Release

Release

We try to judge the act and not the person,

And this can serve us well through all our years,

But often we may struggle all alone,

And then perhaps could shed our bitter tears,

Had we not seen how others suffered more 

And so had gained perspective—being blessed

By traces left of humor that could see

The comedy of this, the “tragic self”—

And so could pause from misery to smile

And even laugh out loud at such a plight—

And so, amidst what seemed as darkness, find

The fortitude to still perceive the light.

****** 

We carry burdens, dense, of varied  weight, 

Of all the wrongs we’ve borne. And every grudge

Can add to these, until we let them fall

And so are freed to let the heavens judge

Our acts and those of others, breathing free

To hark to conscience, heed to duties left—

To breathe in peace and even take delight

In pleasures small and what we still have left.

This needs some practice, letting grasping go

Of fears, desires, attachments, rages—all

The things that snare us, all the chains we’ve wrought—

To find release from years in captive thrall.

2025, April 15th, Tue

Berkeley, California 

Past, Present and Future

 
Past, Present and Future
 
Without the memory of the past, we would
Be ignorant, without identity—
And might not then survive for very long.
 
Without anticipation, how could we
Prepare to deal with what might come our way?
Again, without this, we would perish soon.
 
But when the present is intruded on
By memories of things that now have passed,
This could then cloud our clarity of sight.
 
So also, when our worries grip our hearts,
We cannot savor then the present time.
A mind that’s crowded leaves no space for light.
 
Too often, we are prisoners of our past
And hostage to the future. Let us breathe,
Enjoying both the breathing in and out.
 
The disciplines of body and of mind,
When gently practiced, lead to habits sound
That then sustain us through our grief and stress.
 
And so, the present, with its challenges,
Can be the focus. Starting with the breath,
Awareness spreads and gives us clarity.
 
2022 September 13th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Today

Today 

  


Along the journey of my life, I came
To a place unmapped and so without a name.
And there I wandered—lost, confused and torn,
Not knowing where to go or whom to blame.

And all the yearnings and regrets were there
And all the worries that we humans bear.
Their constant clamor so perturbed my mind,
For what was present, I could hardly care.

But then, when I had burned for long in hell,
And what was right or wrong could hardly tell,
From deepest dark, a flash of insight came
That gave me light and made my being well.

******

And I will now, with feeble phrases, try
To tell you what I saw, when death was nigh,
That surely saved my life and gave me peace—
Enough at least to give me strength to cry.

The tears of men are scarce and rarely seen,
And some may deem that vision as obscene.
And so, in private, these are mostly shed,
By those whose public faces seem serene.

And yet, that weeping, when it comes, may bring
Its own relief, as all that woe can sing
That till that time was mute and caged within,
But now, towards the open sky, takes wing.
 
******

Oh yesterdays of happiness or grief,
Tomorrows built of chance or blind belief—
Allow today, with all its pleasure-pain,
To bloom and yield its hue and fragrance brief.

The past is memory. The future, who can see?
So what is it that’s there, for you and me?
No matter what the part or whose the script,
The present scene is where we each must be.

The day goes by. The morrow is not here.
What use is our regret and all our fear?
This moment is the only thing we each
Can have and fashion. Let us hold it dear.

*******

And yet it passes—and is then no more,
Except in memory. All indeed is flow.
It can be felt but then it can’t be held—
This precious moment that we must let go.

And that’s the secret that is known to all
Except the batter who has missed the ball
And then would lure it back—or fears the next—
For that’s the trap in which we humans fall.

These things, the sages have described—and yet,
Too often, in delusion, we forget
That as in everything, our practice makes
Us better in the things that we regret.

******

To find the sight that saints and sinners sought
But could not find, as they, like all, were caught
Within the swirling fog, our practices
Should each dissolve—along with all we’re taught.

So all our learning, from the first to last,
And hopes and worries, to the streaming, fast,
We then relinquish, so the present breath
Can flow unhindered by the future, past.

And this unlearning is the way we ken
That light obscured to all the learned men,
For only when we’re rid of the thief that’s thought
Is the present fully sensed—in the grace of Zen.

******
 
Embrace the living being in your arms,
No matter what the lack may be of charms.
Inhale the moment. Pause, and then exhale.
You’ve been with God—and freed from all that harms.

And all of this that I have written here
Had come to me, in a vision sharp and clear—
That all my words may only serve to dull—
Within that hell of madness and of fear.

And since that time, I’ve slowly walked a while,
And stumbled, fallen, wandered back a mile,
But being opened by the knife to light,
I sense the darkness—and I wince and smile.

******

Our lives are eddies in this world of flow
And each obstruction ends in more of woe.
We breathe and drink and eat—and yet we know
That all that’s taken in must surely go.

And yet, I would not, in a manner brute
Or gentle, claim that all there is of truth
In healing soul and body, I have found
Or say that I have traced it to its root.

For every prophet in this field, we find
Another who is opposite in mind
And spirit. So in humbleness I’ll end
By saying this—remember to be kind.

2018 January 12th, Friday
Brooklyn, New York
    

Solace-II

Solace-II
 

source: unreachable

When desperate and caught, it seemed,
within the devil’s coils,
I turned to verse to calm the storms
that roiled my inner seas.
And so I found a quietude
that lasted then a while—
an interval of peace, in which
that clamor would subside.

I typed out lines and sent them out
as if into the ether,
and now and then I’d hear a voice
that spoke in text to me.
And so it was for many years,
until my writing ceased—
but still at times I write my lines
and send these out to be.

For sentences can live awhile—
and even when we’re gone.
Perhaps my musings still may bring
my solaces to some—
or so I still imagine, though
the chances may be slight.
But in this way, I find relief
to carry on my life.

2017 October 27th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
---------------------------------------------------------------

Related: Solace (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.in/2015/01/solace.html) 
  

What Wonders

What Wonders

When all we see is sorrow, let us then remember joy.
When all is utter darkness, let us then recall the light.
When all around is meanness, let us then remember love.
When all we hear is wailing, let us then recall the song.

And let us all remember that the moment is the prize
That yields its passing pleasure or yields instead its pain.
That moment, let us savor, let us greet it as a friend,
Who was with us when we started and will be at the end.

We are here between the atoms and the stars that light the sky.
We are stretched between the starting and the ending of the all.
We are less than motes in sunbeams, we are ants that crawl and die,
And yet we are as oceans that have depths that hold the all.

We are nothing that is special—no more than drifting leaves,
No more than dust that’s blowing—or specks of froth on waves.
And yet we sit and worry and grasp what we should yield.
But see—we ply our sciences and all our trades and arts.

Oh sing of this creation that needs no artisan!
Oh raise your arms in wonder and dance beneath the stars.
What filigrees are woven, what horrors and delights!
Oh savor this—your being, and your passing days and nights.

What wonder and what torture, what pleasure and what pain!
Our yesterdays forgotten, our tomorrows never known,
Our day, from dawn to sunset, our night in which we dream—
What meaning, in this marvel that’s the life that never stays?

I do not know the meaning and I doubt the ones who preach.
I’ve spent my life in learning and I’ve tried my best to teach.
But as my days are ending and I’m yearning for my rest,
I remember still your kindness, in this heart that you had blessed.

I still recall your singing as I still recall the dawn
As the dusk is now descending and I know that I’ll be gone.
I have seen the stony faces, I have sensed the hearts of stone,
But I still recall your smiling—and I know I’m not alone.

And so to those who hear me, I am calling from the past.
Let your present be your treasure, for the little while you last.
Remember still your pleasures, releasing all your pains—
And laughing at your losses, surrender all your gains.

2017 October 10th, Tue. 
  

The Walls of Sin

 
The Walls of Sin

I can weave my words in verses.
I can try to write in prose.
But until I see some action,
I will never find repose.

My words may lull my readers, 
Or wake them up from sleep,
But until the deeds have followed,
Their impact can’t be deep—

For words are far too easy,
And deeds are often hard.
For every verse I fashion,
I find a broken shard.

It tells of visions shattered,
It speaks of things undone.
How many are the losses
For every battle won? 
   
Our spans are so uncertain—
Except in that they end.
We seek some satisfaction—
Before we are at end.

What action do I look for?
Should it be yours or mine?
It’s an ebbing, of the madness,
That might need a grace divine.

But no god will come to aid us
And no leader, heaven-sent.
We can wait for gods forever.
We can follow—and repent.

I am looking for the vision
That can see the trap we’re in.
I am waiting for the action
From the heart that’s cleansed of sin.

For long, a tide’s been rising
That brings us more of lies.
We can work towards its turning,
But only if we’re wise.

We are busy with our duties
Or sundry pleasures, so
We limit heart and vision—
And query, even more.

Can truth be gleaned from fiction,
Or virtue born from vice?
Can warmth be found in beings,
Whose hearts have turned to ice?

If we see the faults of others
But not our own, we sink
Towards a dark suspicion
That stems from how we think.

If we note the act of evil
But not the ones of good,
We feed the fire within us
With more of kindling wood.

The anger and the hatred
Can burn away the soul.
Could Yeshua or Gotama
Make such a being whole?
   
We sicken from the slaughter.
We hide our hearts away.
So darkness is ascendant.
What hope remains for day?

But see, the ones who're shielded
From mayhem and from worse—
They too have lost their senses,
And they can't be cured by verse.
  
When people cease from hearing,
A deafness then prevails.
The orphans may be screaming,
But all their pleading fails.

When people cease from seeing,
Then blindness is their fate.
What end is there to hatred,
Except in more of hate?
 
We need a gentle cleansing
Of body and of mind.
We need to turn from hating
To relearning to be kind.

Towards the ones we care for,
We might be soft and kind.
But what about the others—
That we’ve put out of mind?

We can’t be saints or angels,
But should we yield to rage
That blinds us to the spirals
That churn through every age?

Should we close our eyes to madness,
Be cocooned, within our nest?
Should we tend to duties, pleasures—
And wave away the rest?

Do first, that which is local.
But then, look up and see
What's past and what is distant
And how they came to be.

The future is created
By what we now will do.
And all the past is present
In thought—and feeling too.

Can a being, who’s conditioned,
Be free of habit’s snare?
If we’re driven by the madness,
Can we learn again to care?
 
We are trained, from when we’re children,
By the candy and the stick.
So we grow up to be zombies
And we make each other sick.

But as those who are discerning
Grow in number, it will turn—
This tide that has been rising—
This fire, in which we burn.

Can we find an end to conflicts,
When we’re not at peace within?
Can we see the pain of others,
When we’re blinded by our sin?

It is feeling that will free us,
But not what is expected.
It’s the heart that is within us,
Whose call we have neglected.

It is thinking that will lead us,
But not the thoughts implanted.
It’s the sense, that was within us,
That the nonsense has supplanted.

It is action that will heal us,
But not the kind we praise.
It’s the action of refraining
From running through the maze.

This maze is our creation.
It’s the prison we have made.
When we cease from blindly racing,
The walls of sin will fade.

Observe your own reaction
That traps you even more.
Inhale, and see it rising.
Exhale, and let it go.

When the cattle are stampeding,
The one who pauses dies.
So also truth can perish,
When all around are lies.

But when there is a slowing,
Proceeding one by one,
Then truth is heard and spoken,
And sanity has won.

2017 May 31, Wed.
(parts in blue added 2017 June 4th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York 

Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day

Love's Labor Lost?
(Broverbs for Valentine's Day)
    
We can sit and scribe our verses
From now until we die,
But who, if asked to read them,
Will find a reason why?
 
We can sow our seeds of wisdom--
And weep, that all our toil
Was wasted, since the seedings
Were all on barren soil.
 
We can spend our waking lifetimes
In struggles, pay the cost
From what we left neglected,
Yet see our labors lost.
 
We can teach and we can nurture;
We can fuss, as carers must.
We can build, with patience, structures--
And see them turn to dust.
  
****** 
  
So when we're in the twilight,
With darkness drawing near,
We then might slow from slaving
And pause to shed a tear.
  
But then it's time to wipe it
And wistfully to smile,
For if, with heart, we labored,
It was surely worth our while.
 
And if some satisfaction,
Some pleasure in the task,
For a year or for an instant,
Was ours--what's left to ask?
 
Let's leave what's past to others,
And what's to come to fate.
The present time is precious
And not for waste in hate.
  
****** 
  
There's joy in our creations,
However small they be.
We bring them through gestations
And then we set them free.
 
Like children, they may flourish.
Like seedlings, they may die.
How many are our hatchlings--
How few will live to fly?
 
We seek for recognition.
A smidgen should suffice.
We warm our hands with praises--
For soon, we'll meet with ice.
  
Our children may be stolen.
With broken hearts, we cry.
But if we know they're tended,
With souls content, we die.
  
******
  
We labor for the joy of it.
We labor for our bread.
We labor for the smile we get,
From duty and from dread.
  
And when we shirk our labor,
We're often in torment.
Some say they live for pleasure,
Yet rarely are content.
  
Our lives are often muddles.
What hubris, then, to say
It's pleasure, love or duty
Or work that clears the way.
 
We can live for just this instant;
We can live for what we lost;
We can live to build the future.
In each, there's always cost.
  
******
 
And those, who're truly humble,
Of their virtues, might be proud,
But equally, of those failings
That they rarely speak of loud.
 
For those, who see no failings
In themselves, are surely blind,
And those, who see them clearest,
Are souls of deepest mind.
 
A vice that's partly conquered
Is like a foe defeated;
It's best to leave it extant,
Lest hubris be repeated.
  
The greatest pride of humans,
We're told, is that of pride.
Yet pride, in honest labor,
Is a lion each can ride.

****** 
 
In all things, there's a balance;
There's yang that waits in yin.
Too little--and we're tortured;
Too much--and we're in sin.
    
What's savored best at leisure
Is rarely sensed in haste.
Who never knows of hunger,
Can scarcely know of taste.

So too, a length of failure
Lends flavor to success.
And each is best, not scanty
But neither in excess.
   
Let's take what we are given--
And that, with gratitude.
Why pine for what was owed us?
We owe, in plenitude.
 
2016 February 14th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Winter's Gifts

  
Winter's Gifts
 
I have heard my footsteps crunching
On the freshly fallen snow.
I have turned and seen my footprints
Where I just had been before.
   
The brine from running nostrils,
The crystals striking lips,
The chill of air on cheekbones—
These all are winter's gifts.
  
The trees that stand in silence
And don their cloaks of snow,
They too are gifts of winter—
And who could ask for more?
 
****** 
 
I can hear the sound of footfalls
On the softly falling snow.
I can see the trail of footprints
Where I've slowly walked before.
 
But then the winds grow stronger
And sharp enough to pierce
The layers in which I'm huddled,
As the blizzard turns to fierce.
 
And yet, I thank, while freezing,
And blinded by the ice,
The winter, for its presents,
Though some are not so nice.
 
******
   
And later, while I shovel,
With aching back and arms,
Or when the snow gets blackened,
I'm grateful for its charms.
 
And though that snow, in melting,
Has soaked my socks and feet,
While fingers still are frozen,
My thanks, I still repeat.
 
For the hardships of the winter,
For the cold that numbs my hands,
I am grateful.  These are blessings
That a seeker understands.
 
******
  
I have heard the crunch of footsteps
On the white and virgin snow.
I have seen the trail of footprints
Where I once had trudged before.
 
I have watched the snow get blacker;
I have seen it turn to slush.
I have shoveled and I've grumbled
But I've told myself to hush.
  
For only in the winter,
In the cold and wind and snow,
Am I grateful, though I'm living,
That I soon will have to go.
  
******
   
As I shiver, while I'm standing
As I'm waiting for the bus,
While I'm holding in my urine,
I am tempted then to cuss.
 
But I turn towards the heavens
That are dreary, dark and gray.
Though the wind is chill and biting,
To those heavens then I pray:
 
“I am grateful for your presents,
For the hardship that uplifts.
If you'd only take me swiftly,
You could spare my share of gifts.”
     
2016 January 23rd, Sat.
(during winter storm Jonas)
Brooklyn, New York
   

Ignorance

 
This is dedicated to the memory of my late friend, Dr. Kenneth E. Rich.  I think he would have appreciated some of the things I write about here.

Ken was the antithesis of the person shown in several of the images below.  (Some wiser folk are also depicted.)
 
Could these two--Kenneth Rich and Donald Trump--belong to the same species?  I am sure that questions such as this have arisen in the minds of other beings through the eons.
  
-- Arjun
-----------------------------------------------------------------
  
Ignorance
 
There’s ignorance that comes from circumstance,
and then there’s ignorance from lack of caring or
from shutting out the things we neither know
nor want to know.  The first is curable,
by effort or by change of circumstance.
The other is, it seems, incurable,
unless there is a genuine change of heart.
 
 

Donald Trump, real estate heir and Republican Presidential front-runner, U.S.A., 2015

 
The ills that plague the “nations”—all the wars
they wage against the others or within,
and also all the conflicts in our lives,
arise, in part or totally, from this—
those darknesses which fate may serve to us
or those with which we choose to be content,
while damning all who dare to point towards light.
   
 

 
The senses, heart and mind can lead us each
to liberation or to bondage deep.
Gotama and so many others past had seen,
in quietude, the ills that work within.
And by observing these, they found that all
that rises also crests—and ebbs and fades,
unless we feed it, through our ignorance.
   

 
How easy it can be to fall in sin—
to add yet more and more to endless grief.
How hard it is to turn away from this—
to face the dreaded emptiness and be
aware of all that soils the space within
that only can be cleansed when we release
accumulations gathered through our lives.
 



 
The virtues old remain our virtues still—
compassion, courage, patience, honesty—
and all the vices that we celebrate
are still the vices that can lead to grief.
And chief among these vices still remains
that ignorance that blinds the heart and mind—
for which we even are content to kill.
   

    

Humility, when learned by those that pride
has led astray, can serve to check its reach.
But ignorance and hubris, hand in hand,
breed havoc, as they kiss and copulate.
The times we’re in, like others past, have carved
these two as idols, intertwined, to which
we sacrifice, while shouting foolishness.
   

When tossed upon the storms that roil the sea,
it seems that we are helpless.  Yet we find
that we can still observe our plight and breathe—
releasing, as we breathe, the pain we feel.
And knowing that the ones who wound have lost
that sight, for which we then may pray for them,
we might regain that calm and peace that is.

   

The wise have learned—how little, what they know,
how vast, that ocean dark of ignorance!
So when they find a piece of light, they smile
and hold it up to see, for just a while,
before they let it float upon its way.
The ignorant persist in ignorance,
insisting that the “others” go away.
 

  

To answer noise with noise, and violence
with violence, may seem the only way.
For see—the quiet ones are silent still,
and those who shied from arms are buried deep.
And yet, aggression—that of speech and deed,
and even in defense, can only lead
to more of this—and more of ignorance.
 

 
So let us pause, or slow, amidst the haste.
How many lives were saved by only this?
Defend yourself and others, who cannot
defend themselves—but know, that path can lead
to more and more and even more of grief.
So be aware of what you do, and see—
the one you strike has eyes and heart as you.
 

   
I saw a frog that sat beside a lake.
I looked at him and he looked back at me.
I’d heard him croaking.  Now that frog was mute.
I saw his muscles tense, as if to leap.
And so I froze—and breathing, looked at him.
We stayed there quite a while, that frog and I.
It seemed we talked—of truth and ignorance.
 

Does Wisdom Come With Age?
http://news.discovery.com/animals/videos/why-cant-chimps-speak-video-140919.htm

    
2015 November 29th, Sat.
Skyway dhaba, Bath Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Evening in Brooklyn

 
Evening in Brooklyn
 
The light has almost drained away, as all
The beings of the day are turning in—
Except for humans.  Even they have slowed,
And so the city’s hustle is subdued
As evening falls upon us like a leaf.

******
  
The humors ebb and surge within us all
As sunset yields to dusk and then to night.
The city’s lights hold back the stars and yet
The boldest now are twinkling and I see
What seemed a planet arc across the sky.
     
******
  
How often once, how rarely now, have I
Been one of those who watched the day depart.
So many memories of evenings past
Arise and flow—like ripples on a pond
That cede to stillness in the twilight's glow.

******

The dawn, the dusk, the turning of the tide
Are times when we are meant to be outdoors,
To see the changing light, to hear, to smell—
To taste of essence, feel the pulsing wave—
To be as one with time and space and god.

2015 July 10th Fri., 9:42 pm
(third stanza added July 11th, Sat. 8:58 pm)
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York
   

Solace

 
Solace
 
On days when I’ve been overwhelmed by stress
but still have somehow put the work to rest,
on walking home, I’m freed awhile to breathe,
observe and contemplate the flow of life.

And I confess, at times I seek escape –
and when I’m able, fly away in mind
to walk beside a broad and flowing river –
far from cities built on greed and fear.
 
Let men devour each other, seek to climb
where base or high ambition bids them to.
Let those like me, of humbler needs, repair
to where such rivers, in their natures, flow.
 
The sun is shining on the waves, the wind
is blowing through the waving grass – and clouds
are soaring in the arcing dome of blue.
I hear the wind, the lapping waves and more.
 
The sound of birds perhaps – the distant moo,
the flute that’s playing from the orchard grove…
Ah, sit in corner-offices on high,
but let us be, to walk in fields alone…
 
On walking home at dusk, I see the stars
appearing one by one above.  I see the trees
that stand as still and silent sentinels...
And so, this son of earth and sky revives…
 
So each seeks refuge from the cruel game –
and each, if lucky, finds a place of peace,
from which to draw the spirit's sustenance –
for otherwise, a soulless shell remains.
 
2015 January 1st, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Decompression

  
Decompression
 
When you’re hassled and you’re harried,
And you’ve hurried through the day,
And you’re seeking salve or solace
That will soothe your stress away –
  
Then it’s time to get a cuppa –
As the British like to say –
Or a coffee or a tipple
That will end your working day.
  
But be timid with the tipple
That might lead to two or three,
And be cautious with the coffee,
If of “nerves” you would be free.
  
It is better, after resting,
With your feet up, with a tea,
To go walking, as if leisure
Were a right for you and me.
    
And if you’re in a city,
And to stand and stare is safe,
There are people, who are passing,
And the stores, at which to gape.
    
And there’s even in the alleys
The ever-changing sky –
And if, perchance, you’re lucky,
There are branches, spreading high…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu.
Dunkin Donuts, 79th Street & 17th Ave.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Broverbs – A Long Sentence

    
Broverbs – A Long Sentence
 
When we’re exhausted, though the work remains,
when we’ve labored, yet had punishment,
when all that we had built ignites and burns
and only ashes, smoldering, are left –
then those with faith in gods might duly turn
to them for consolation – while the ones
without such faith might see a deeper truth,
and realize that gain and loss – reward and
punishment – are waves upon the sea,
but he or she, who dives beneath, can find
an understanding and a vision deep
that’s often lost to those who ride the waves.
 
There’s zen, in which we see it all at once,
as still expounded by the Japanese,
and gyan, which can’t be gathered instantly,
as Indians have known for centuries,
and then there’s chan, which scholars learn about
when they've read what's written in Chinese –
yet strangely these are all the very same,
and even in the West, there’s knowledge and
there’s wisdom – which are linked, yet different.
 
On being served a sentence that is long,
we might not comprehend it fully yet,
but when we’ve worked that sentence partly through,
we then might start to sense its import more,
and finally, when we’ve labored to its end,
we might perceive, in whole, what’s truly meant –
or figure out the sentence made no sense,
and so regret the wasted time we spent.
 
So when you’re standing in the dock, beware –
there’s more to it than words the judge might speak,
yet bear in mind your future’s being parsed,
but what that sentence was, you’ll only know –
when, if fortunate, you’ve been released.
 
Our stanzas shorten as we reach our ends,
and yet enlightenment remains "afar",
for “seeing” might mean one of many things,
and so “extinguish” can, as well.
 
When flights of fancy and achievements end,
we’re back to where we started – there to dwell.
   
Our nibbana is here, not there, dear friend.
 
2014 July 30, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
    

My Excuse

  
My Excuse
  
I once was broken-hearted. My remnant mind was crazed,
I wrote for you then verses. In abysses, I gazed...
In gauging then the meter, I sensed a silent calm,
And so it was that rhyming became a soothing balm.

And though you're long departed, I'm writing verses still,
For though they're my addiction, they do, a vacuum, fill.
And when my heart is weary and mind has paid the cost,
They give me back my essence – the quiet I have lost.

I write in a tongue that's foreign and wonder what's the use.
But when the muse comes calling, I rarely can refuse.
I wish that you could hear me and know that I am well.
The things that I've been thinking, I wish that I could tell...

How many write such verses, how many hold them in?
How few are given chances, in this, our world of sin?
There's grief and there's forgiveness, there's love and there is pain...
I wish that I could hear you and be with you again.

My heart, it still is broken.  My mind, it still is crazed.
That I am living, working – at this, I'm quite amajed.
But still, I'm writing verses – and wondering what's the use.
And this, that I am writing, is merely my excuse. 
  
2014 July 7th, Mon, 8:57 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

A Little Bit of Fun

        
A Little Bit of Fun
     
It's summertime, in  lands of winter snows.
The sun has strengthened and the sapling grows.
And where the weary rest, forgetting wrongs,
There's something right – as inner essence knows...

There comes a time, when a working one retires,
To play perhaps on flutes and strum on wires,
And in the afternoons, to sing the songs
Of time, of distance and of lost desires.

******

But short of that, for those with summers off,
The next best thing is this – however brief –
These days, when clock-alarms are set to “off”,
And from the race, we're offered some relief.

These lazy days of summer, though they're late,
Give time for us to bask awhile in sun,
To slowly sip our coffees, contemplate,
And even have a little bit of fun.

******

With autumn, public schools were opened. We
Went forth to work in them, to workers be
With voices stopped.  We yet were bid to teach.
And what we wrought, was plain for hearts to see...

All winter-long, we slaved and shivered as
We waited for the spring to grace the land.
But when at last it came, we still were bound
To wait till now to breathe – and understand.

2014 July 5th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Summer's Here

    
Summer's Here
  
The summer's here. The sky is bright and blue.
A sea-breeze blows through Brooklyn's sun-washed streets.
It sets the leaves a-shimmer.  Treetops wave,
And light and shade do dappled, dancing steps...

I stand beside a tree and watch that dance
In the leaves above and the shadow-play below.
The cooling breezes waft my sweat away 
And I rejoice that summer's here again.

******

A cup of coffee, from the corner store...
I’m greeted by a former student – worst
Among the ones I've had of late.  He shouts
To others, "Look, our Dr. Faggot's here!"

I quietly buy the coffee, quickly leave.
I hear, behind me, laughs and murmurs.  "Bye,"
One calls out, “Dr. F!”  I smile, because
It’s summer and I’m free – till summer ends.

2014  June 29th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The End of June

   
The End of June
  
The summers here are altered states of mind.
The schools are closed, except for those who dare
Attending, teaching summer school. It's rough.
For those like me, ten months are long enough!

The questions rise, on which I now reflect:
Could I, without these summers, have survived?
How many summers past?  How few are left?
And what of those, of summer's balms bereft?

The end of June is near.  The summer's breath
Has greened the streets.  The trees are feathered full,
As prairies wave from squares that pavement guards,
And little jungles sprout from sunlit yards.

I walk the streets, awash with streaming light.
The whitewashed walls and brick are bright from sun.
I see, in window-glass – the summer sky...
I think – a few more days – and then, July...

In steamy days to come, we might regret
The passing of the spring and even pine
For winter – but the kids and teachers know
That if she'd hear, they'd say, to summer, “Slow!”

The summer passes swiftly, like the year.
It's only been a day since schools have closed.
We savor summer's sweets, we taste the sun.
But even so, we dread the ten-month run.

2014 June 28th, Sat.
(last two stanzas added 29th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Words

     
Words
  
The Buddhists say that neither praise nor scorn
Should lift or sink the ships that we are on.
But just as sailors yearn for sailing winds
And fear the lulls and storms, we're tossed by words.

But when we think – that what we were before
Those words, we still remain – no less, no more,
We then can take the measure of the words
And use them or discard them, centered, strong.

******
 
But sticks and stones may break our bones –
And hard it is to heal them.
As sorrows such afflict our lives,
Should words and thoughts be burdens?

Yet words may wound and thoughts may plague
If these become possessions.
We breathe and watch our thoughts and so
We shed our dark obsessions.

2014 June 22nd Sun
(last stanza added 23rd Mon)
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