Our Wisp of Verse

Our Wisp of Verse

The present moment—that is all we have.
And yet we have it not—it comes and goes,
As water, streaming, rises, ebbs and flows.
Can men possess the wind, contain the tide
Or claim, where those, whose lives have ended, hide?
 
From vastness, we are gathered for a while,
And back into the vast we each will go.
Oh friend of mine, that I have come to know,
How brief our tryst, before the winds disperse
Both you and I and this—our wisp of verse!

If there's a reason for existence, then
It can't be figured by our mortal wits.
We each are formed—and scattered back to bits
That merge with water, earth and endless sky,
Not ever knowing whence or whither, why.

I saw, upon the trackless ocean, this—
A leaf of autumn, bobbing on the seas
That troughed and crested, driven by the breeze.
Who knew, from where that withered leaf had blown—
Or where, its siblings that it once had known?

We build our villages and towns and roads
And so find comfort in our time on Earth.
But what's the road that sent us to our birth
And where's the village that awaits us when
We each are sent upon our way again?

Annihilation marks the end of life.
The spirit leaves the body, so it seems.
No magic words and no fantastic schemes
Can bring it back, for even just a while
To shed that tear or look and gently smile.

If only we could speak with those we loved
And hold them in our arms and cry and smile—
If only we were given just a while
To make amends, in speech and attitude,
And then let go, in peace and gratitude...

What vanity—those ends that we pursue
Beyond what's needed so we each survive.
And yet, what seeming comfort we derive
In hoping that our work was not in vain,
Although we lived and worked and died in pain.

So come, my friend, and walk with me a while.
Before we part, we each should laugh and cry
At this absurdity, so when we die
We might remember, as our souls disperse,
Our time together and our rhyming verse.

2016 December 4th, Mon. 1:11 am
Northwest Berkeley, California 

Versus my Verses

 
Versus my Verses

I fill the voids with scribblings such as these,
which serve to soothe my troubled soul a while.
And yet I know the issues I avoid
will still remain to plague this ailing mind.
 
Our angels, demons wait for vacant times
to show themselves.  So good and evil, both,
and beauty, horror go unrecognized
until we find the time to stop and see.
 
And if, indeed, the time I take to write
these verses gives me chances still to be,
to gather in my scattered parts, to take
then stock – and so reflect, it’s time well spent.
 
But if, instead, I merely seek release
or refuge from the stresses of my life,
then every line I write appears to be
another ruse to fool my remnant sense.
 
******
 
We travel, each, upon our roads of life,
and some may find a pleasant walk awhile.
But then, the bandits and the dark ravines
appear.  We’re beaten, broken – and we fear.

So some of us may turn to alcohol,
while others do as they are told by thugs.
And others yet, who’re drained of strength to fight,
may pen their verses, be these light or dark.

And some may write and keep their writings hidden,
while others visit these on readers’ heads.
And in my case, I do this, though unbidden,
and hope to leave some threads of sense behind.
 
But then, I wonder if my foolishness
is even greater than I once had thought,
and whether all the twine I twist and weave
will quickly fray to shreds and disappear.
   
No matter – verse, like beer, gives pleasure still
to those who brew it and to those who swill.
As bodies rot, so also words will fade.
There’s still delight, when verse, like life, is made.

So when, in darker moods, I find I curse
at all the time I've spent on writing verse,
I hear again that whisper of the muse
that bid me write – although it came out worse.
 
******

And so it is that verses come and go,
resolving nothing, much as children might
that mothers bear and then must tend until
they’re grown enough to face the cruel world.

But mothers spend their years on rearing kids,
and many fathers also do their share.
But poets like me are careless parents, for
they give their verses life and let them go.

And so I might condemn this work I do,
if not that endless toil I do for school,
where I’m a parent faux, for a year or term,
to children, often seven score or more.

Perhaps that other labor, more intense
and longer, far, might justify the verse.
Indeed, that’s what has led to it – and yet
I look at both and wonder – whither, why?

2015 April 17th Fri, 18th Sat & 20th Mon 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Note: I wrote the first four stanzas of this piece on 2015 April 17th Friday, around 8 pm, after leaving the school where I work.  I wrote them while sitting on a “park” bench near the "Liberty Pole" and the New Utrecht Church, by 18th Avenue and 84th Street in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. 
    

Liberty Pole and New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/34127825@N03/3243329788/

   
    

The pole was first erected in 1783, at the end of the revolutionary war with Britain. 

Top of New Utrecht Liberty Pole
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980141745/

   

The New Utrecht Church was originally at a site, next to an old Dutch cemetery, that is now two long blocks away, on 16th and 84th.  It was completed in 1700 and stood there for over a century.  The church was rebuilt, in 1828-29, at its present site, using material from the original building.

  

New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Ave & 84th St, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/gallery/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church.html

   

    

    





The cemetery, still standing, dates back to 1654.
  

New Utrecht Cemetery, 16th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980131333/

 
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/History.html

http://www.newutrechtchurch.org/history.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church
  
The middle six stanzas (after the first break) were written the next day, at the Pakistani restaurant (Skyway) on Bath Avenue, between 20th and 21st Avenues, Bensonhurst.
  
The last four stanzas (after the second break) were added at home, in the early morning of  April 20th, Monday, before leaving for work.

  

The Question

The Question
  

The Question
http://engaged.robbinsbrothers.com/winner-of-seattles-ring-pop-the-question/

 























I asked a priest and then I asked a well-known sage the question,
“What’s the purpose of a life?” and I listened to their answers.
And afterwards I asked their wives and also asked their dinners.
And since their dinners couldn't answer, I'll answer here for them.
 
“The purpose of our living was to give the priest his dinner.”
“And our reason for existence was to feed the well-known sage.”
And how the wives had answered, I could write down here as well.
But I will not, since their curses are not fit for such a page.
 
2015 March 12th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Reflections -- II

          
Reflections – II
    
There is a current deep that we can sense.
We cannot speak about it with our words.
But with that current, we can mutely flow –
Or lose our sense of it and loudly splash.

The one surrendering to the water feels
That fluid lift her surely up again.
But he, who seeks to raise himself above
The surface, finds his struggle is in vain.

We all have fights we cannot, should not shirk,
Unless we choose to still our consciences.
And each of us must fend for selves and those
Who may depend on us to live and breathe.

But there are conflicts which we make ourselves
And which we then inflict on others ‘round.
Ambition, pride, our selfishness and greed,
Our misperceptions – make this turbulence.

So let us yield our petty jealousies,
Our envies, our ambitions small and great.
And let us breathe, resolve to do what’s right
And turn, from darkness, gently back towards light.
  
Our sight is clouded and our hearing dulled.
We cannot feel, with skin or heart – or think.
Our reason and our wisdom, we have lost.
And why is it that we have lost these things?

The demons that afflict this world abound.
They prey on us and so we do not see.
Our child is ailing or our mother's ill,
But we are sightless or are deafened still.

What form of madness may afflict us each,
We only know for sure when it has passed,
And some of us may never know or care.
So drunkards do their damage – and forget.

There’s fear that drives us into little hells.
We wonder how we can escape from this.
We feel we cannot change the world ourselves.
Yet each can breathe – and then can gently try.

There’s much that three can do that one cannot.
But there’s a concord needed, so that three
May find that common purpose. This can be,
When each is open and is listening.

A trust betrayed can rarely be regained.
And so, we should be careful in our deeds.
For how can there be confluence, when distrust
Has built the barriers needed for defense?

A vessel, filled with water, makes, when thumped,
A softer sound than one that’s partly full.
And much of noise and violence abates,
When all have drunk enough to fill their souls.

And here, we’re speaking, not of alcohol
And other things that have their merits yet
Have also faults that plague imbibers, but
Of essence – joy and deepest suffering.

But when we’re emptied by an ebbing tide,
Then thoughts arise, like sounds within our head,
And we attempt to fill ourselves again,
With silent essence – or with nonsense loud.

So all the verses that I write arise
From discontent and from that loneliness,
To which our disconnection leads our selves,
Those fictions that can gain in strength from strife.

What’s self, what’s not, is fixed by such a line
As is imagined, yet does not exist.
It dissipates to porous nothingness,
Whenever we examine it up close.

We’re made of this and that, in interflows.
And our perception, of ourselves and things
As separate from all around and what
Was there before or will be there, is false.

But who, except the sainted, yields the self,
That last illusion, stronger than the rest,
Whose shattering or dissolution comes
As pain or joy, as torture or relief?

So beings such as you and I arise
As do the nations – and we struggle, fight
When self is threatened, fortifying self –
And so are doomed to our imprisonments.

The humbled, stripped of wisdom too, may seek
To gain their stature back and then take pride
In stupid things – and so are fooled again.
Within an emperor?  A troubled child.

How often have the tantrums of the "great"
Or all their shrewdness caused the rest such grief
That men and women, lifting arms to skies,
Have sought, from infants such, deliverance?

But there are things in which we may take pride,
But quietly – no need, that others know...
Our wee successes give us nourishment,
And so we live on satisfactions small.

When some achievement, in the human sphere,
Gives confidence and strength to us again,
We should remember then our losses past
And so regain our precious humbleness.

Some things we all may know, some other things
A few of us discern. But then there are
The things that men and ants may never ken.
And those could be the most of all there is.

So if we're like the whorls an oar may make,
We're born in pairs and dissipate with time.
But who and where our whirling twin may be,
We do not know.  We turn until we fade.

But we could also be like summer storms
That rise and rage and then are swiftly gone.
They leave behind the wreckage of the trees
As well as blessings that give life again.

What ruin have we wrought – or blessing brought?
We do not know, we live and do and die.
And all our work appears as ashes, yet
From ashes rise the firebirds once again.

Ah, love – that blessing that the heart that sees
Confers on what is sighted – what compares
With you, except that wonder that we feel
On watching, being – as the dance proceeds?

This world, of wonders and of horrors mixed,
Of loves and hatreds – who has sense enough
To know its purpose – or has wisdom still
To live a life, whose damage is the least?

Oh let us breathe once more of this, the air
That others past have breathed, that yet remained
As fresh as when the ancients breathed of it,
Until we fouled it with our devil-mills.

And let us drink of that, which others drank,
Which yet remained as pure as it was then,
Until we poured, within those waters clear,
Those effluents that now have poisoned it.

And let us softly walk upon this earth,
On which so many past have walked, which yet
Remained as fertile, till we made that earth
Ingest the toxins that our mills emit.

And let’s resolve that when we leave there’s naught
We leave behind to let another know
That we were here, except a whispering,
A fragrance or a glimmer in the dust...

The foolish seek achievement and create
The horrors that have made, of life, a hell.
The wiser seek effacement, as they work
To heal the wounds ambition always wreaks.

Who seems, to most of us, to be a fool,
Could well be wiser than we'll ever be.
And he, or she, who's worshiped now as wise,
May do, in hubris, what no fool has dared.

When all around are rushing, slow a bit.
The sun and moon appear to take their time.
The seasons take their turns, the babies grow
With all our nurturing – and then they age.

This was – and is – and will forever be.
Within this dance, we move in rhythm, rhyme
That yet allow for breaks and runs and twists.
The moment is – in which we all are free.

2014 May 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Job

A  brief preface to this can be found at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
   
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part I

  

The job I do, it pays my rent and more,

it gives my life a form – and when at work,

I see a village there, of which the kids,

the teachers, others and myself are part.

Although I know it’s just a fantasy,

this fills the emptiness and gives a why,

a reason to arise at dawn.  The work –

it’s filled my life for close to thirty years,

and it is endless, overwhelming, yet

it’s better than the walls and emptiness

with which I’m left on those rare times

when I have done what’s needed to be done

and so there’s space.

And yet, for all the sustenance it gives,

the job deprives me too of sanity.

For all those years, obsessed with doing right

what can’t be done, left little space for else.

And more and more, I see how mad it is,

this job I do – and my insanity.

And so, when there is space, there is regret,

and not for what I did, with all my heart,

but for all I never had a chance to do,

the duties that were lost to distances

and this, the job that I and others do.

2014  April 17^th, Wed., 6:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part II

We work to pay the rent, to feed ourselves,

our kids.  But in our times, with workers flung

apart across the continents, our labor

may become, for some of us, the thread

we daily weave that strings what’s passed, the now,

what’s coming, into one.  So what to do,

when all our work is seen as meaningless?

And as the pressures mount on those who work,

we work yet faster, more. The workday spills

and washes over evenings, weekends, more...

And so it is, that some of us may find

that holidays are spent in catching up

with all the job-work that we couldn’t do,

while working, daily, at the job we do!

And so, we seek escapes, from all this work,

and some may find more healthy ones than some.

And others yet are good at what they do,

efficient, even, one may sometimes think,

as were the ones who burned the Gypsies, Jews…

But that’s unkind.  Let’s tip our hat and go.

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:14 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

The Job – Part III

We learn from our mistakes and those we see

that others make, who might not care to see.

Be slow to judge what others seem to do.

For each may walk upon a path, and each

may think that that’s the only path there is.

But paths are myriad, and the walkers too.

But never run, although they force you to.

For that’s when kindness ends and cruelty

begins.

“Oh yes,” you say, “that sounds all well and good.

But when the bulls stampede, who dares to pause?”

Well run then, for your life, but try to slow.

If speed is catching, isn’t slowness too?

The worker in the line must work at speed.

She’s caught, like soldiers are, who’re sent to kill.

But wars are madness. So are human mills.

The mills are not what we or those we teach

Are destined for.  It’s up to me and you,

and not the ones who order, pass decrees.

If not for all our students or for us,
then for the students and their teachers next,

let’s bring a little meaning back to school. 

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:33 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The Job – Part IV

The savvy know, what counts is packaging.
For who has time to open up and check
the innards of what's marketed and sold?

And yet, when it's our child that sits at school
or it's our mother, in the hospital,
who is it then, that then becomes the fool,
and why the wailing at the state of sin?

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 1:43 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

Please see also the brief preface to this, at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
    

The Why

The Why
   
I asked a gentleman I met the reason for existence.
He told me God so willed it – and we each should seek repentance.
I asked him where to find his God, so I could push this further,
And silently, he pointed up.  If looks could kill, he’d murder.

I climbed a mountain high to be, to God above, that nearer.
But when I sat atop the peak, that reason wasn’t clearer.
I thought I saw Him in a cloud – dreadlocked, fiercely bearded.
I gave a shout.  He disappeared.  Perhaps He had not heard it.

I sought to ask a Buddhist monk.  He said to me, “Nirvana!”
And handed me, in silence, with a smile, a small banana.
Was I to eat it?  Could this be the reason I was born?
I pondered this.  The more I thought, the further I was torn.

Perhaps I should not eat it – simply watch my own desire?
Could this, perhaps, extinguish what remained of mortal fire?
I puzzled on this – till, at last, I fell to sleep and dreaming.
And there I met a madman, in a valley, madly screaming.

“Why do you scream, oh madman?”  I then asked the one insane.
He danced for me a crazy jig, as if to entertain,
But then advanced upon me with a wild and staring eye.
I tried to run – but woke instead – not knowing, still, the why.

2014 January 11, Sat., 2:09 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Purpose

    
The Purpose
     
I asked an ancient, stooped and seeming wise,
The purpose of this life, in which we race
Towards our ends, encountering the lies
Connivers tell, but rarely finding trace
Of sense or reason – till we endings face.

I’d hoped she give me comfort – kernels, sage,
That she had gathered through her lengthy life
Or finally found as wisdom came with age.
But what she said then sliced me like a knife.
“I only know this world’s a senseless stage.

“So each is born, beneath the changing sky
Of this, our planet, whirling ‘round its sun,
Not knowing even whence she came or why,
To join this race, until, at end of run,
No wiser, she is told it’s time to die.”

So said that ancient, who then shortly died.
And still I wonder if she had it right.
But those I’ve asked have either glibly lied
Or being honest shed no further light,
Except to say that they had lived and tried.

We’re born, beneath the constellations vast,
Not knowing whence or why or whither, yet
We each remember bits of what was past
And try our best to other things forget,
Until it’s time for us to breathe our last.

We suffer – yet, we still may have our joy –
Like night and day, and yearly round of seasons.
The genius, childlike, tinkers with his toy
And cries, when it is taken.  Yet, for reasons,
Even serfs might ask, whom lords employ.

So since my race is nearing now its end
And since exhaustion addles now my brain,
I ask, if you are one who won’t pretend,
But truly knows the why for joy and pain,
That reason, promptly, to this seeker send.

But you might say, “A purpose, each must find.
For some, it’s self, for others, appetite.
And others, who have natures that are kind,
May spend their lives in serving.  Who is right?
The play is that within the sentient mind.

“For some, it’s children, spouses, work.
For some, it’s duty – or it’s nation, god.
Some labor long – and others swiftly shirk.
Some fly on high, while others till the sod.
Do dogs ask why?  They’d only masters irk.

“We humans are but one among the beasts.
What purpose has an octopus or ant?
A bear or human, on a salmon, feasts.
Was that its purpose?  Preachers well may rant
But you had better ask the plants and yeasts.”

But I am putting phrases in your mouth.
I open mine, beyond when I should close it.
I still could talk, about it and about.
But would one talk, who truly, truly knows it?
I ask again – and humbly exit out.
  
2014 January 11, Sat. 3:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York