Prescription / Come sit with me / But still be gentle on yourself

.
Prescription / Come Sit with Me / But still be gentle on yourself
.
You say that you are troubled, weary—worn 
By all that you have borne and others bear.
You seek advice—and yet I fumble, since
I too am often lost in grief and fear.
.
But come and sit beside me. I am old
And yet no wiser now than in my youth.
So what can I prescribe that would suffice
To cure your ailments in a world in which
So much is broken and has gone amiss?
.
******
.
Impatience is a marker of our times,
Yet patience is what's often needed most.
Attention that is deep and is sustained
Can see beneath the surface and divine
The truths that words alone cannot express—
And so can serve to heal our sundry plagues.
.
Beware of lords and kings and autocrats
And those who always need to puff themselves.
Embrace the truly humble. Seek them out.
Appoint such men and women to the roles
Most critical, including in the home,
If possible, or else where needed most.
.
******
.
The self impedes, where duty beckons most.
So try to leave the self and all its weight 
Behind. Attend to work at hand. Rejoice
When you have found a chance to be of use.
.
But still be gentle on yourself. You are
As much in need of love and caring now
As when you were an infant. So it is
With all of us, however tough we seem.
.
So leave a little time for care for self,
So you can care for others with a will.
.
******
.
Value virtues old and tested, true—
Like patience, kindness, tact, and diligence.
The human world is built on care and love.
No infant would survive, no child would learn
Without at least a being who had cared.
.
Beware of “high and low”. Eschew the pomp
That so pollutes the public offices.
.
Along with virtues, vices still abound.
So greeds and lusts compound our negligence,
As apathy and hatred vie with these
To quell the conscience, breeding cruelties.
.
******
.
Be clear of sight—and sound of head and heart.
Amid the clamor, labor quietly.
Remember, work delivers its reward
In satisfaction, not in praise or cash.
.
Be grateful for the things that you receive,
However small, and count each blessing twice.
Forgive the ones who’ve hurt you. Mind them not,
For they distract you from the kinder acts
Of others. Try to pay your daily dues,
And sleep contented. Be at peace within.
.
What more is there to say? I trust you know,
Within yourself, what’s true and what is false.
Be open-hearted, minded. Listen, see.
Be undeterred by human frailties,
Remain at peace and persevere.
May all the buddhas guide you through your days.
.
******
. 
I’m done. So come, let’s walk a little while
And even here, amidst the rubble, smile,
As does that orphan, there, who limps and plays,
With memories of those who’ve left—and grief,
And hope remaining still, for brighter days
That may not ever come, except in dreams,
In which he still can hear his siblings’ screams.
.
2025 August 29, Fri.
Berkeley, California
.

Backyard in the Northern Summer

 
Backyard in the Northern Summer

The backyard’s long remained untouched,
Except by cats, raccoons,

Whose paths are marked by grasses bent
Beneath, beside the trees.

The many shades of green ascend
Towards a sky of blue.
The sun is almost overhead
And bathes us with its brilliance.

****** 

In tropic climes, the summers could 
Be times of misery. 
In northern lands, we welcome them
For the blessings summers bring— 

Relief from winter's cold and dark,
Relief from snow and rain—
A chance to see the sunshine and
To feel its warmth again. 

****** 

And there, within the dappled shade
Where weeds and grasses grow,
The breeze is moving shadows, leaves
Amidst the green and coolth. 

Little beings shelter there,
Living out their lives.
And some are roused, and others sleep,
As sun traverses sky. 

****** 

A life of work and hurried haste,
Of rarely seeing the sky,
And now—this languor in the sun
In a backyard, wild, untended— 

Where hummingbirds at times are seen
And squirrels, jays compete,    
And one can savor bits of peace, 
While aged and in defeat. 

2024 July 15th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

  Tap image to see in larger size.  

Use Esc or back arrow to return.

These backyard photos were taken on 2024 Aug 6, about 3 weeks after the writing of the text. In between, the grass had been cut and the bigger wild plants pulled out. So the backyard had finally received some tending.  I had also been washing, drying and sunning bed clothes in preparation for visitors. 

Ki bujhechi-কি বুঝেছি

 

কি বুঝেছি?

আমার জীবন, অতি সাধারন। 

নেই গো তাতে হীরে-রতন। 

ঘোসে-মেজে বাসন, চালিয়েছি তাও, 

করেছি আয়, আয়োজন।

ভোরের আলোয় জেগেছে আশা। 

সাঁঝের সাথে এসেছে ক্লান্তি। 

দিনের বেলায় করেছি কাজ। 

শেষের বেলায় চেয়েছি শান্তি।

কত রকমের নিষ্ঠুরতা, 

কত চেতনের কান্না, হায়! 

নির্বিকারে, হৃদয় ঢেকে, 

চলছে পথে, সবাই প্রায়।

কারোর জীবন কষ্টে কাটে, 

কারোর সহজ পথে। 

ধুঁকতে ধুঁকতে লক্ষ হাটে।

কেউ ভেসে যায় রথে।

এই জীবনের স্রোতে ভেসে, 

ভুগেছি কত দুঃখে, ক্লেশে। 

দেখেছি কত দয়া, মায়া। 

কি বুঝেছি, সবের শেষে?

অনেক দেখে, অনেক ভেবে—
লবডঙ্কা, গোল্লা, জিরো!

তাই, হতাশায়, আবোল-তাবোল 

পদ্য লিখে, হচ্ছি হিরো।

সোমবার, ১৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

Moruddip-মরুদ্বীপ

মরুদ্বীপ

সিমেন্টের ধূসর ফুটপাতে হেঁটেছি, 
কালো পিচের রাস্তা ধরে,
ব্যথিত পায়ে, ক্লান্ত দেহে, 
ম্লান চিত্তে, কত দশক ধরে,
বিদেশের শহুরে মরুভূমি-পথে।

সফরের মাঝে এসেছি কখনো
ছোটো কোনো মরুদ্বীপে,
যেখানে পেয়েছি কিছু বিরাম,
পেয়েছি সলিল, সান্তনা।

সেখানে, দুর্লভ কোনো বেঞ্চে বসে,
কম-দূষিত বাতাসের শ্বাস নিয়েছি।
প্রকৃতির সুগন্ধের সাথে শুঁকেছি
গাড়ির ইঞ্জিনের পাদের ঘ্রান।

******

তখন মনে হয়েছে যেনো
হয় শহরের চলতি কোলাহল 
কোনো কারনে বিদায় নিয়েছে,
নয়তো নিজেকে আমার ইচ্ছামতো
বদলাতে দিয়েছে। সকল হট্টগোল,
পাগলামি, ঠেলাঠেলি, তাড়াহুড়ো যেনো
সরে গেছে। রয়েছে শুধু—শান্তির স্বাদ।

রাস্তার গাড়ির আসা যাওয়া
যথাকালে যেনো হয়ে গেলো— 
মনোরম তীরের ঢেউয়ের ধুয়া।
উঁচু থেকে উড়োজাহাজের গর্জন 
হ’লো—দূর সমুদ্রতীরের ডাক।

আবার যেনো শুনতে পেলাম— 
এই জগতের শ্বাস-প্রশ্বাস।

******

তাই আজ, শরতের বিকেলে,
বাসা থেকে অনেক দূরে—
তাও পুরনো ঘরে ফিরে—
একটি বেঞ্চি খুঁজে পেয়ে,
তাতে আসন দখল করেছি।

সামনে দেখি, কিছু দূরে,
সূর্যের ঢালু কিরণ এসে 
পাইন-গাছে ঢেলেছে আলো।
সেই আশীর্বাদে যেনো
গাছটা পূর্ণ, পুলকিত।

আমি যেখানে বসে আছি,
সেখানে আরামে এক খেলা চলছে।
ছায়াযুক্ত কয়েক যুবক
নেচে-নেচে খেলছে আলোয়।
বল্-টাকে, একে একে হাতে তুলে,
পাঠাচ্ছে, ধনু-রেখো-পথে,
উঁচু বাস্কেটবল-হুপের খোঁজে।

বাস্কেটবল কোর্টের মেজেতে দেখি
নীল-সাদা-সবুজ রঙ।
মনে আসে এতে, আহা,
সেই হারানো দিনের কথা,
সেই আকাশ-অরণ্য-জল, 
সেই ধরিত্রী—প্রিয়, নির্মল।

পশ্চিমে, সূর্যের আলোয় আঁকা,
ক’টা চেনে-বাঁধা কুকুরের সহ,
এক দল মহিলার চলাফেরা।

আরো দূর থেকে শোনা যাচ্ছে,
শরতের রোদে, শিশুদের খেলা।

******

এই জগতের লীলার মাঝে 
একটু বিরতি, একটু বিরাম, 
কিছুটা আলগা হওয়ার কাল—
কুকুরের সাথে, মানুষের সাথে,
এই বিকেলের রৌদ্রে নাচন—
নয়তো শুধু আলোয় স্নান।

এমন সময় দেখি যে আবার—
দেখছে হেঁসে, আমার দিকে,
সেই পুরনো বন্ধু আমার—
নগরের ভিড়ে হারানো আমি।

******

জানি, এই দিনের আলোর শেষে,
সন্ধ্যে আসবে, ফিসফিসিয়ে। 
তারাভরা আকাশগঙ্গা যেমন, 
তেমনই জ্বলে উঠবে তখন
শহুরে রাস্তার আলোর মালা।

দিনের ম্লান আভা যখন
পশ্চিমে মৃত্যুশয়নে—যখন 
বাকি মানুষ ঘরে চলে গেছে—
শুনতে পাবো আবার তখন,
এই আমার পুরনো বাসায়,
ঝিঁঝিদের সাঁঝের সঙ্গীত।

এইভাবে, নগর-সাগরে, আজও,
এই বাকি ছোটো দ্বীপে,
সেই চিরন্তন চক্র চলে।

জীবন ধরে, পেয়েছি এতে
ঝড়ের মাঝে রেহাই কিছু,
বিরোধের মাঝে শান্তি।

আমারই মতন, আরো কত জন
ফিরে পেয়েছে প্রাণ?
দিনের আলোর শেষ বিদায়ে
শুনেছে ঝিঁঝির গান?

এমনই মঠে, বুদ্ধ ব’সে,
পেয়েছিল নির্বাণ।

ওহ্লোন পার্ক (হার্সট আর মাক্গী রাস্তার মোড়ের কাছে)
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
বুধবার, ৪ অক্টোবর, ২০২৩ খ্রিস্টাব্দ
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ: ৮ অক্টোবর)
-------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a translation, into Bengali, of the poem: Scattered Greens

The Scattered Greens

 
The Scattered Greens

Within the cities, with their asphalt roads
And concrete sidewalks, hard on aging feet,
With neither giving sustenance to souls, 
I've sought my solace in the scattered greens.

And sitting there, upon a precious bench, 
I've breathed the less-polluted air—with scents 
Of Nature mixed with vents from vehicles.

And in those places, at those times, it seemed
The city's clamor paused, for just a while,
Or somehow let the mind transform its din—
As all the madness, with its press and rush
Receded, so one savored peace at last.

In time, the sounds of passing cars were changed
To those of waves upon a pleasant shore, 
And drones of airplanes high above became 
The muted roars of distant wind and surf—
As if one heard again the breath of Earth.

******

And so today, on an autumn afternoon, 
Afar from home—and yet at home again— 
I've found a bench and occupied a seat—
As slanting golden sun delights a pine
And youths with trailing shadows dance within 
A court—that’s  painted blue and white and green,
Reminding one of sky and earth serene—
To take their turns at arcing spheres at hoops.

Towards the west, the sunlight silhouettes
A group of women, moving with their dogs. 
And from behind them, I can hear the cries 
Of children playing in the autumn sun. 

A time to pause, to just relax and be—
With all the greens of plants, the blues of sky,
With dogs and humans, prancing in the sun—
Or simply soaking in the wash of light.

A time to find—or glimpse again—that me 
That I had lost among the cities’ streets—
And now appears to look at me and smile.

****** 

I know, as sunset yields to dusk and then—
With streetlights coming on like stars and just
That fading glow that tinges western skies,
The humans here will melt away and I
Will hear the crickets start their choruses.

And so the cycles of the days persist
Within the cities—in their remnant greens.
And this has been a source of peace to me—
And surely others, sailing urban seas.   

2023, October 4th, Wednesday.
Ohlone Park, near Hearst & McGee
Berkeley, California

This Cannot Be a Lie

This Cannot Be a Lie

Could there perhaps be meaning still within
This world where lives are racked with misery—
Where orphans wail amidst the wreckage caused 
By “acts of gods” as well as acts of men?

It seems that much of what we once believed
Was based on dreams and flights of fantasy—
And all that matters in the end is that
Which propagates the genes—or raises yields.

And even these are simply senseless games—
With passing pleasures yielding more of pain.
And all the “noble ends” that we pursue
Are seen as futile through the wider lens. 

******

So all our knowledge will be set to naught
And all our wisdom make no difference—
As planets wheel around their stars—and these
Expend their lives in whirlpool galaxies.

******

And so the cynic in us shrugs and says,
“Why bother with the things for which we lived?
Accept what is—and what in time will be.
Let go of asking what is true—or right.”

And yet the conscience whispers to the heart
And yet the questions come again to mind—
And still, no matter what the reasons be—
We smile at insights—and at actions kind.

How fragile this—the briefly pulsing life 
Of a plant or ant or human—born to die!
And yet, and yet, how precious, touched with joy—
This chance to live—that cannot be a lie.

2023 February 16th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

Typed: Feb 18, Sat., 
on the BART trains from 
Berkeley to Dublin/Pleasanton
Posted: On the 30R bus to Livermore

Between

 
Between

In wintry climes, we greet the sun with joy. 
In torrid ones, we welcome cloud and rain.
So also, what for some is pleasure might
For others be instead a source of pain.

******

Our memories link us to the vanished past.
Imagination helps us look ahead.
These things have surely been among our strengths,
But might at times be maladies instead.

So recollection may console, inform,
Anticipation clear the murk ahead,
But misery, when relived, prolongs the pain—
And anxious thoughts may fill our minds with dread.

To live within the present time is best,
As that is really all we have at hand. 
And yet, the future and the past are bridged
By this—the passing now upon the strand.

****** 

One by one, the stars appear within
The dark that spreads across the sky at night.
Between the cold and fire, we live and die—
Between the past and future, darkness, light.

2023 February 6th, Mon.
Berkeley, California

ভীতি-২০২২-১১-১৯

 
ভীতি (২০২২-১১-১৯)
 
খুশির সঙ্গে ব্যথা কিছু,
চাহনার সঙ্গে ভয়—
এমন জোড়ায়, জীবন যাপন
সাধ্য-সম্ভব হয়।
 
ব্যথা যাদের লাগে না, তাদের
অঙ্গ খসে পড়ে।
ভয় যারা পায় না, তারা
সবার আগে মরে।
 
অবিরামের ব্যথা তবে,
অবিরামের ভয়—
দেহে-মনে, জীবন ধরে,
সহনীয় নয়।
 
******
 
একজন যাতে দাঁড়িয়ে লড়ে,
আরেক তাতে ছোটে।
একের সাহস, অন্যের ভীতি—
কোথার থেকে জোটে?
 
তাই দেখো, কেউ খতরে চলে,
ভয় করে না, মরতে।
কি খোরাকে সাহস তার-ই,
যে জানেনা, ডরতে?
 
বৃদ্ধ যেমন ভয়তে ভরা,
তেমনি কোনো নবীন।
ভয়ের কারণ কি যে—সেটা
বুঝতে পারা কঠিন।
 
******
 
জীবন-পথে যখন একা,
বিপদে অস্ত্রহীন,
মনে হয় তখন, শঙ্কার চোটে,
দেহ শক্তিহীন।
 
আছে কি কোনো ওষুধ-দওয়াই —
ভীতির রোগের ভোজ?
সস্তা হোক, বা যতই দামি—
করা যায় কি খোঁজ?
 
স্বাসের ধ্যান। ব্যামের সাফাই।
কীর্তন গেয়ে মুক্তি।
প্রতি প্রথায়, শান্তির খোঁজের
ধারার সাথে যুক্তি।
 
******
 
যেটা করার, সেটা করা—
এটাও মূলে আছে।
এই শিল্পের দখল পেলে,
শান্তি বুকে আসে।
 
বাকির সাথে, কি পাওয়া যায়,
পথের দিনে-রাতে?
ক্ষতির চোটের শিক্ষা বটে,
দুঃখ, ভীতির সাথে।
 
এদের থেকে না পালিয়ে,
সহযাত্রী ব’লে,
মুখের দিকে তাকিয়ে তাদের,
বসাতে হয় কোলে।
 
শনিবার, ১৯ অক্টোবর, ২০২২ খ্রি.
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
 

Yin and Yang-2022-11-14

Yin and Yang (2022-11-14)
 
Wins are glorious, losses hard to bear.
The ego waxes—or the ego wanes.
Pride and courage cede to shame and fear.
When self is lost, what essence still remains?
 
The world we live in is a cruel place—
And so it was before we humans spread
Our special blight across the planet’s face—
And so it will be when we all are dead.
 
And yet, for every cruelty, we still can find
In humans, like in other beings, this—
The presence, often quiet, of an action kind—
And so, for every bruise, a touch of bliss.
 
Can “light” be known, without its counter, “dark”?
So kindness and its opposite are twinned,
And every color in the rainbow’s arc
Has tinged the ones who’re graced—and those who’ve sinned.
 
So yang and yin are nestled, each in each—
And good and evil too are born as twins.
And this we learn—and try in turn to teach—
The one who loses beats the one who wins—
 
For loss can give us depth of mind and heart,
And winning lead to hubris, which, in turn,
Can cloud the eye and dull the hearer’s art.
The plant that eats the sun will also burn.
 
In troubled times, it might become the norm
To seek a magic potion, spell or charm.
And yet, beneath the roiling of the storm,
There flows the ocean deep—with all its calm.
 
2022 November 14, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York

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

  

The Path Taken

 
The Path Taken
 
There's neither a heaven nor a hell that waits
As pat for virtue or as rod for vice.
Justice is not served within a life
Or afterward. Our hopes are often dashed 
And all our labors blindly set to naught.
 
And yet we strive for what we feel is best,
And yet we hope for justice for ourselves
And others. This gives meaning to our lives.
We walk upon the road and look ahead—
As otherwise we might as well be dead.
 
******
 
There’s light and darkness, coupled each to each.
There’s joy and sorrow, pleasure-pain, entwined.
There’s fear and anger, jousting with desire—
And love, compassion with their opposites.
There’s deep attention—and impatient haste.
 
So also: “good” and “evil”; fog and clarity;
Truth and falsehood—and what’s in-between;
The stress of conflict—and the grace of peace.
We walk within the pulsing and the breath—
The yang and yin of birthing, life and death.
 
*****
 
We humans often think that we’re unique—
Forgetting every species also is.
The times we’re in, despite the Internet,
Are full of things that stress and isolate
Us—each from each—or else distract and blind.
 
We walk alone and yet at times we find
A hand that reaches out to us to help
Or just to touch us, so we know that we
Are not alone—and share the sentient plight.
And when we do the same, we share the light.
 
2022 August 30^th, Tue.
Berkeley, California
 

Judgement and Blame

 
Judgement and Blame
 
So easy it can be—to find a thing
Or person that we blame for this or that,
Neglecting all the things, combined, that might 
Have brought the circumstance to where it's at.
 
At every moment, we have choices that
We make, although we may not be aware
That we are doing so. And yet the past,
The present and the future still are there
 
To influence that choice. The future? Yes—
The one that we perceive, with hope or fear.
And yet, we have to act, and take the blame
Or credit for the action. That is clear.
 
It will do not do to blame the past for this
Or even present—or what these portend.
We each should bear the weight of what we do,
For action is what matters in the end.
 
******
 
But still, let's slow the judgement and the blame
We cast on others. Let us try and pause
To understand what brought the acts to be,
And not be hasty in ascribing cause.
 
We cannot see within another's mind
Or gauge the pain within another's heart,
But we can pause to try and think and feel—
And this has always been a practiced art
 
That now is more neglected. Who has time
To pause, reflect and try to comprehend?
It's easier to quickly blame and judge—
For breakage can be difficult to mend.
 
The habits that we have are useful but
They might be harmful if we let them steer
Our thoughts and words and actions. In our lives
We need at times to pause to see and hear.
 
2022, June 13^th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 
 

Peace-শান্তি-Shanti-2022-01

 
Peace / শান্তি 

Peace

Within the stillness of the quiet mind
And resting deep within the peaceful heart,
There still exists the silence that can heal
And so the caring and the courage too. 
So on the surface of the ocean, storms
May rage and waves be whipped by wind,
But deep below, the water's silent flow
Persists—and knows no turbulence. 

2022, January 29th, Sat. 
Brooklyn, New York

****** 

শান্তি 

সমুদ্রের পৃষ্ঠে: হাওয়া, ঢেউ, ঝড়।
গভীরে, তাও বইছে সদা— 
সেই নিঃশব্দ ধারা। 
মনের নিরব স্থিরের অন্তরে
রয়েছে সেই স্বাস্থ্যকর শান্তি,
সেই সহানুভূতি, সেই সাহস।  

শনিবার, ২৯ জানুয়ারি, ২০২২ খ্রি, 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

Autumn Night

Autumn Night

The leaf is dry. It skitters down the drive—

A sound that breaks the silence of the night

And wakes us then to all the softer sounds

That come to being, once we pause to hear.

And so I listen to the swoosh of trees,

The traffic on a distant city street,

A tap upon a flagpole—and the breath 

That’s barely heard and yet sustains this life.

I’d swept the yard and driveway, stopped to rest, 

And heard the leaf and felt the evening chill—

And sitting now and looking at the sky,

I think of all our transience and our dreams.

And from that sky, the baleful eye of Mars

Looks down upon us all and seems to say,

“Your autumn comes and you and I are near

And yet you’re just as foolish as in spring.

“And I will move away and come again

And see some others in your place and then

Some others still and others yet again—

But never any end to foolishness.”

I listen to the wind that plays with trees

And hear a neighbor and his son converse—

For just a bit—and then that wind again

And yet another lonely, scuttling leaf.

So autumn comes and Mars and Earth have neared 

For just a while and then will part again.

And some will play at wars and others then

Will tend the wounded. So it always is.

And even Ares sickens of the game—

Or so it seems, as plagues and autumns reap.

But now my sweeping and my rest are done.

I’d like to linger, but I must go in.

2020, October 8th, Sat.,

Brooklyn, New York

The Virus Calls / A Bit of Hope

The Virus Calls / A Bit of Hope

This virus will not yield to us, I think, 
In time for us to stop its lethal toll,
In spite of all our wits and armaments,
And yet will yield to Nature, like all things 
That form the moving parts of Nature’s whole. 

And so, with the northern spring, as breezes blow 
Through open windows, sweeping out the germs 
And drying droplets, northern folk may find 
That though the Reaper’s rent for April grows, 
The summer’s lease will offer better terms.

But if indeed this bit of hope is true, 
Then those who love their a.c.’s should abstain
And bear the summer’s heat and humid days,
While keeping windows open, paying dues,
So they themselves—and others too—may gain.

******

“What price is there to life?” we ask, and yet
That price is known to those who calculate, 
For tables have been built to catch the flow,
As hapless fish are caught in fishing nets.
But fluids flow—while tables estimate.

And so we balance life and cash and say
That money is what's needed to survive,
And so it is in this commercial age, 
But there are months and years, as there are days,
To pause and rest from all the hype and jive.

And such a time perhaps has come for all
Of us who only see the dazzling light
That's blinded us for long to all that's dark
And of our making.  So the virus calls
Attention to this fact of loss of sight. 

******

A month of fasting surely can't eraje
Our centuries of gluttony, and yet
We see the sky again and hear the birds.
The sight of mountains long unseen amaje.
The air we breathe is as clean as it will get—

For lo, the mills and vehicles have paused, 
And since perhaps the mad and senseless rush
Has been at least abated for a while,
With all the muck that crazed consumption caused,
In urban spaces, there's a rural hush.

The poor are hit the worst in every land
And some are starving, others walking miles
And miles and miles towards their distant homes,
And some will see and sadly understand
As humans weep—and the rest of Nature smiles.

2020 April 21st, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Winding Down

 
Winding Down 

The clock is wound—and then its coils unwind,
as “Tick-tick-tock!”, its seconds-hand goes ‘round,
until it’s all unwound—and then it stops
and waits for us to wind it up again.
 
So also it may be with each of us.
We each are wound—and then we each unwind,
as childhood, youth and middle age go by—
and then we might perceive we’re winding down.

And so we slow and stumble as we move,
as friction overcomes the driving force,
until at last the pulsing heart has stopped.
Then life is done and death is all that’s left.

Is there a hand that winds us up again?
If so, the spirit might perhaps revive—
but not the body or the burdened self
that sheds its baggage—and its claim to life.

2018 February 16th, Fri.
F train, running on the D line
between Atlantic Avenue and 
Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn

Echoes-II

Echoes-II

We each are echoes of the ones who've gone,
As they had been of those who'd gone before,
And those will be who follow us in turn.

So each bestrides this stage that we are on
To play a part and then to be no more—
Except as whispers in the earth or urn.

******

The air we breathe and all that's in our bones
Have been dispersed a myriad times before
And so will be again and yet again.

And every word we speak, the silent stones
Have surely heard—and kept within a store,
In which there's still the pleasure and the pain.

******

So if we listen, with our ears and eyes,
We still might find, between the words we speak
And all our actions, those of others past.

How many greetings, smiles and sad goodbyes—
How many rhythms, pulsing strong or weak—
How many echoes, fading slow or fast...

******

So every thought, like every passing cloud,
Has siblings in the future and the past—
And every life is but a stanza more.

So hear the waters murmur soft and loud,
“Of all our ripples, which is first or last?
We each are echoes of the ones before.”

Blue Ridge Mountains
source: unknown

Coney Island bound D train 
between Atlantic Ave & 79th St
Brooklyn, New York
2018 February 1st, Thu. 
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Related:
Echoes (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/09/echoes.html)

Balance and Delusion

Balance and Delusion
 

https://grassrootsyoga.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/balance-akt.jpg

Our pleasures may enliven us
And pain could make us dull.
But pleasure, pain are needed, both.
Their sum is never null.

So when we’re robbed of pleasure and
Of joy, we might complain.
Yet wisdom comes from suffering
And empathy from pain.

Within our lives, we might find joy.
We surely will find sorrow.
But grief can give us depth, and woe
Today is light tomorrow.

There might be times when we rely
On faith and hope alone.
And yet the dark despair is when,
For sins, we might atone.

******

We could survive in the hardest times—
But fail when times are slack.
So soldiers might, in battles, surge—
And then, in peace, fall back.

Civilians die in droves in wars
In these, our modern times.
But where those wars have ended, still
The bell of karma chimes.

When food is scarce, but still in reach,
We seek—and so subsist.
But when there is surfeit of it,
Our minds and bodies list.

We starve from lack of nourishment
And die from its excess.
We strive for more of this and that—
Yet thrive when we have less.

There is a balance that we need
That Nature once provided.
But now we need a discipline,
By which we might be guided.

******

So some are helpless, forced to work.
They slave, until they sicken.
But some, who need no longer work,
Might then, by this, be stricken.

We find ourselves within a crowd—
And seek relief from this.
But then we find that solitude
Is often far from bliss.

Our children need our firmness, yet
They need us to be kind.
The middle way is often best—
But often hard to find.

We feel that we are ignorant
And so we try to learn.
But then our knowledge causes mind
And heart to fret and burn.

Our knowledge may be useful, both
For evil as for good.
So bodies may be healed by it—
Or burned like kindling wood.

*******

Some spend their years in search of love
Or sex or both and find
The one cannot be sought, the other
Snares the hapless mind.

We work to earn our living and
We work to be secure.
But then we meet the ailments that
Our money cannot cure.

We thirst for recognition, yet
May find that it’s a curse.
And I could carry on, for more—
But now should end my verse.

So I will end. Too little love
Can wound; too much can spoil.
And so it is with everything,
Including rest and toil.

2017 October 24th, Tue.
Berkeley, California