Free of Sin

Free of Sin 
    

    
    
There are little birds that fly and perch
And chirp and sing out loud.
The wind is blowing through the leaves
And chasing waves on grass.
I hear the sounds as water flows
Along the little creek.
It rushes and it idles, swirls,
As frogs and insects leap.

The fish are splashing in that creek
And swimming in the pond.
The clouds are sailing through the sky
Of hues of blue above.
Who cares, on such a day as this,
While blinking in the sun,
For all the things for which this race
Of humans madly run?

******

The thoughts I thought upon that day,
The feelings that I felt,
Have risen in my mind today
And help me live again.
I remember sights and sounds
And scents—and on my skin
The touch of air and rain and sun—
And all that rain cleared day.

I saw the raindrop as it shone,
Suspended from a leaf.
I saw the rainbow in the sky,
While breathing in and out.
How pleasant was that air, that warmth
Of sun upon my skin.
In such a trance as that, it seemed
This world was free of sin.

2017 December 7th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Beer and Wine

 
Beer and Wine

It is said that there are blessings
With an origin divine.
I’m not sure of where it came from,
But I’ve quaffed of Nature’s wine.

I have drunk of Nature’s beauty,
I have sipped her honeydew.
My spirit, parched and weary,
Those potions did renew.
 
Mere alcohol may serve awhile
To take away the pain,
But there’s an antidote that lasts
That’s served with sun and rain.
 
On the land and on the water,
There’s the softness that delights.
There’s the scent of early mornings,
There’s the fragrance of the nights.

There are visions, tastes and textures,
There’s the cold that shades to heat.
There are sounds of speech and music,
There’s the tune and there’s the beat.

And even in the silence,
In the darkness, all alone,
When I’m touched by wind or water
Or by earth, I’m not alone.

We have issued from the Mother.
To her flowing, we’ll return:—
When we’re buried in her tillage;
On her pyre, when we burn.

For as mother speaks to daughter
And as father speaks to son,
So do earth and air and water,
So do cloud and moon and sun.

So the starry night has spoken,
And the dawn has softly sung.
So I’ve hearkened to the noontime
And I’ve listened to the dusk.

There’s a grace that comes from heaven
And alights upon a few,
So I’ve read—but I have sensed this
When the heavens were in view.

I have savored Nature’s brewage,
I am tipsy from her beer.
But unlike when I was sober,
My mind and sight are clear.

2015 December 28th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  
See also:  Nature's Wine
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/natures-wine.html )
   

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
   

The Best of Times

 
The Best of Times
 
My summers, in these northern climes,
Have often been the best of times,
When I could nap again at noon
And wonder at the rising moon.
 
On summer afternoons, I’ve made
My way between the sun and shade.
I’ve reveled in the grasses green
And stared at clouds that float serene
Within that arcing summer sky
That I’ll remember till I die.
 
I’ve walked beside the shining sea
And learned again to simply be,
As, blowing cool, the ocean breeze
Has set my heart and mind at ease.
 
I’ve watched the waves and seagulls dance
And seen, afar, the storm’s advance.
I’ve seen the fiery lightning’s flash
And heard the booming thunder’s crash.
And time and time and time again
I’ve sheltered from the summer rain.
 
My summers in the northern zone
Were mostly spent while quite alone.
And yet, I hardly would complain
If I could live them, each, again.

My summers, I have taken slow,
With often nowhere else to go,
Except where I had worked the year.
And yet, those summers still were dear.
My summers, in these northern climes,
Have often been the best of times.

2015 July 6th, Mon., 7:05 pm
Gravesend Bay, 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
 

The Silent Sea

        
The Silent Sea
  
I walked, today, towards the waiting sea.
And soon enough, near sunset, I was there.
I saw it stretching outwards, dark and green,
towards the circle where the sky descends…

And standing there, by that Atlantic shore,
I saw the westward sun go slowly down
behind the Verrazano’s arches.  East                   \1
was Coney Island, arcing boldly south –
and in-between – the dark and silent sea…
   
******
  
How often, once, I'd walked along this shore…
How rarely I had come, in recent years,
to visit here, a leisured walk from home –
and yet another world – and still for free…

When hurricanes come storming up the coast,
the waves then pound upon the rocks that men
have laid, creating land, where only sea
had been before.  And just two years ago,
the sea swept in, as humans watched in awe…    \2
  
******
 
But here, this evening, as I write these lines,
the light is fading – and the breeze, though brisk,
does little to perturb the placid sea...
A time to breathe, to meditate and be…

The tide is low, with mossy rocks exposed.
A gull stands watch, as people walk the shore…
The sea is silent, but the people talk...
I hear their voices, and the tongues they speak    \3
are many, softened by the sky and sea…
  
******
  
Behind me – traffic, whooshing down the “Belt”. \4
I turn my head and see the headlights’ glare.
And turning back, there’s still that sea, that sky…
I wonder, marvel, asking – why, oh why?

A little pause – for peace – and then it ends…
So many marvels, men and women make –
and yet – our slaughters rarely ever end…
There was a time, when we had reverence
for Nature – and, perhaps, for life as well…
  
******
   
And when I'd lost my sister, then I came
to walk along this shore and ask the sea
the questions that I asked it yet again
when both my parents died – with me away…

I rise – and make my lonely way towards home,
in a pensive mood, at peace and yet aware
of all the problems that are mine – and those,
unsolvable, it seems, that plague our race…
The sea is silent, as the stars appear…

2014 July 22nd, Tue.
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn
    
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes:
 
1.   The Verrazano suspension bridge, built in the 1960’s,
connects Brooklyn to Staten Island, crossing the Verrazano
Narrows, which separates Lower and Upper New York Bays.
In 1776, British forces crossed the straits, from Staten Island
into Brooklyn, routing Washington’s army at the Battle of 
Long Island.

Verrazano Bridge, from Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, looking west
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verrazano%E2%80%93Narrows_Bridge

 


2. Hurricane Sandy, coinciding with a full moon and high tide,
caused much devastation in the region in the Fall of 2012.
  

Sandy approaches New York, October-end, 2012,  (c) Carlos Ayala
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/07/16/hurricane-sandy-track_n_3606456.html

 

3.   Among the languages I have frequently encountered in this
area are: Spanish; Quechua and other Native American languages
of Central America; Portuguese; English in its many varieties;
Haitian Creole and French; Arabic; Italian and its dialects (this
having been, until recently, an area dominated by immigrants
from southern Italy and Sicily); Sub-Saharan languages; Albanian;
Yiddish; Romany (Gypsy) dialects (related to the Indic tongues);
Russian and other Slavic languages; Greek; Turkish; Georgian;
Armenian; Hebrew; Farsi (Persian); Uzbek and other languages of
Central Asia; Gujarati, Punjabi, Urdu-Hindi, Nepali (Gurkhali),
Bengali, Tamil and other languages of the subcontinent; Tibetan;
the Chinese dialects (several distinct spoken languages, unified by
a common, ancient ideographic script); Burmese languages;
Vietnamese; Korean; and many others.

4.  The Belt Parkway expressway that girdles southern Brooklyn
and Queens runs mostly along lower New York Bay.  In this part of
Brooklyn, this busy highway is often just a few yards away from
the walkway along the shore, separated from it by a narrow strip
of grass and small trees.
   

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
 

What Workers Built

    
What Workers Built

While walking home from work today, I saw
the roads and sidewalks, elevated rails,
the houses – and the rows and rows of trees.

And all of these were silent, mute and still,
and yet it seemed they quietly spoke to me.

For as I walked, in end-of-day fatigue,
I thought of those who’d worked their days like me…

The city’s workers built those asphalt roads,
those concrete sidewalks and those iron rails –
and all the drains beneath, the workers laid.

And houses then were built, on vacant lots,
by other workers, in their many trades.

And yet more workers planted rows of trees –
so ravaged, ‘prisoned earth could yield again
its balm of grace to salve demented souls…

And those, insane, like I – and you, perhaps –
who dwell in cities, feeding off its veins,
while laboring to feed its grinding mills –
can walk these city streets, at end of day,
with gratitude – or not – to those before,
who built those things – and even planted trees,
so from our madness we could pause – and sense
there still is sanity and beauty left…

2014 May 29th, Thu. 8:21 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

The Signs of Spring

    
The Signs of Spring
    
For winter’s subjects, where its rule is harsh,
The long-awaited spring is cause for joy.
The pores are opened, that the winter closed,
So plants and beasts alike can breathe at ease.

The ice has thawed upon the frozen lake.
The fields are basking in the strengthened sun.
And in the city, winter clothes are shed
As warmth and sunshine favor streets again.

But what would spring be like without the trees,
Whose leaves in April bring to mind the down
That softly starts to grow at puberty –
Or if no birds appeared, to chirp and sing?

And what would spring be, sans the blooms that blaze
In roadside gardens, tinted fireworks each,
Or sans the grass that greens the earth beneath,
As winter’s chasteness yields to vernal surge?

And what would spring be like without the rain
That gently drifts – or lashes roofs with zest?
Whenever winter’s parched our souls for long,
It’s drafts like these that finally slake our thirst.

What summers are, to those in torrid zones,
The winters are, to those in polar realms.
At summer's end, as clouds and rain are bliss,
So winter's ending in the springtime is.

The winter drains away the source of life.
The children sicken and the elders pine.
Then spring appears and seems to fire anew
Those batteries that winter had discharged.

So spring brings hope again to weary hearts
That winter burdened with its weight of woe.
And as we feel the sun upon our skins,
It seems to wash away the gathered grime.

The signs of spring are everywhere at once
And winter soon will be a memory.
And though we’ve lived our share of seasons, this,
The waking up – it wakes us yet again.

How many winters more, how many springs?
How many summers past and autumns gone?
And yet, at April’s end, we greet this spring,
With gratitude for being still alive.

Without the winter, could there be a spring?
Without the hunger or the thirst, a feast?
So yin and yang, conjoined, give rise to all,
To seasons, to despair and hope reborn.
  
2014 May 1, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Two Beings

 
Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)
  
Two Beings
  
When all the madness of my “working day”
Has ended and I step outside the school,
I breathe the air that blows in from the sea
And see the trees against the evening sky.
And so my jangled nerves are set at ease,
As all my scattered parts are gathered slow.
And drinking in the evening’s beauty, I
Am whole again – and homewards, tranquil, go.

In every season, as the heavens change,
I watch the skies and see the clouds and stars,
The light that slants upon the autumn leaves
Or sets afire the tender ones of spring.
I see the dogs, the cats, the ones like me
And little birds that fly to roost in trees.
And as I walk, I’m filled with wonderment,
As tense fatigue gives way to sanity.

******

And though I trundle home a heavy load,
It often happens that it lies till dawn.
And when I wake and sally forth to work,
My head is filled with buzzing puzzlement.
But then my “workday” at the school begins,
And close to forty years of work kick in.
I see the children, one by one, come in,
And I teach my classes five, as others do.

In all my work before I started this,
I worked my miracles, however small,
And after joining as a teacher, I
Saw yet more wonders as I taught at school.
But many arduous years have passed of this,
And more and more, I find myself a fool,
As all my instincts, all my heart and soul
Rebel – at what no mortal mere can do.

2014 April 1, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)

Related:  Signs of Spring (March 30th), We Call for Spring (March 9th).
For earlier poems, please type in the word "spring" in the small search box in the upper right corner of the blue top-menu bar (visible if you scroll up). Then press the "Enter" key on your keyboard.
 

I Walked Through the Woods

          
I Walked Through the Woods
    
I walked by myself on a path through the woods,
When the trees were green with spring.
I walked through the woods, in the dappled shade,
With the tender leaves aflame.

I walked by myself and I breathed the scent
Of the rain on the ground and the trees.
And the bark was wet, it was dark and wet,
But the leaves were touched with light.

I walked by myself and I heard the sounds,
The sounds of the leaves in the breeze.
And the ground was soft beneath my feet
And the leaves were dancing flames.

I walked by myself on a winding path,
When the woods were  a tender green.
And my heart was lit by the grace of spring
As the leaves were glowing green.

2014 March 31st, Mon. 3:37 pm
Teachers’ Cafeteria, Basement
New Utrecht High School
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 
 

As the City Streets Burn

The month of March, as I remember it, is usually warm and sunny in Kolkata.  For the rains, that are mostly absent from September onwards, one must wait for the south-east monsoon winds that bring, to the Bengal delta, around mid-June, the dark clouds from the Bay.  Then there are the torrential downpours that last through July and part of August.  

But I have been away from Bengal for over a half-century now, so some of my memories are faded and blurred.
  
-- Orjun / Babui 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    

As the City Streets Burn

Photograph by my aunt Chandrabali Ray, as posted by her on Facebook.

Please see Chandrabali Ray's post of a plant blooming on her terrace in Kolkata.

From the morning mist and the dew of night,

We wake and we bloom, in the burning light.

And the little one flies, as our colors and scents

Are the signals she seeks, with her insect-sense.

She alights for a moment, and she sips of our sweet,

And we gift her with pollen, in our manner discreet.

And off then she flies, with our gift on her side,

And we’re glad that it’s getting that aerial ride.

And she ‘lights in a while, again, on our twin,

And then there is sex, which is hardly a sin.

And then there is life – that will wait for its turn,

As we bloom on the terrace, as the city-streets burn.

2014 March 24^th, Mon.

Brooklyn, New York
   

In the Morning, by the Sea

  

In the Morning, by the Sea
  

  

Dawn touches Bratley View, in the New Forest, England -- by Martin Dixon
  

I have woken in the springtime, in the summer, in the fall,

I have woken and I’ve shivered in the early morning chill.

I have walked upon the pathways that were wetted with the dew,

I have walked towards the shoreline, when the stars were burning still.

I have woken, when the sky was dark, but lighter in the east.

I have seen the colors brighten, watched them slowly change to warm.

I have seen the glowing sun rise up, above the rippled sea,

I have looked upon the waters red and breathed the morning calm.
  

I have watched the seagulls flying, and the colors as they cooled.

I have walked the shore at sunrise, where the breakers never cease.

I have felt the breath of morning and I’ve squinted at the east,

I have heard the seagulls crying, as they rode upon the breeze.

I have shivered by the shoreline, when the winter wasn’t done,

I have seen the wave-tops whited, and I’ve pulled my jacket close.

I have walked along the seaside and I’ve felt the warming sun,

I have known the bliss of morning that the early riser knows.

I have wandered, slowly breathing, in the morning, by the sea,

And the rosy light of dawning, it has entered in my soul.

I have wandered by the seaside, as the morning came to be,

And from all my shattered fragments, I have gathered up a whole.
 

 

Dawn over the Cabrillo Beach Pier in San Pedro, California. (c) Jim Tardio

2014 March 14^th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Walking Home

  
Walking Home
    
The trees, now skeletal, with snow-draped limbs,
Are reaching towards a darkest-violet sky.
And in that sky, the moon is shining full,
With Jupiter, resplendent, by her side.

When all the madness of the day is done
And I am walking home in deep fatigue,
I see these wondrous things and then am touched
By that which gives me just a bit of peace.

How many, as they travel homeward, see
The trees, the sky with clouds and moon and stars,
And so return, for just a little while,
To that which was – and will for longer be…

If only those like me could call aloud
Or silently, to others, “Do desist!
For what you do is madness.  Stop and be.”
But all we do instead is breathe awhile.

I wonder, if the city’s lights were dimmed,
Would zombies wake and then, in reverence,
Beneath the deep, return to life again,
Or would they, fearing looters, reach for guns?

Let’s leave them be.  Come walk awhile with me.
No words are needed – just the sky, the trees,
That shining moon, that planet jewel-bright.
Who still needs more, let them demented be.

2013 December 18th, Wed.  8:26 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

That Heartless Moon

       
That Heartless Moon
            
She walked the streets, at end of working day,
Towards the place she rented with her pay.

She walked within the crowds, as yet one more
Among the city's toiling myriad,
A nameless, faceless one, who walked alone.

And as she walked, she saw on high, above,
That heartless moon of unrequited love.

******

How many, like her, had that ancient eye
Observed, among the cities' passersby?

How many past had been deceived by lies,
By lovers spun or by their own conceit,
From dreams of pairing woken, still unpaired?

How many more would walk the streets alone,
For hope of rapture, through their lives atone?

******

She walked among the city's milling crowds,
That eddied, forming, fading, like the clouds.

And as she walked, towards her rented flat,
She saw that she was followed by the moon,
And for a moment smiled at company.

And so it was, that satellite sans heart
Could soften her defeat, with lunar art.

****** 

How many others had Selena saved,
With silent mantra blessed and undepraved?

How many past, entrapped by lies of men,
Had seen her floating in the evening sky,
And from their toil and trouble then had pause?

How many more will walk as she had done,
Who'd lost a lover and, by Moon, was won?

2013 September 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn

On Moonless Night
   

Nature's Nature

Nature's Nature
    
I sat this afternoon, awhile, in a café,
And looking through the window, I could see
A building right across the corner, which
Had walls of glass, with tint of darkest green.

I saw the glass reflecting clouds and trees,
With topmost branches waving in the wind.
And as I watched, I felt a sense of peace.
I knew this leaf would wave a while and leave.

How often in the past, when darkness seemed
To overcome whatever hopes I had,
Had Nature spoken through the skies, the trees,
The moving water,  leaving me at ease...

And though I've heard her raging fiercely and
Have seen the ravage that she left behind,
It seems that Nature's nature has a side
That calls to that within, which is serene.

******

Our worries come in turn and trouble us,
And in the end depart, and though we try
To deal with them, there's little we can do,
At times, but breathe and do what can be done.

But we forget our transience and size,
Until we face the universe again,
And so, this afternoon, I caught a glimpse
Of Nature, dancing – and rejoined her dance.

******
 
I remember how we used to walk,
When we were small, on afternoons each day,
To where the British once had joined up ponds
To make the lake, by where we'd run and play.

And ever since, on walks on afternoons,
I feel contented only when I reach
A pool or lake or river or the sea,
Reflecting sky, where I can sit and be.

And if such place is lacking, then I seek
An open space, or hilltop, where the sky
Reminds me of the sky I used to see
On clambering to rooftops as a child.

A window that is open to the sky
Is such delight, for sky-struck ones like me,
That if I had but nothing else except
A window, I'd be happy as I die.

2013 August 11th, Sun. evening
Jireh Guatemalan Restaurant, at 19th & Bath Avenues.,
(first four stanzas only, with the others added Sun. night, at home)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Luminous / Darshan

   
Luminous / Darshan  
                
On walking home, as dusk was courting night,
I looked above and saw a wondrous sight.
The sky to west was lit, in light cyan,
And darkened in the east – to deepest blue.
And in that eastern sky, there floated clouds,
Of gray below, with mounts of purest white,
That still, as darkness grew, were filled with light...

And once again, from gloom and misery,
I found reprieve, as Nature's treasury
Of lines and shades and colors found its use
In paintings ever new, with none the same,
Unmatched by all those masters past who tried
To capture just a little bit of mystery
From Nature's trove – and then were history...

And so I walked, transformed by what I'd seen,
Refreshed, made whole, as I've so often been.
And as I walked, those clouds, so luminous,
Grew darker, yet – as blues turned violet, black –
Could still be seen, as planets, stars appeared...

******
      
In war's inferno, with its sights obscene,
Could grace be found in one celestial scene?

I pondered this – and saw, that if we turn
From all the things that hurt and make us burn,
Then we may find, in skies or on this Earth,
In smallest things – for body, spirit, mind –
The sustenance we need to carry on –
A lesson that we each might quickly learn
If each would cease, to gentler voices spurn...

So though it's said that darshan is a gift
Bestowed on us by those, with power to lift
Us up from morbid ignorance, we see
That all it is, is vision, literally...
And each may find this in a different way,
But when it's found, we then can bridge the rift
Within, be whole – and good, from evil, sift...

2013 August 4th, Sun., evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Luna – Bright, Serene

Luna – Bright, Serene
    
The moon tonight was close to full,
And walking, I had seen
Her float between the streaming clouds,
In majesty serene.

The moon and sky I saw tonight,
So luminous and clear,
I wish we had within our minds,
Instead of fog and fear.

If only words that seers spoke
Perceiving sights afar,
Reflected truth as Luna does
Our nearest, fiery star...

Who dares to gaze at Sol on high,
Will blinded surely be.
In Luna's tranquil glow, that sun,
In temperance, we see.

I watched her sailing in the sky,
Or so she seemed to do.
Illusion, yes, but beautiful,
As could a life renew...

The sky above gives sustenance
The earth cannot provide,
As does the view from mountain high
Or mast on ocean wide.

Of sky and sea and earth are we,
And spirit that's unseen.
And all of this, I sensed tonight
In Luna, bright, serene...

2013 July 21st, Sun., 11:00 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

How Beautiful-II

How Beautiful-II

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

How deep, that dark within your eyes,
How deep and dark, my dear...
I see in them the galaxies,
The planets far and near...

How melting warm, your eyes, my love,
That warm your lover's heart...
How innocent, your eyes, my love,
That speak of Nature's art...

I saw such eyes before, my love,
I saw them in a deer...
I saw them from afar, my love,
But now I see them near...

When you and I are gone, my love,
This vision will remain,
Be it in fall or wintertime,
In spring or summer's rain...

When this, our world, is gone, my dear,
This spinning orb, this Earth,
This dark I see, within your eyes,
Will see a planet's birth.

And on that planet, as it spins,
And circles through the vast,
A lover will, within such eyes,
Discern two lovers past...

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  
How Beautiful