Tides and Seasons

   

  

Tides and Seasons 

The seasons come; the seasons go in turn,

As Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer dance

As they had done, with other seasons too,

In days gone by, preceding me and you.

  

How many worlds within this universe!

How many universes come and gone! 

How many beings, born to live and die,

With no one knowing whence or whither, why!

  

The seasons of our lives can last a while

Or swiftly pass. We’re left with memories

Of faces, scenes, and cares and passions past

That stay with us as long as breathings last.

  

The Ocean’s tides and those that rise and ebb,

Within us each and also all around,

Have varied strengths and varied rhythms, yet

They harmonize in ways that we forget.

   

The balances that pulse and oscillate

Around the means are what our beings sense

And so we dance with these—the seasons, tides

That bring us life with all its turning rides.

   

2026 February 24th, Tue.

Berkeley, California

  

Rounds

 

Rounds

The skies of sunlit days have blues and whites

That give us cause to simply breathe and be.

The skies of moonless nights are dark, with lights

As distant as unaided eyes can see.

*******

There comes the dawn—that rising sun again—

And then the morning, noon, and afternoon,

And then the dusk—and then that night again,

Until the time that often comes too soon—

Or just in time for some, for others late,

When silently we’re told it’s time to end

The rounds that mark our lives and yield to fate—

To start the sleep that then will never end.

We know what waits us, yet we live as though

The day that is a life will be as bright,

As life proceeds, as in its fullest glow—

Until we see its evening turn to night.

******

******

How many rounds before, how many after

The current round of hours, of seasons, years?

How many smiles, how much of merry laughter?

How much of pain, how many more of tears?

****** 

Our lives are threaded through with darkness, light—

With joy and sorrow, pleasure braiding pain.

And so we weep and so we know delight—

As hunger makes us savor food again.

A life to live—and then to leave—ah yes—

With eyes that saw the sun and moon and stars,

With rounds enlivened by the human mess

But blighted sore by lies and endless wars!

So just as night and day are needed, both,

So also might be all our joy and grief—

Like sleep and waking, diligence and sloth,

Like thirst and quenching, reason and belief.

2025, April 11th, Fri.

Berkeley, California 

Joar Bhat'ar T'ane-জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

ভোরের সাথে আশা আসে, 
সাঁঝের সাথে যায়। 
এই জীবনের জোয়ার ভাটায় 
ভাসছি কেবল, হায়!

ওই যে দূরের ডাঙ্গার দিকে 
সাঁতার কেটে যাই। 
তবুও দেখি, স্রোতের জোরে, 
হচ্ছি কাবু, ভাই।

চেষ্টা ছেড়ে, ভাসছি, ওরে, 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে। 
রয়েছে জীবন, তাই যে কিছু 
সান্তনা পাই গানে।

শনিবার, ৩ অগাস্ট, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

Ba~xir D'ak-বাঁশির ডাক

 

বাঁশির ডাক 
 
নিষ্ঠুরতার কোনো সীমা নেই।
অত্যাচারের রাজ
শেষ হবে না কাল-পরশু,
চলছে জোরে আজ।
 
হত্যা-কাণ্ড ঘটছে সদা।
ধ্বংসে, ক্রোধের জয়।
কত জীবের, জীবন ধরে,
দুঃখ, পীড়ন, ভয়!
 
******
 
তবুও দিন আর রাতের লীলা।
তবুও ভালোবাসা।
অন্ধকারের গর্ভে তবু
ভোরের আলোর আশা।
 
তবুও দয়া, তবুও মায়া।
তবুও সত্যের খোঁজ।
তবুও সাহস। বাঁশির ডাকে
চেষ্টা চলেছে রোজ।
 
সোমবার, ২২ জুলাই, ২০২৪ খ্রি
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া
 

Delight

  
Delight

Every season has its flavor,
Every time of day its own.
Each has been my friend and savior,
When I’ve wandered, all alone.

Though I’ve always been a loner,
Once with books but now with none,
When I’ve stepped outside a dwelling,
I have rarely felt I’m one.

Earth and sky have sent their greetings,
Trees and clouds and slanting sun.
I have watched their swifter changes
And their seasons, one by one. 

****** 

The world within us and the one
Around us pulse with rhythmic flows.
So the daily, monthly cycles.
So the year that comes and goes.

When, at dawn, the sun arises,
Hope awakens, gives us life.
When, at dusk, the night advances,
Souls retire from stress and strife.

So the seasons come and go—
Summer sun and winter snow—
The smile of spring, the mellow autumn—
Each in time within the flow. 

2023 November 2nd, Thu. 
Berkeley, California 

Poetry—and Fortune

 
Poetry—and Fortune

Poetry, in you I found a solace true—
Depicting, in a foreign tongue, what I 
Perceived of worth, in spite of all we rue  
In this, the world we’re in, not knowing why 
We came—or whence—or where we’re going to.

And then, on finding, buried deep within, 
My own forgotten tongue, whose cadence I
Had gained in childhood, through my closest kin,
And then had seemed to lose—and left to die,
I found the strength to turn—and so begin. 

******

How rarely do we get, alas, this chance
To find again what we had thought we’d lost!
As one by one the words began to dance
Upon my tongue, not asking for the cost 
Of long neglect, I felt the grace of Chance—

That goddess, yes, to whom we rarely pray,
Who yet determines what we are and do,
Whose willful whims we must perforce obey—
Who spins, upon her fingers, me and you—
And only rarely kisses us—in play.

******

And so the prosody of Greece and Rome
Had passed, through western isles, to a distant land—
Where I, like others, spoke a tongue at home
And learned, in school, to speak and understand
Another that we made in part our own—

And then had met the rhythms, side by side, 
Of a lilting tongue of sky and sun and field—
Of cloud and rain and rivers flowing wide—
To clash with these and then to merge and yield—
To birth the waves that motes like me could ride.

2023 January 26th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

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

A Turning Point

 
A Turning Point

To bed at eve, to rise at dawn,
Has been our simian custom long,
That’s so entwined with body-mind
That no one sane had deemed it wrong.

But then we had the burning branch
That warmed us in the colder clime,
And even when the sky grew dark,
Could light an hour of waking time.

And then, with lamps of wax and oil,
And next, with lightning run through wire
Or gas that glowed and more, we learned
To sleep and wake in ways that tire.

And so with me.  On weekends and
On holidays, my cycles shift:
I sleep at dawn; on afternoons,
I rise.  I drop, when I should lift.

I stare at glowing screens at night.
I blink in daylight’s sudden glare.
And mouthing verses in the park,
I shiver in the midnight air.

But this has left me tired and weak—
And more and more, I realize
That such nocturnal episodes,
Repeated, might be far from wise.

******

And recently there came a night,
In which it seemed I’d lost my mind.
And yet it was a turning point,
The kind we seek—but rarely find.

Throughout the night, the storm winds blew—
And yet the rain was scattered, scant.
At dawn, the sun—and shining dew—
Had made me pause, amidst my rant.
 
For there were voices in my mind—
And conflicts, till I saw that sight.
And then, a silence fell—a peace,
As one should feel at start of night.

I then resolved to change my ways—
To go to bed at eve and wake
At dawn—on weekends, holidays—
For sanity’s and mercy’s sake.

So now, I’ll sight the morning star
And dim my lights at eventide.
I’ll surely struggle still, but then
I’ll have those rhythms on my side.

They’ll give me back the strength I’ve lost.
They’ll give me rest and sanity.
I hope I'll view the world anew,
With more of faith and charity.

2016 September 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Choices

Choices

It’s been awhile but now I’m writing
Once again in metered verse.
And some of those to whom I’m sending
This will smile or laugh—or curse.

And since I’ve blanked out my emotions,
I consider now my choices:
How to give a form substantial
To the whispers of my voices.

******

Should I only draw my pictures—
Not with crayons, but with words—
Painting sunsets, valleys, mountains,
Fields and skies with flying birds?
 
Or should I chant in rhythms ancient,
Sounding vowels in my words,
Seeking rhymes and rising, falling—
Trilling like the singing birds?

Or should I write of what I’ve eaten—
Rice and cabbage, lentils, curds—
Writing also of digestion
And of what I’ve left as turds?

Perhaps it’s time that mathematics
Filled my verse with roots and surds— *
Or perhaps, I should write dirges
For Armenians, Turks and Kurds…

******

Should I fill my lines with nonsense,
Wasting my and readers’ time—
Though they offer still amusement,
Spoken out aloud with rhyme?
     
Or should I write of what I’m thinking,
How I view this sorry world?
Will you enter in the prisons,
In the hells in which we’re hurled?

Or should I write of feelings pleasant,
Sing of happiness and love,
Or raise my head towards the heavens,
Howling at the moon above?
 
Who can answer whence or whither,
Give us half a reason why
Each of us is born to dither
Just a while—and then to die?

I’ll be gone and then my verses
Will be lost, as all things are.
Why then should I write of living—
Joy and sorrow, peace and war?
 
******

Who will read these verses, written
In my notebooks in the night?
Who will bother still to mouth them,
Holding scribblings to the light?

Mine are verses born of grieving—
More of black and gray than white—
Yet there’s gold and silver in them—
Sparkles, hidden, of delight.
 
So I write, as if by random
Breezes blown, till gone from sight—
Like a little sailboat, bobbing
Through the heaving swells of night.

Should I end this poem neatly—
Tie the ends and pull them tight,
Or should I leave them hanging loosely,
Wondering why I chose to write?

******

There!  It’s done, for better or—
As often far more likely—worse:
I’d felt the mists and rising vapors—
Asking for my rhyming verse.

Whence, these beings of the ether,
Seeking, each, their human voice?
Why is it—that we are bidden,
Yet appear to still have choice?

2016 May 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
(first two stanzas, central single stanza and
last two stanzas added 2016 May 16th, Mon)

====================================
 * Listed here are the uses of the words:
    (a) “surd” in mathematics and phonetics;
    (b) “root” in mathematics and linguistics.
====================================
    

Dawn and Dusk—II

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun
------------------------------------------------

Dawn and Dusk—II 

Daybreak at the Devils Courthouse Overlook, North Carolina
https://www.facebook.com/chardin.photography

 
We can rise when stars are shining and the dawn has yet to be.
We can walk, if we are near it, to the dark and waiting sea.
And as we stand and shiver by the ocean’s side we see
The light that’s slowly spreading, as the stars and planets flee.

We can stand and watch the sunset, when the west is all aglow.
We can see the colors fading at the ending of the show.
We can feel a humor ebbing and another rising slow
As the tide of day is leaving and the stars begin to show.

******
 
The sunrise and the sunset are the tick and tock of time,
For the waxing and the waning of the moon are done in mime,
But at dusk you’ll hear the crickets—and the sparrows greet the dawn.
The months are then the minutes of this clock that we are on.

The seasons are the hours, so as winter cedes to spring,
You can hear the bells are chiming. And when swallows take to wing
You will know the hour is autumn, so there’s winter coming by.
To the sun that ruled in summer, they have quite a way to fly.
 
******
 
The scents of dusk and dawning portend the sun and moon—
The jasmine of the midnight, the fragrant rose of noon.
And we need to greet the sunrise and to see the end of day,
So the clocks that we are born with do not slowly go astray.

We are beings of the daylight.  We need shelter in the night.
We are frightened by the darkness, we are brightened by the light.
So the sunset and the sunrise are the beat to which we rhyme,
And they’ve called to us with tidings, through all remembered time.

Sunset, Pensacola, Florida
https://www.facebook.com/PensacolaLife

2015 August 19th, Wed., 2:15 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------
  
Recent Related Poems 

• Dusk  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dusk.html )
• Dawn and Dusk   ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-dusk.html )
• Morning Glory  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/06/morning-glory.html )
• Sing to Me  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/11/sing-to-me.html ) 

Dawn and Dusk

Dawn and Dusk  
  

Seven Arriving at Bliss, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/

The sunset and the sunrise—these are times
when the changing light appears to touch
the swirls within us.  So our moods can rise
and ebb, like ocean tides, with light and dark.

For most of us, the vision of the dawn
awakens hope and gives us strength to strive.
But when the sun is setting, then we sense
emotions darker, and we turn within.

And so this waxing and this waning is
a dance that weaves its way among the rest,
as yang and yin and day and night entwine
to make the fabric that we know as self.
 
We fear the dark, for we were once the prey,
descended from the trees, who could not see
the predators that woke to hunt at dusk.
And being apes, we still revive with dawn.

******

But now the workplace and the home are lit
when night has fallen on the land and sea.
We cannot see the stars, the galaxy,
behold the planets, catch the meteor’s streak…

And oftentimes, we never see the sun—
because we run to work before it climbs,
and venture back at dusk or later still—
while those on night-shifts sleep their days away.

******

Can we escape our natures that were built
through ages when we lived beneath the sky?
Can we adapt to be like bats that climb
at dusk from caves to forage through the night?

I do not know.  We’re plastic, we can flow.
We venture where no other beings go.
And yet our genes and instincts still remain.
To alter these, we need the centuries.

So when I could, I tried to greet the dawn
and view the dusk, with self as offering.
Alas, I now but rarely see the stars
and only in the summers feel the sun.

And so, I’ve lost, with others, much of that
which woke the life and soothed the soul in turn.
I'll try again to meet with dawn and dusk,
so I can be what I was meant to be.

Queensboro Plaza Sunset, seen from the elevated 7 line, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/page/2/

2015 August 6th, Thu. (first four stanzas)
& August 9th, Sun. (last six stanzas)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Summer and Winter

 
Summer and Winter

The women of the winter’s lands and the women of the summer’s
Had gathered once to sing and dance to strings and flutes and drummers.
And one remarked how nice it was that winter had departed,
To which another then replied, she hated more the summers.
And others joined, as arguments on seasons’ merits started.

But one of them, who’d lived in both the regions that are heated
And those more often frozen, said, “The summers there are feted,
Where winter’s cold is bitter and the winter’s stay is long.
But summers there are hated, where, by June, we've been defeated,
So the rains, that end the summer’s heat, we greet with dance and song.”

Another, who had also known the polar and the tropic,
Arose and spoke with passion then upon this very topic.
“In places where the cloudy days are greeted with relief,
There winter is a season mild.  But where we all are phobic
Of winters that are long and harsh, there summers salve our grief.
 
“The arcing blue, the grays and whites of clouds whose edges glow,
The light upon the leaves that pointillism tried to show,
The shades of green, the sun and shade, the flowers in the breeze—
A summer, in a temperate zone, is all of these and more—
A passing dream of languor, lulling wearied souls to ease.

“The pores of skin are opened that in seasons past were closed.
The heat’s a suitor’s question.  The perspiration flows,
For that’s the body’s answer, as vessels tensed dilate.
“The summer is a cleansing.” a poet once proposed.
“It’s even more a coupling.” say the ones insatiate.
 
“As the rains are to the summer, in the heated tropic lands,
So the spring and then the summer are, to her, who understands
The moods of all the seasons where the winter’s reign is long.
The summer’s then her lover, and a lover makes demands,
As is known to those who revel when the rains are lashing strong.
 
“When fields are parched and dusty and the sun’s a blinding flame,
When all the land is thirsty and the jackal’s limping lame,
Then there, on the horizon, the wall of dark appears.
There’s thunder and there’s lightning, and the girls who’ve lost their shame
Are dancing, for it’s raining, as the gods throw down their spears.

“More gently comes the vernal, like a lover’s soft caress,
To the land that bore the winter’s yoke and groaned in its distress.
And summer, to that region, comes and stays for just a while,
And yet receives a welcome that is heartfelt, nonetheless,
For even when he’s left us—from his kisses, still, we smile.”

And when she finished speaking, the others laughed out loud.
For they had seen, inverted, what seasons were about.
“It’s time,” said one, “for dancing!”  And so began their dance.
And “Is it for the summer,” one could ask that swaying crowd,
“Or is it for the winter?” And the answer would be, “Dance!”
 
2015 July 22nd, Wed., 8:47 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
         

Summer’s Gold / The Lover Strong

For those who've always lived in the tropics, these chords might have little resonance.  But those who have spent years or decades in the high latitudes might buzz a bit when reading this.
-----------------------------------------------------

Summer’s Gold / The Lover Strong
 
How pleasant is the summer’s touch
To those who’ve borne the winter long.
For them, the spring’s the suitor but
The summer is the lover strong.

Caressing is the summer’s warmth.
It licks and opens every pore.
In plant and beast, the honeyed sap,
The musk and oils and juices flow.

In winter’s chill, it’s fit for yin
To counsel us to hibernate.
Then spring arrives.  Perhaps it’s sin,
But yang then urges us to mate.

As flowers bud and bloom in sun,
So humans do—and much besides.
The seasons strum—and we vibrate.
So seas and beings pulse with tides.

So autumn whispers in our ears
And winter nips and we retreat.
The spring then coaxes us from fear
To summer’s arms and kisses sweet.

******

The summer, in the polar places,
Releases us from winter’s cold.
We can’t escape its warm embraces
Or shy from all its urgings bold.

Although we wish that summer stays,
Its time with us is often brief.
When autumn’s gone, with all its blaze,
Then memory is our sole relief.

As with seasons, so with fate:
When spring and summer both are past,
Our autumn comes—and then we wait
For winter, when we’ll breathe our last.

And though a season comes again,
We know that we will not return.
We die, as we are born, in pain,
Yet in-between we live and learn.
 
So when we’re in our final years
And shivering from those fingers cold,
As death, with winter’s visage, nears,
We still remember summer’s gold.
 
2015, July 1st, Wed., 6:07 pm
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York
   

Another March

Another March
 
There’s snow upon the ground and yet the sky,
aglow in evening’s shades, has told me this –
it’s coming soon – that spring, that’s still a dream
that stirs within the winter’s slumbering.

And walking home this evening, I can see
the buds are turgid on the leafless branch –
and so, as winter’s darkness yields to light,
there wakes again that dormant, hopeful lust.

A woman has her monthly cycles and
the ones without a shelter yearly ones.
And now the season's turning and the sap
is rising slowly towards the sun and warmth.

******

How many cycles has this planet known,
how many more are left for humankind?
The snow is melting on the city’s streets,
and I have lived to see another March.

Oh sun that lights the day, oh moon and stars,
oh seasons of the year that cycle through –
you'll still be here, when I and those like me
are vanished like the snow that winter brought.

And what will other winters bring to Earth,
what other plagues that yet have music, art?
On countless planets, by the countless suns,
the seasons come – and surely then depart.
 
2015 March 9th, Mon.
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
     

Morning and Evening

  
Morning and Evening
 

Sunrise

  














There’s early morning, beautiful,
With little birds that sing.
The light of dawn is that of hope,
As dreams can then take wing.

For what the night had conjured, then,
To realize, we try,
As long as we have bodies, minds,
On which we can rely.

There’s morning, noon and afternoon.
And then comes evening – slowly,
Nearer to the planet’s poles –
And swiftly in the tropics.

But sunset and the dusk are times,
Whatever be the clime,
When life, diurnal, starts to slow,
Approaching sleeping time.

A wave, that’s crested, then subsides
And hollows down to trough.
So also, sanguine humors now
Decline – we’ve strived enough.

So evening is a time to pause,
Reflect – and feelings, sad,
Are now expressed, as these replace
The brighter ones we’ve had.

As the sun’s decline, departure serves
To mime a mortal’s end,
At sunset, birds and humans seek
To turn – and homewards wend.

And species, social, then expect
To meet with friends and kin,
To share what each has gathered. Yet,
For many, no one' s in.

To empty rooms, we now return
To meet with loneliness.
And that, perforce, we try to do –
And so we all “progress”.

But even this, to many, is
By circumstance, denied.
They sleep by day and work at night,
As shifts are multiplied.

And some there are, who choose this life
For reasons of their own.
The light bulb makes it possible.
Accustomed, we have grown.

But light bulbs surely aren’t sun,
Which we, diurnal, need.
Illnesses, of body, mind,
Our modern habits feed.

Like birds, we humans are attuned
To beats of night and day,
But now we move to other drums –
From ancient rhythms stray.

And when we do, we pay a price
That cannot be avoided.
The legacy of eons past
May not be lightly voided.

Our daily rhythms, by the sun,
Our monthly, by the moon,
Through all our wanderings, were set.
They will not leave us soon.

And if we try to fight with these,
In webs, we feel enmeshed.
But if, with these, we can comply,
We feel alive, refreshed.

There’s sunrise, bright and beautiful,
That bids us to arise.
But then there’s sunset – solemn, sad,
That warns us to be wise.

Sunset in Goa, India

So yang and yin do work in us,
As we are cycles, all.
With us, as with the yearly round –
There’s spring – and there is fall.

2014 January 1st, Wed, 3:20 am
Skyway Dhaba, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(stanzas 8—12 & final added Wed. afternoon)

Note:  Click on the images to see them in their original sizes.  Click on the background to return.
  

The Changing Moon

   
The Changing Moon
   
The moon has phases, which we see.
It changes everyday.
Its shapes have names.  Its size, in flux,
Has monthly wax and wane.

And yet, it is the selfsame moon
That hides itself when new,
That starts and ends as sliver and
Is shining round when full.

And there are other changes, which
The one who looks may notice.
And some are seen by all – and some
Are seen by the devoted.

Who sees a moon that's rising, sees
Another moon than he,
Who sees his shadow walk with him
Upon a moonlit way.

*******
      
The moon, at rise and set, appears
A giant, warmly hued.
The moon at zenith bathes the Earth
In coolest silver flow.

It changes so on its daily round,
And with the seasons too.
For there is still a moon of May
And that of late November.

The moon of autumn, winter, spring
And summer – they're the same.
Yet each has qualities that tell
Of season, day and hour.

The moon of autumn seems to brood,
The winter moon is sharp.
The moon of spring delights the heart
And summer's moon says, “Love.”

******
     
The sun's too bright to look upon,
Except at rise and set.
We look upon the changing moon
With wonder, as a friend.

For it can change or set our moods,
Bring calm to troubled minds...
And there will be a lovers' moon,
When you and I are gone...

For though the moon appears to change,
It still remains the same.
The ancients saw the moon we see,
And so will those unborn.

In times of peace, in times of war,
In times of hope, despair,
In loneliness, at birth and death,
That changing moon is there.

2013 October 18th Fri. evening
(some stanzas added 19th morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Transience – II

 
Transience – II                                                       \1
        
We cling to life and to possessions, yet
We come with nothing and we go with naught.
The things we think we have are passing through
And so are we – for dust returns to dust.

The things we live for, all the things we do,
May blossom for a little while or not.
But like the blooms that toss upon the breeze,
They'll fade away in time and then be lost.

And all our pride, resentments, anger are
Like storms that roil the surface of a sea,
With waves that wreak their vengeance and are gone.
Let love, compassion work their ways in calm,

For kinder thoughts and words and actions may
Have less of force and yet have more of depth.
Why add to all the suffering, yet more?
Let our remembrance be a brighter one.

We are but mortals and we all are weak,
And some are blinded more than others are.
Forgive the ones who seem to wrong you, so
You may, in turn, from some, forgiveness seek.

The ones that rouse our anger, feel our wrath,
Tomorrow may be gone, like yesterday.
That turning of the cheek, we'll rarely rue,
But should we leave with debts of wronging due?

****** 
             
And even those we love and those, who give
Us of their love, are ripples on the lake.
So who can stop them, as they go their way
And leave us with our grief and memories?

So while they live, let's give to those, who're dear,
And even to the ones we might neglect,
Their due, before they leave or we depart,
Of our attention and our care, respect.

So many live today within a rush,
With constant stress and pressure from around,
And so forgetting, as the madness mounts,
What sanity and life are all about.

We came from naught and will, to nothing, go.
Let's pause from rushing, for a little while,
And ponder this and see absurdity,
So we can savor then a laugh or smile.

To laugh at others, all of us can do.
To laugh at self is truly freedom true.
If you feel sorry for your present state,
Then shed a tear for those less fortunate.

******
            
And if we're overcome or paralyzed,
Let's take a breath and do what needs be done.
Our lives are passing and our time is brief,
And yet there's time for life and for belief.

There's true and false and even right and wrong.
And though we've no reward on heaven, earth,
We still can will to do what's honest, right,
And till the end, for love and reason, fight.

However much the woe, there still is joy,               \2
And in our laughter, we can hear the grief.
This world will be, when you and I are gone.
Let's leave the self awhile, to breathe and be.

Like waves at sea and like the clouds above,
Are you and I, and all the changing world.
The hills are waving in their rhythms slow,
The empires rise and then, in time, they go...

Our days are numbered and our nights are few.
As night and day are mortal, so are we.
For all that's born lives out its life and dies,
From stars to ants, including you and me...

Behold, at night, the starry sky and see
The galaxies that gyre like whirlpools 'round.
We are no more than motes on motes and yet
We have this life to live and not regret.

2013 August 11th, Sun. & 12th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  
    
Notes:
  
1.  Please see also:  Transience
   
2.  This stanza was probably influenced by the quote from William
Blake that my friend Amitabha Sen sent me from Chicago.  This
was in response to my last sending, Nature's Nature:
   
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

-- William Blake
   
See http://www.bartleby.com/41/356.html
to get Blake's poem, Auguries of Innocence.

Then (from Edit-->Find) look for:

man was made for joy and woe

The first 4 lines of that poem, by the way,
may be among the most remarkable in the
English language.  Do take a look.  They may
be very familiar to some of you.  But, if you
have the patience, it may be worth your while
to read Blake's long poem in its entirety.

-- Babui / Arjun
 

Cadences – Part I

Cadences – Part I  
         
A summer sky of blue and glowing white,
An evening breeze, with waving leaves – and I
Am as fulfilled or more, as those with wealth,
Who'd rarely find, in these, their hearts' content.

How simple are our basic needs, and yet
We find ourselves entrapped.  The endless race
To nowhere picks up speed, or faltering,
Creates conditions for yet more of stress.

So autumn, with its drifting leaves, will see
The students and their teachers crawl to schools,
And there, their labors, which could be of love,
Will turn to joyless tasks, as madness rules.

Then winter – with its chilling winds and snows,
A season for reflection and reserve,
But subject now to more of lunacy,
With silent solstice turned to loud bazaar.

And spring will come, with all its hope and lust –
And even these, in turn, will turn to dust,
Unless, perhaps, as pole inclines to sun,
Our souls awake – and nightmares end at last.

The seasons come and go – and each delights
If only we would dance with seasons' flow.
But how can we, until we're frenzy-free?
We then can move in cadence joyful, slow.

The drums of war, the pipes of finance sound,
As masses march yet faster to their deaths.
Oh pause, we say, and see the ocean, sky,
The land with all its beings...  Question why.

2013 August 6th, Tue. Evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Meetings

  
Meetings
  
Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

******

Shall we meet by chance on a country road,
As the end of the day is coming?
And shall we dally there awhile,
With the crickets loudly humming?

Or shall I find you by a lake,
On another day, at evenfall?
And shall we linger by the shore,
As the frogs and the birds returning call?

Or shall we meet  in a wooded glen,
At the sunset hour, in another season?
And shall we stand there, in the dusk,
And wonder then if there's a reason?

Shall we cross upon the field,
At twilight, in another year?
Will you know that it is me,
And will I know that you are near?

******

We met and walked together awhile,
And then, in time, we parted.
But still, I think of you and smile,
Who far too soon departed...

I always feel that we'll meet again,
But then again we'll part.
And so it's always the end of the day,
When I sense that you are there.

But if I smile as the sun goes down,
Will I weep in the light of the dawning,
As I see you walking on the dew-wet grass,
And I know that you're gone forever?

How sad is the gloom of the evening,
How glad is the sun of the morn...
And yet, when I think of your passing,
I smile as I weep that you're gone.

******

Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

2013 July 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn