Beyond the Bounds of Tense

 
Beyond the Bounds of Tense

The present moment—that is all
We have—and yet it flies.
Beyond the here and now—the rest—
Has more of myth than truth.
We long in vain for permanence
And cling to our beliefs.
How precious are our memories,
And yet, they hide the root.

The Buddhas and the Jinas saw
The unity of being,
The suffering of sentients,
The traps that we are in.
The followers of Abraham,
Believing in their god,
Perceived the faults that plague our lives
And labeled these as “sin”.

And so have other streams of thought
And faith in what transcends
The lives we live that start and end
Been part of human sense,
Providing vision, solace, strength, 
Supporting us in grief,
And giving meaning to our lives
Beyond the bounds of tense.

But only when we sink within,
Let all possessions go,
Including love and life itself,
Can truth be truly seen—
Or so we're told by seers whom
We may, or not, believe.
Can each of us, a speck of dust,
Be one with truth, serene?

2024 March 3rd, Sunday
Berkeley, California

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
 

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.
 

Water-Wind

  
Water-Wind
   
I sit again in solitude within
the basement teachers’ cafeteria,
deserted as the school day draws to an end.

There’s silence, but for one incessant hum –
a sound that's coming from a hidden source
that surely is a pump or fan at work...

In part, it’s soothing, like a waterfall;
in part, it’s not – a distant, manic whine.

******

There’s action in a life.  There’s also rest.
And both are needed for a balance sane.
Yet humans now must speed, like swift machines.

Our flesh and spirit can’t endure this race.
And so, like water in an oasis,
this quietude can slake a wanderer’s thirst.

And yet, there is this hum – that’s water, while
it’s whistling wind, with grit of blowing sand.

2014 January 13th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Coping with Illness and Dying

Coping  with Illness and Dying

 

When we’re sick and full of woes

And fighting our despair,

Will we think of better times –

And burdens better bear?

 

Or will such memories be lost –

Or if remembered, then

Be yet more grief, because we know

We won’t be well again?

 

Some bear a grievous illness lightly,

Others groan at colds.

A patient’s truly patient, while

Another only scolds.

 

We see a woman, ailing, tend

Her husband, though she sinks –

And still, her spouse yet more demands –

And of her, rarely thinks...

 

How easy it might be to judge

Another, yet we know

That there are depths we cannot plumb,

Beneath the storms that blow.

 

And yet, it’s true – that qualities

We nurture, over years,

Express themselves, for all to see,

When mortal ending nears.

2013 December 29^th, Sun., 6:08 pm 

2^nd floor, McDonald’s Restaurant  

86^th Street and 20^th Avenue 

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

   

City and Village

City and Village
     
A city offers much that a village can't.
And yet, it is our villages that give,
To each of us, a soul and sustenance.
We try, within a city's multitude,
To make our little clans, our villages.
And some succeed in this – and others don't.

Some work to live – and others live to work.
And work may fill a life, or lives consume.
But work will have an end, as all things do,
And those, whose lives were work, are then marooned.

There's air and warmth – and water, food that we
Require to live.  But there are other things,
Without which lives are bleak and sad indeed.
For some, it's music, art.  Yet others feed
On varied stuff, not just of atoms made.
But each, except the hermit-saint, has need
At times, of other mortals' company.

The villagers depend on others there,
And so do townsfolk, though they this deny.
Their shelter, water, food and more derive
From others' labor, oft invisible
To those who live in cities modernized.

And they forget how they, of two, were born,
How many then had aided them to live
When they were babies – or were still at school
And learning what they'd later use to earn
Their livings or enjoy their present lives.

If we've had one or more who lived with us,
How hard it is for us, when they are gone
And never will return.  A dinner then
Is loneliness – relieved, perhaps, by a screen
That flickers as it shows how others live.

So some have cats and dogs that occupy
The spaces that a human might have filled.
And as we age, and strength and work contract,
So do our spheres, until we're left as one.

And so, we wish that we were villagers
Where climes are warm, and air and children pass
Through open doors, with crying, laughter heard
By elders as they sit outside or walk –
Or lie on floors at night, in starlit rooms,
In touch with earth, beneath the sky – and part
Of human lives.

Yet villagers – they envy city folk.
The young depart to find employment in
The cities, fabled for their wealth and sin.
And some return – or send their monthly dues
To those they left behind, remembering...

But others never do, in newfound lives
Engrossed or trapped, in struggles there enmeshed,
Forgetting who they were, and giving birth
To children who might never know the woes
And simple joys that their ancestors knew.

2013 November 2nd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

New Season -- revised

  
This is a revised version of New Season , which I wrote on October 29th, 2006, a few months into a two-year stay at my parents'  house in Berkeley, California.  That long visit was initiated by a heart attack (followed, during stent installation, by heart failure) that my mother had suffered, on August 26th of that year.

Almost two years after that writing, Joe's Demise appeared, on October 5th, 2008 -- out of nowhere, so it seemed.  This happened soon after my return to Brooklyn, at the end of August of that year.

Recently, on reading both poems again, I noticed that a section of the earlier poem contained a premonition of what is perhaps portrayed in the later one, Joe's Demise.  So, after revising New Season, I am presenting it below.

---------------------------------------------------------------

New Season -- revised

The air has cooled, but still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, as leaves of color fall.

Now comes November... Yet, along this coast,
It is as if we're waiting still for May...

The maples – they are mottled, green and red...
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen,
Amongst the greens, on coastal slopes and hills.

We know, beyond those hills, and east to the sea,
For a full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Except for dark and stolid evergreens... 

But here, the maples, oaks, the wine-leaved plums
And all their broad-leaved kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, which lasts here into spring...

What a paradise was this, that Nature wrought,
Until we came and drove our freeways through!
Now shopping malls deface the sun-washed coast,
And rushing cars disturb the sleeping hills.

And yet, the conifers rise up to a hilltop ridge,
And little birds are perched on cables strung
Between the poles that stand as straight and tall
As when they slowly grew in forests deep...

And high upon those hills, you still might find,
Beside a stream, a mountain lion's print –
And quickly glance about and hurry down
Before the night descends on fragrant pines.

It is as if the works of men are but
Another shadow that is speeding through,
One more among the countless ones that climb
These coastal hills as clouds go racing by.

All this shall pass, like a storm that lays about
And then is gone.  So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridges...

And trees will conquer buildings, as they've done
Since Olmecs, Mayas, Incas, Aztecs raised
Their monuments and left, as Khmers had built
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain...

But wait – perhaps, this time, it won't be so,
And things will take, instead, a turn that is
Quite different – for we have stressed this whole,
Of earth and sea and air, beyond its strength...

That whole may not recover.  Life, its part,
May never be the same upon this globe...

And if we do not curb those weapons dread
That we are hoarding, life may vanish from
This blue-green planet – till it starts again
From a seed arrived from a distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread...

All this goes through the mind, on a tranquil day,
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow...

Perhaps we need these little respites from
The rush of seasons – both of Earth and Man.
We then can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length
Exceed, by far, the turns of the yearly round.

October ends, and yet, in paradise,
The sun is warm, and hummingbirds in flight
Are finding time to pause and drink their fill.

So autumn here begins, and we have time
To think these thoughts of past and future, while
We savor this – the present's timelessness.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 October 29th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

revised, 2013 October 23rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

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
  

The Trees that Stand

 
The Trees that Stand

How beauteous is a tree that stands against the sunset sky,
With all its limbs outspread – and topmost branches reaching high...
And when the morning sun is seen, that tree is standing still,
As sunlight catches dew-wet leaves – while hearts, with hymnals, fill.

Its grace and balance can't be matched by those who walk and run,
For it must stand as seasons pass and draw its strength from sun.
In stormy winds and pouring rains, in droughts and blizzards too,
It still must stand, where we would flee, as those, who're like us, do.

It happens that we're walking in the mist – and then we see,
Appearing, in that whiteness, with its darkened limbs – a tree!
And though at first we're frightened by its hugeness, we perceive
It holds for us no danger – and, in gratitude, we leave.

But when the sky is clouded and the rain begins to fall,
Then birds and beasts take shelter with the trees, and so do all
Who wander in the open and from nature's wrath must flee.
And in the tropic noontime, these find shade beneath a tree.

We come and go, the trees persist for generations more.
And some are standing still, that stood and silent witness bore
To all those things we've read about in sutras or in bibles,
Or even when it's claimed the gods we worship battled rivals.

And though they're strong as edifices that we humans build,
In elegance they stand – and are, with Nature's beauty, filled...
And though, at times, they're clothed in leaves that flutter in the breezes,
And at other times are standing nude, their structure always pleases.

And so, against the sky at dusk, with all its changing hue,
A tree may stand and be as one – and human faith renew...
And when the dawn lights up the sky, the tree is standing there,
To greet the rising sun – and those, whose eyes, that witness bear.

2013 August-end & September14th, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park and at home, Brooklyn
  

In Bensonhurst Park (Benso`nharst' Parke)

  
In Bensonhurst Park

An afternoon in August, with the temperature still high –
And yet, in the slanting light, a sign that fall will soon be here...
We had so little rain, the trees were parched throughout July,
But now, with rainy nights, those trees, in fresh-washed greens, appear.

The air is clean, the sky is blue, with cirrus high above.
The greens of trees are lit by soft and slanting golden sun.
So summer ends and autumn nears – with time enough for love,
But not for those like us, who spend their lifetimes on the run.

I've walked the city streets to sit awhile amidst the green,
To watch the elders play at chess and chat beneath the trees,
To see the mothers with their kids, to breathe awhile, serene.
With gratitude for all a slave, for a precious instant, frees.

I wonder who designed this park, who built the promenade,
The circle green where ball hits bat, the courts where children play,
Who planted then the stately trees that cast their dappled shade,
Who tended saplings as they grew, who tends to all today...

I know the answers may be found, by those who persevere,
But I shall leave that work to you, and idly sit awhile.
I'll watch the little parrots wheel, as fall is drawing near...
In winter, when they all have left, remembering them, I'll smile...

2013 August 23rd, Fri. afternoon,
by the flagpole at the upper level of Bensonhurst Park,
near Cropsey Avenue & 21st Avenue,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Benso`nharst' Parke

Grixxer xexe, O`gast-maxe, xo`horer fut'path marie,
xobuj parke exe boxechi ami, haoae jibon jurie.
Julair go`rome ekhankar gachgulo xukie gechilo prae.
Aj dekhi, rater brixt'ite snan kore darie ache, xobuj, xundor.

Nil akaxe, u~cute, kichu megh, aloe ujjo`l.
Xonali-rodre-choa xobuj patagulo dulche haoae.
Kichu din bade, din chot'o ho`be, pata xukie porbe to`khon.
Xuru ho`be abar sromiker o`xex khat'ni, pagol chot'a-chut'i.

Aj exechi ei parke, boxe dekchi xo`bar axa-jaoa.
Bur'ora, gacher chaeae, bencite boxe daba khelche.
Bolche, ko`to kichu go`lpo, purono dexer ko`tha...
Maera, baccader pre`m t'hele ber'ieche bikele...

E-xo`ber jonno, ei modhur alo-haoa-chaya pe-e,
krito`ggo ami.  Je`no muhurter khalax, bondir...
Bhabi – kar matha theke jonmechilo ei parkt'a,
kar khat'nir dorun toiri, ke koreche de`kha-xona?

E-xo`ber uttor ache jani – khujle paoa jabe.
Aj ami, ekhane aloxe boxe, tomader ei prosnogulo dilam.
Dekhchi – chot't'o t'ia-pakhir do`l, akaxe anonde ghurche...
Xit ele cole jabe ora – roibe to`be, ei manuxer mone...

bikel-be`la, Xukrubar, 23-e O`gast, 2013 kri.
Bensonharst Parker opor to`lae, fle`g-poler paxe,
Kro`psi e`bheniu ar 21-e e`bhiniur kache,
Benso`nharst', Bruklin

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
 

At a City Park in August -- Parts I & II

  
At a City Park in August 
            
Part I – Dreaming

Throughout July, we had but little rain,
And all the trees were parched, with drooping leaves
That browned and fell, as if the fall had come
Already.  Rains arrived, at last, and trees
Revived.  It rained till well past noon today.

It's August now – a cloudy afternoon,
with traces of a drizzle, drifting past.
I'm sitting in an asphalt city park,
beneath a tree recovered from the drought,
with little leaves in rows of two that weave
a curtain, oriental, underneath
a sky of white that's rimmed by shades of  gray.

Those little leaves are waving in the wind,
in silence, as I hear the muted sound
of water gurgling from a fountain set
at the center of this little park, where kids
would now be swinging, running, shouting and
be climbing on the slides and jungle gym,
if the sun were out this August afternoon.

And though that sun attempts to pierce the clouds,
with light reflected brightly from the slides
and shadows briefly cast upon the ground,
it's hid again, as denser clouds arrive
and breezes cool and even chilly blow.

The pigeons too were scared away by rain,
and I am left in solitude today
in busy Brooklyn, as the cars go by
at intervals along a road I see –
and even they have noises that are hushed.

So I can hear that gurgling water and,
when gusts arrive, the metal clank of chain
against a flagpole tall that flies
the flags of nation, city, state and parks...

I sit in meditation, in that park,
as time goes by, this August afternoon...

------------------------------------------------------------

Part II – Waking

The drizzle's gone, the sky begins to clear...

I wait awhile – and then the birds arrive –
and as it nears to three, the smaller kids.
And gone are now that stillness, solitude
and quiet – with those faint and waking sounds...

It's life, not that of patient trees alone,
but active beasts – the pigeons, sparrows and
the swallows that are wheeling in the breeze,
the kids who run upon the clanking “bridge”
and chase each other 'round and ride their bikes
and scooters, those who mount the stairs and slide,
with all their squeals of joy, on play intent –
this life now fills this city park that wakes from sleep.

The adults, few in number, come to sit
on benches, basking in the tempered sun,
and watching children play and run and shout.

I sit and watch and wonder where it went –
that park that was before – and then, again –
a moment's quiet, as the sun breaks through –
and there – I hear it – still, that gurgling sound...
A little baby cries – and it is gone.

I look and see – that fountain, small, in sun.
It rises but a foot or so above the ground.
A little girl approaches, circles, squats
and wets her hand awhile and prances off.

I feel the sun upon my aging legs –
a benediction.  But it's time to go...

2013 August 3rd, Sat. afternoon
City park at Bath and Bay
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

With Gentle Feet

     
With Gentle Feet
                    
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks she'll do this and that
And so become another –
To her, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

******
 
So do whatever you desire
Or what you have to do,
And savor thus your duty, pleasure,
While still remaining you.

For your body and your spirit are
As waves upon the sea,
And let's observe that wavelet, that
As cloud aspires to be.

It might forsake the ocean vast
And wash upon the land,
Or warmed by sun, as vapor rise –
And yet not understand.

For even if it rises high
Above the rolling plain,
Its nature is of water and,
As water, will remain.

And though it fall as snow upon
The lofty mountain peaks,
In time enough it will return,
As water, level seeks...

And though the sights that we may see
While mounting on ambition,
May serve to feed the dreams of age,
They will not give us vision.

For vision that is not of eyes
Alone is what is needed,
And when the heart is riven, then
Its vision isn't heeded.

And when ambition blinds our soul
Or we reject our parts,
Then all around us, shattered, lie
The bodies, minds and hearts...

So let the ones, who're driven, rise.
Observe them rise and fall.
Go carefully, with gentle feet,
With love for one and all.

******
 
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks he'll do this and that
And so become another –
To him, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

2013 July 28th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

I Saw the Moon

     
I Saw the Moon
     
I saw the moon beside a cedar tree.
I saw her moving as she walked with me.
And if I'd ventured to the dancing sea,
Her silver trail upon the waves, I'd see...

The moon is aged and yet is ever new.
She's watched the ancients and she watches you.
How many past have stood and marked her rise,
Or seen her shining in a lover's eyes?
 
I saw that moon, at full, on night of birth.
And in her rhythms, like the sea and earth,
She's followed me, an ever-watchful eye,
In all her guises, from the changing sky.
 
I might presume this old, familiar friend
Will watch this mortal as he meets his end.
And I will now request that on that day,
Beneath her gaze, I'm sent upon my way.

So if, as likely, I will lie within
A room, enclosed, with memory and sin,
I do beseech, whoever's at my side,
To take me where I sense her lunar tide.

And if there's none to help me leave this earth,
Remembering the moon I saw at birth,
And how she slipped behind the cedar tree,
From remnant coils, I'll lift my spirit free.
     
2013 July 19th, Fri.,  around 9:30 pm,
walking home from Gravesend Bay
along Shore Parkway,
between 17th & 18th Avenues,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(second stanza added later)
    

By the River

    
By the River
    
By the river's side, we met,
By the currents flowing.
We did not know, from where we came
Or where we would be going.

I still remember well the day
Our meetings there had started.
And I remember too the night
That we, in sorrow, parted...

How cool, the shade of leafy trees
On sun-kissed afternoons...
How wonderful, those nights we lay
Beneath the shining moon...

To every life, there comes a time
When darkness turns to light.
And so it was, that interlude
Of your and my delight...

We looked upon the waters then,
Reflecting moon and sun,
And on the dancing waves, we saw
The threads of being run...

We looked across the river and
We saw the other side.
We wondered if we'd ever cross
That river, flowing wide...

How many dreams we entertained,
How many thoughts we shared,
How many little things to show
That each, for other, cared...

How pleasantly those nights had passed,
Those days of dreaming then...
How sad it is, to think that we
May never meet again...

Oh how I long to see again
That river wide – and you,
To walk where river breezes blow
And kinship old renew...

The strands that intertwine and part,
In time are joined anew,
But memory is lost with death,
And so are I and you.

By the river's side, we'll meet,
By the waters flowing.
We will not know, from where we came
Or where we'll next be going...

2013 July 19th, Fri.
By New York Bay,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(added later: 4th stanza)
  
Note:  The following three stanzas were also added later, to follow before the last.  But they were subsequently excised and moved below.  They are kept there for those seeking some attempted explanation for that last stanza.
   
The river is the same and yet
Its waters, never old.
So we will pass away and yet
Our tale will be retold.

The river is the same and yet
The waters, ever new.
To others we will yield, who are
The newer I and you.

For even waters seeming new
Are from that mother risen,
To which they all at end will flow –
The deep and ancient ocean...
  
Also, a disclaimer:  This, like any other such from my pen or keyboard, is a romantic fantasy, no more...;-)
  

Eventide

Eventide

The day was quietly leaving – and the night was at the door.
It was raining, softly, softly, as the light was ebbing slow.
From the water in the gutters, the lights, reflected, shone,
As all across the city, those lights were turning on...

I was treading, slowly, softly, on my aging, sneakered feet,
And I'd hoisted my umbrella as I walked the city street –
For the rain was softly falling while the light was ebbing slow,
As the day was quietly leaving and the night was at the door...

I heard a neighbor talking as I passed her darkened house.
I could hear her quietly talking as I walked beside her house.
I could hear what she was saying, for my tread was soft and slow,
As the trees grew dark and looming as the night came in the door...

So the tide, it ebbs and rises – and the moon, it waxes, wanes.
And the city slows at evening as it's touched by gentle rains...
The night, it enters softly as the day has quietly left.
As the tide of light is turning, we remember those who've left...

The day, it had departed as I entered in my house.
And I waited, in the gloaming, for the coming of my spouse...
I would wait till it was midnight, then I'd call her on the 'phone,
As she left her ailing parent and she traveled home alone...

I wished that I could do as she had done so many years,
Remembering the ones I left behind while shedding tears...
But I waited there in silence and my cheeks and eyes were dry.
It was only for the living that I've ever had to cry...

2013 July 2nd, Tue.
(last two stanzas added July 3rd Wed.)
Brooklyn

How Wondrous

How Wondrous

How wondrous is a living tree,
Resplendent in its leaves...
In summertime, it spreads its shade
And from that sun relieves,
On which it feeds, eschewing what
We animals must do,
Devouring naught that lives, unlike
The likes of me and you...

How beauteous, a living tree,
With branches spreading high...
How varied are its greens, when lit
By light of laughing sky...
How sweet, the scent of blooms, to those,
Who pass by it in spring...
How succulent, its fruits, for those,
Who light on it on wing...

How beauteous, the tree remains,
When standing in the nude...
How sensuous and strong, those limbs
In frozen interlude...
How poignant is the tree in death,
Majestic as it falls...
And even when it's dead, it speaks,
As little bird that calls...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

The Summer Starts

The Summer Starts

It was evening.  I was walking towards the sunset in the west.
The light of day was ebbing but the heavens were alight.
The air was still and humid and the trees were silent, dark.
The rain had kissed the streets and washed the city's grime away –
And water, clear, in curbside pools, reflected sky and clouds...

I walked in silence, breathing in the moisture in the air.
The schools and work had ended, freeing me, awhile, of care...
I walked towards a funeral home.  Another one had died...
I asked the clouds who next would leave.  But none of them replied...

So summer starts – and freedom brings awareness and release.
And yet, I hear, in solitude, the clamor of the crowd.
So little fishes in a pool, beside a waterfall,
Might hear the ceaseless roar – and sense, perhaps, their transience...
And so might soldiers question clouds, expecting no reply...

2013 June 26th, Wed. & 27th, Thu.
Brooklyn

Returning Home + Bradley's Way

Returning Home

How peaceful are the shades of blue above,
With streaks of white that arc across the deep...
How glorious, the greens in slanting sun,
How restful, those in shadows cool below...
How comforting, the reds and browns of bricks...
The city seems at peace as sunset comes...

And soon enough, it will be dark again,
As blues give way to indigos and blacks.
And far from city lights, a villager
Will see, afar, the myriad burning suns...

How beautiful, this world, in which we are,
How wonderful, this fleeting chance to see...

Returning home, from frenzied place of work,
With no one home, to whom to hurry to,
A little time is found, for breathing free,
A little time, to lift the head and see,
Remembering the ones that are no more,
With sorrow – yet with gratitude to be...

2013, June 4th Tue.
Brooklyn  
---------------------------------------------------------------
 
Bradley's Way

How peaceful seem those shades of blue above,
Until they see those streaks of white appear,
Those villagers, who scatter if they can,
Who seek the shadows where the elders hide,
Uncomforted.  And then, the dreaded blasts
That shred the children, who were on their way...

How further, this pretense that cannot last,
This city, driven wild by Mammon's lust,
Where children go to school to be the tools
Of those that wage those wars that have no end?

And in those growing children's eyes, we see
The kindled fires of that insanity...

And when will soldiers sent abroad return,
And those, that fly the drones, from horrors, turn,
To see, with eyes renewed, the sky, the trees,
To watch their elders and the setting sun,
To lift their children in their arms and say,
“No more of sin. We walk on Bradley's way.”?

June 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn