bhabi kal phirbo xekhane.
Bhexe jae maxgulo, boe jae bo`chor,
Kho`motar bhat’a axe – mojdur kator.

Ja kichu, gheme, kori tao rojkar,
Co`le na tate ar, kho`roc ajkar.
Ki kori, hae!  Phirbo ki dexe?
Chai hoe, nodi die phire jabo xexe…

Ei bhebe, cher’e di cakri o maena.
Tao dekhi, xo`b cher’e, xanti-t’a paina.
Gho`r theke rastae – bhik mangi khidete.
Khali pet’e durbo`l – xue pori mat’ite.

Pulix exe lathi mare, mare jore d’and’a.
Har gulo ge`lo bhabi.  Rat bo`ro t’hand’a.
Xonar ei banglae, hirer juger cihnno –
“Kaj kho~jo!” bo`le e`k, do`ea-maea bhinno.

Xombar, 30e  D’isembar, xo`kal 3:10
Benso`nharst’, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
 

Coping with Illness and Dying

Coping  with Illness and Dying

 

When we’re sick and full of woes

And fighting our despair,

Will we think of better times –

And burdens better bear?

 

Or will such memories be lost –

Or if remembered, then

Be yet more grief, because we know

We won’t be well again?

 

Some bear a grievous illness lightly,

Others groan at colds.

A patient’s truly patient, while

Another only scolds.

 

We see a woman, ailing, tend

Her husband, though she sinks –

And still, her spouse yet more demands –

And of her, rarely thinks...

 

How easy it might be to judge

Another, yet we know

That there are depths we cannot plumb,

Beneath the storms that blow.

 

And yet, it’s true – that qualities

We nurture, over years,

Express themselves, for all to see,

When mortal ending nears.

2013 December 29^th, Sun., 6:08 pm 

2^nd floor, McDonald’s Restaurant  

86^th Street and 20^th Avenue 

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

   

To Free It

    
To Free It
  
For some, it's womanizing – and some women frequent bars.
And others yet might while their time in starting bloody wars.
For some, it's all their gadgets – and for some, it's devil-drink.
In gambling, by so many names, some others, fortunes sink.
  
But my addiction started on a leave from a job I had.
It started pleasantly enough but grew to be really bad.
And soon, I realized this – and I saw it getting worse.
But though I tried to stop, I couldn't cease from writing verse.
  
I wonder whether I will ever once again be sober,
Whether my intoxication will, at last, be over.
I wonder whether I will walk – and sighting cloud or tree,
Restrain myself , on hearing verse that's yearning to be free.
  
I wonder what's the sense of all the work I do each day,
And all the weekend verse I type that will be thrown away.
At least for one I get a check – and students (some) may profit,
Versifying?  Who is there, with a high opinion of it?
  
For I can write my verses till I meet my mortal end,
At all their gravity, at courts of poetry, pretend.
But most of what I write would make the master poets laugh.
And every village has its rhymes, beside which mine are chaff.

For who can match a Wordsworth or an Omar at their best?
And only when I'm gone will what I write have passed its test.
But should we try, in verses, to compete or to excel?
And should I only write a line and wait – for time to tell?

You know that I have written much, but little that's of worth.
And yet I write – and will perhaps, until I'm one with earth.
For every bard, whose songs are rarely sung, may still aspire
For precious lines, that she has birthed, to live, though she expire.

For truly, just as parents rear a child and then release it,
So also, poets nurse a line, but only so's to free it.
And so it is, I do believe, with all creative labor,
We only wish to let it go, whose joy of birth, we savor.

And though, for every poem, I can point to woe or season,
So every gambler has his hope – and every drunkard, reason.
But all around, I see the folk I cherish blow like leaves.
No child some leave, except the ones, in which a poet believes.
   
2013 December 23rd, Mon.
(1st, 2nd, 4th & final stanzas added Dec. 25)
Brooklyn, New York
 

Genghis Khan Has Come To Town

             
Genghis Khan Has Come To Town
                                 
Awake, oh citizens of the ancient city,
When you were sleeping, waiting for the dawn,
A horde had gathered and, before the sun,
Had entered this, your city, as the gates
Were opened by the gatemen, they who saw
The army stretching to the distant north…

Awake, oh citizens, awake and see
The Mongol horde is here, with all the rest.
And many are their tongues -- but they are one,
United in their lust for conquest, loot,
For women that they’ll rape or take as slaves…
Awake, for Genghis Khan is in your town!

And when you see the soldiers, look away,
But when you see their lordlings, then bow low.
We have survived invasions, plagues, before.
So to this tempest bend, and it will pass,
And then we’ll nurse our injured, bury those
Who gave their lives – and carry on.

But sing the praises now of conquerors.
In Mongol, sing – for I will show you how.
We all will sing, as we had done before,
We’ll sing the praises of our conquerors.
We'll imitate their ways and learn their tongues…
Sing now, “Genghis Khan has come to town…”

2013 November 24th, Sun.
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
  

Typhoon

Typhoon

Dreaming, in the time before the dawn,
I heard a woman crying, “All is gone!
My husband and my daughters and my sons,
My mother and his mother – and the house...
And I am here – and searching, crazily.
But where are they?”

I could not answer.  All around were strewn
The wreckage and the litter of the storm.
The corpses still were rotting – and their stench
Befouled the air and sickened every breath.
Her eyes beseeched, with hints of lunacy,
But I stood mute.

And then I woke, as light was streaming in.
And when I breathed, the air was cool and fresh.
But I remembered well, what I had dreamed.
I saw that face – and felt that helplessness.
And so, at school, I gave my dollars ten.
But where were they?

2013 Nov. 16th, Sat.
Brooklyn
          
http://care.org/emergencies/typhoon-haiyan

https://www.rescue.org/donate/typhoon-haiyan

http://ifrc.org/typhoon-haiyan

Autumn

                     
Autumn
           
It's autumn and the yellowed leaves
Are dying, one by one.
The city's streets are littered
With their corpses, myriad.

The polar winds are blowing through
The city and we hear
The voices of the dead, as they
Are rustled down the streets.

******
  
A sickled moon is hanging
In the darkening autumn sky.
A sickened moon is waning and
It seems about to die.

And near that dying moon, there shines
A red and baleful star.
We shudder, as we see it, at
The horrors, dread, of war.

******
   
It's autumn and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It looks upon the city and
It seizes up its prey.

It breathes upon the city and
Its breath is dank and chill.
That winter will be coming and
Its will, we shall obey.

******
   
It's autumn, and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It's autumn, and the summer, it
Is lingering on the sea.

And winter will be coming, with
Its darkness and its chill.
Then summer, long departed, will
Have seemed to never be.

2013 November 7th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
    

Encounter–II--A Little Bit of Rice

                                
Encounter – II  /  A Little Bit of Rice
                               
I was wandering in the country, when I met an aged man.
And it seemed that he was starving, so I offered him some rice.
He sat down then to eat it, and he ate it very slowly.
Each grain of rice, he savored, as he put it in his mouth.

I watched him as he sat there, but I felt that I would cry,
So I moved away and circled – and when I had returned,
I saw that he had eaten only part of what I'd given,
Which itself was but a smidgen, as I hadn't much myself.

And I saw that he was wrapping, in a leaf, what he had left.
So I asked him, was he saving it for eating later or
Was there someone, who was waiting, whom he'd saved a portion for.

But he only smiled and nodded, for his language wasn't mine,
And I watched him as he hobbled down a dusty country path.

I was hungry, so I settled down and ate my rice myself,
With a bit of precious lentils that I'd salted – and a pickle.

And I felt that I was guilty as I'd only given rice
To that aged man who seemed not to have eaten for a while.
And as I sat there eating, I remembered still his smile.

I sipped then on the water, that I'd carried in a bottle,
And I rose and walked to westwards, towards a village that I knew.
And I saw the sun was sinking – and my heart was sinking too.
For the stores I had were dwindling – and my stores by then were few.

But that aged man was walking, as I walked, within my mind.
And I saw that he was smiling, for that little bit of rice.

2013 November 4th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Some Earlier Encounters

The Teacher -- 2013 Sep

Encounter -- 2013 July

Strange Encounter -- II -- 2011 Nov

The Watcher -- 2006 Sep

Strange Encounter -- 2006 April
   
       

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
  

The Puzzle

The Puzzle

She asked him why he left her, but he never did reply.
So she was left to figure out the real reason why.
And though the years have come and gone, that puzzle still remains,
That never will be solved by her, whose time has come to die.

How many years, how many years, of asking for the reason...
How many tears, how many tears, on day and month of season,
The day and month on which he left, as autumn then was ending...
And still she pays, as ending nears, the price for lover's treason....

How lightly men may leave the maidens whom they courted, won...
How sadly ends the dalliance so happily begun...
How deep the wound that rarely heals, though time attempts its cure,
How strange that some have hearts with space for one -- and only one.

How many pitfalls life may lay upon a mortal's way,
How many traps that snare the one who stops from saying, "Nay."
How many mothers warn their girls, who yet succumb to love,
How many men, who leave the maid, with whom they've had their way...

When she was young, she tried, in vain, to youthful heart defend.
Now death approaches and she nears her tortuous journey's end.
We wonder if she'll ever have a chance to live again,
And in that life, for errors past, another will amend.

2013 September 18th, Wed.
Brooklyn