There Still are Joys

There Still are Joys

The despots and the ogres spread their woe.
They wreck our lives and rob us of our peace.
Yet one by one, like each of us, they die,
and some are gloried still—or vilified.

I walked, the other day, upon the green
and felt the grass and earth beneath my feet.
I caught the scents of burning autumn leaves
and looking up I saw the changing sky.
 
Which tyrant, hurried by his need to win,
could quietly savor water, earth and air
as those, untroubled by such urges, could?
And yet, how many still might worship him.
 
So those, who seek their worth from inner fiends,
and those, who crave the world’s attention, vie,
while those, who suffer at their hands, perceive
there still are joys, as long as life persists.

2016 November 9th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York, 4:27 pm
  

Exile-III

 
Exile—III
  
I have tasted of your juices,
I have savored of your scents.
So your scents are in my nostrils,
And your tastes upon my tongue.

I have breathed in. Inhalation
Has carried you within me.
I have breathed out. Exhalation
Has given you my love.

It is said that we are mindful
Of the things that are at hand.
But with distance, there's a longing
That the lovers understand.
    
******
  
I have lusted for your textures,
I have yearned for all your sights.
I have dreamed of you in daytime,
I have tossed for you at nights.
  
Has my love been unrequited?
That only you can know.
I have felt your heartbeat quicken,
I have seen your motions slow.
     
Your were near and yet were distant.
You are far and yet are near.
And your absence is a presence
That is hard for me to bear.
       
When I left you for another,
Did you notice, did you cry?
Did you ask then for a reason?
Did you ever wonder why?
     
No, you didn't even notice,
For you'd hardly notice me,
Who was one of many millions
That by chance had come to be.
  
But you gave me life and fed me,
And I grew beneath your sky.
And I never really left you,
Though it seems that now I lie.
     
For you are my native country,
You're the land of all my dreams.
Though I seem to be so distant,
It isn't what it seems.
       
You are with me still in music.
I can hear you in my voice.
In my exile, you are in me.
So I dream, and I rejoice.
     
*******
      
As a tree, that is uprooted
And is planted in a soil
That is foreign, may not flourish,
So the worker and his toil.
    
As a mite upon your body,
As a mote upon your skin,
I was one you'd hardly notice,
But I've borne you in my soul.
       
As the years have stretched to many,
And the memories start to fade,
I can delve within and find you,
So I once again am whole.
     
2016 January 23rd, Sat.10:25 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
--------------------------------------------
  
For a more rational view of this, see the short piece:  Exile--II  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/04/exile-ii.html
 
For a rather wistful, resigned reflection on this, see: Exile
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/03/exile.html  
   

All About Sex

    
All About Sex

Flirtations, romances and flowers and hearts,
The nuances, flavors, of amorous arts –
If all of these bore you, then let me remind you,
They really are all about sex.

Now I've got your attention, be you woman or man,
As anything sexual, said flippantly, can,
For where Venus is present, in the past or the present
Or future, she beckons – it's sex.

And the sexes may differ, but in this, they're the same –
They spring to attention at the touch of that flame,
Be they young or much older, be they timid or bolder –
At the touch of the flame that is sex.

But the arts of arousal, for the sexes, diverge,
As they each have their senses that urge.
For the men, it is vision, despite the derision
Of women – who're also for sex.

But they much prefer hearing, through feminine ears,
The words that arouse them and chase away fears.
And some may be fooled, but the others have ruled
That a man has to pay for his sex.

And it isn't a dollar, or ruble or yen,
Which may be a lot for the stingiest men.
It's a life that is asked for, and that's how it's paid for.
And now, you've learned all – about sex.

******
                 
But the women, on hearing this nonsense, may yell,
“There's more to that thing than you've ventured to tell!
Or could it be this – ”  and the women now hiss –
“that you don't know a thing about sex?

“For the men may spring up – it's just one of their acts.
And parts of us do – but we mostly relax.
And there's sight and there's hearing, but there's also that nearing,
There's touch and there's scent – and there's sex!

“For the men may be thinking that the males are the studs,
But in matters that matter, the truth is – they're duds!
For though they have feared us and though they've repressed us,
It is we who know more about sex.

“For what we relinquished, as patriarchs ruled,
And women, as sexless, were drilled and were schooled,
Is our rightful domain, and will always remain
That of women – the realm that is sex!”

And the men, who were silent, at the thought of the dollar,
Now in finding their voices, may join in, to holler,
“We're tired of this crap, from this prancing old chap,
For what does he know – about sex?

“For it's sex that we've wanted, since reaching our teens.
And though, oh too often, we hadn't the means,
Since our teens, we've been surging, and so we are urging,
That you stop all this talk about sex!”

******
        
So the men and the women, in this, are united,
That I tamp down the flame I ignited.
But though it is rude to be publicly lewd,
I wish I could dwell more on sex.

For I'm told by my spies that they have detected
A tower or missile that Mars has erected,
And they tell me there's moisture where Venus has pasture,
Yet it's time to put end to this sex.

But I'd opened a window – and if I now close it,
To whom will you bring the deposit?
But I can't be a banker to every dear wanker,
Though I've led you along with the sex.

And if some would be arcing and seeking release,
I wish there were ways, by which I could please,
But others, more "moral", are giving me oral
Instructions to cease with the sex.
   
So alas, it is time, because they all urge it,
To zip up the verse.  If I'm leaving you turgid
On reading this ditty, then it's really a pity,
But I'll leave you alone with your sex.

And I also should say, as I bid you goodbye,
That I'm sorry that I cannot lie.
If you think I've been rude, because I've been crude,
Remember, it's all about sex.

2013 November 11th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

The Price of Sin

The Price of Sin

A fish was swimming in the sea.
It now becomes a part of me.
Its spirit long has left its flesh,
For spirit-nature tends to flee
A carcass, while it still is fresh,
So souls are of encumbrance free.

******
 
Or so, at least, I would presume,
As others mostly do assume,
So all can look at dinners, lunches,
And guiltlessly, those meals, consume,
As well as breakfasts, teas and brunches.

And turning, therefore, to my fish,
Which looks to be a tasty dish,

I see it's sautéed well.  I smell

Its fragrance and I fondly wish
Its taste and flavor will be swell.

I pick the muscle from the spine.
I taste the flesh.  It tastes divine.
It's sad this being had to die
To make, for me, a luncheon fine.
I eat the fish – and do not cry.

But still, a nagging thought remains,
That nags and nags, as certain pains
May do, that we may wish were not,
But still persist, till each obtains
Attention due, that we forgot.

I wonder if, with tables turned,
By fishy chef, I would be burned –
Have salt and spice on scalded skin,
So I, who's dining, unconcerned,
Would fully pay the price of sin.

******
 
And this, I can't but wonder too:
Are our assumptions really true?
Does the spirit truly leave
(As hermit-crabs, their shelters do),
As many smugly may believe,
Until they die – and dinners rue?

2013 September 21, Sat. afternoon,
between Chinatown, Manhattan,
and Bensonhurst, Brooklyn,
on the N and D trains, on
the way home from the
doctor's office in C-t.
  

Trees–Part II–Remembering

Trees – Part II
 
(Remembering)

And those who've lived, like I, who write this verse,
In climes where palm-trees sway and thrash in storms,
Remember, dimly, as the years take tolls,
The varied forms of trees in tropic lands.

Some leaves would brown and fall in seasons dry.
Then rains would come and paint in lushest greens.
Year 'round, the tal and coconut would soar.
And in cyclones, they'd bend and brush the roofs.

And in the fields, where peasants toiled in sun,
The millet, rice and maize would take their turns.
And yellow blooms of mustard, in that sun,
Amidst the greens, would burn like fairy-flames...

******

I still can see, with remnant inner eye:
The harvest golds that stretched to meet the sky;
Banana trees, whose leaves we ate upon;
And fragrant flesh, exposed, of seeds of palm.

I climb again upon the mango tree,
And scale the guava, in search of fruit,
But am entranced by scents of leaves that still
Appear to linger, after all these years...

How succulent, the jack-fruit, yet how hard
It was to hack, while balanced on its tree.
The heavy, prickly fruit would fall, at last,
To crash upon the mossy ground below.

******

The custard-apple and the tamarind
I still can taste – and others fading slow –
The berries crunchy, sour and sweet, the sap
Of canes whose fibers tested children's teeth...

How varied are the greens of tropic lands,
How many things we ate that came from plants,
How many spices, with their wondrous scents,
In curries and in moles of the world...

How far I am from what I left behind,
And yet these traces still remain in mind.
And here, I see these living trees and know
That life is one – so distance is no more.

2013 May 18th Sat. & 19th Sun.
Brooklyn
sjanah@aol.com