Planet

   

Planet

  

Upon this planet with its blues and greens,

Its many shades of browns and other hues,

And all the other sights that daylight brings—

That ever changing light, from dawn to dusk,

With shadows stark on golden afternoons,

With clouds and peaks of white against the blues—

  

Yes, all of this and all the night’s delight,

With planets, moon, and stars and galaxy

Revealed for those afar from urban glare—

Upon this planet I have lived and seen

These wonders—glowing, timeless and serene—

Or so it seemed, amidst the constant flux

That marks our lives upon this spinning Earth. 

 

I’m grateful, yes, for all these sights I’ve seen—

For all the solace from the blues and greens

And other visions that remain with me

Of this, our planet, till I cease to be.

  

Amidst the madness, these have kept me sane.

Amidst the heartless, these have nourished me—

As have the actions and the care of those

Who see beyond the self and see within. 

  

These give me light and hope, amidst the sin

And all the darkness of the world we’re in.

These give me faith—and give me courage still. 

   

2026 January 19th, Mon.

Berkeley, California  

 

 

 

No Verses

 
No Verses
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
******
.
The dawn that once brought hope now brings despair
As tens of thousands die—or wish they could—
As those who live are filled with grief and pain—
And most, who witness, now have understood
.
That evil often triumphs, laying waste
To all that’s good and precious: tenderness
And quietude—and love and due respect—
As Mammon grins and profits from duress. 
.
****** 
.
How many are the ones who've died in waves,
As lands were conquered or were laid to waste, 
As guns and bombs replaced the clubs and swords,
And Greed and Fear infected all with haste?
.
I hear the children laugh; I hear them weep.
I hear the dying, burned and blasted, moan.
I fear departure, leaving those I know
To fend for selves, with others, or alone.
.
****** 
.
But who among us chooses time or place
To enter or to exit from the stage
On which we walk and act and say our words—
And then depart—at ripe or tender age?
.
The dusk, descending, whispers now of night,
And I will venture out, beneath the stars,
To breathe and try to find a passing peace,
As all around delight in distant wars.
.
****** 
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
2024 October 3rd & 5th.
Berkeley, California
.

Peace and War

. 
Peace and War
.
The silence and the summer sun
On California’s coast,
The rustling of the leaves of trees,
The distant, passing train,
.
The letting go of everything 
Of which I once could boast,
The touching by the cooling breeze,
The easing of the strain,
.
The blue of sky, the green of leaves,
The warmth of sun on skin,
The calling of the bird I hear, 
The sway of grasses tall—
.
These all combine and so provide,
Within this world of sin,
A music of the eye and ear
That brings relief to all.
.
******
.
And yet, the all-devouring greed
Will rarely pause to taste
Of all of this that beings need,
While laying more to waste. 
.
So wealth will flow, accumulate,
And bombs will fall and burst,
As burnings rise, along with hate,
And children die of thirst.
.
****** 
.
I call to those who've closed their blinds
To open windows wide
And look, with open minds and hearts,
Across the harsh divide—
.
To see that children, everywhere,
And women, are the same—
That sentients feel of grief and pain,
As humans should of shame.
.
2024 July 15th, Mon.
Berkeley, California
.

Kichu Bhalobaxa-কিছু ভালোবাসা-A Bit of Love

 
A lightly edited version of Google Translate's translation into English follows the Bangla (Bengali) text below. I will try to improve the translation later.

   কিছু ভালোবাসা

শ্রমের জীবনের শেষের সাঁঝে, 
আঁধারে যখন হেঁটেছি ধীরে, 
জগতের নিষ্ঠুরতার মাঝে,
তোমার স্মৃতি এসেছে ফিরে।
 
ক্লান্ত দেহে, বিমর্ষ মনে, 
করুণার আলো, আদি, চিরতন, 
পেয়েছি তখন মানসের কোণে। 
পেয়েছি দৃষ্টির, সাহসের রতন।
 
এটুকু কৃপা, এটুকু আলো, 
তোমার দেওয়া, রইবে সাথে। 
তোমাকে তাই বাসবো ভালো, 
যতই ব্যথা, গভীর রাতে।
 
আসবে আবার, ভরসা-ভরা ভোর। 
নতুন প্রজন্মে জাগবে আশা। 
দিয়ে যাবো তাই, যা কিছু মোর—
পেয়েছি যখন কিছু ভালোবাসা।
 
  রবিবার, ২৮ জানুয়ারি, ২০২৪ খ্রি
  বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
 
-----------------------------------------------------------
   A Bit of Love
  
At the end of my working life,
Walking slowly in the evening's dark,
Amidst the cruelty of the world,
My memory of you returned.
  
With tired body and exhausted mind,
I found again, in a corner of my soul,
The light of mercy, ancient and eternal.
This gave me vision and courage again.
  
This bit of grace, this bit of light,
That came from you, will stay with me.
And that is why I will remember you,
No matter how painful and dark the night.
  
The hope-filled dawn will come again,
And hope will arise in a new generation.
And that is why I will give whatever I have,
Having received that bit of love. 
  
  Sunday, January 28, 2024 
   Berkeley, California
  

Moruddip-মরুদ্বীপ

মরুদ্বীপ

সিমেন্টের ধূসর ফুটপাতে হেঁটেছি, 
কালো পিচের রাস্তা ধরে,
ব্যথিত পায়ে, ক্লান্ত দেহে, 
ম্লান চিত্তে, কত দশক ধরে,
বিদেশের শহুরে মরুভূমি-পথে।

সফরের মাঝে এসেছি কখনো
ছোটো কোনো মরুদ্বীপে,
যেখানে পেয়েছি কিছু বিরাম,
পেয়েছি সলিল, সান্তনা।

সেখানে, দুর্লভ কোনো বেঞ্চে বসে,
কম-দূষিত বাতাসের শ্বাস নিয়েছি।
প্রকৃতির সুগন্ধের সাথে শুঁকেছি
গাড়ির ইঞ্জিনের পাদের ঘ্রান।

******

তখন মনে হয়েছে যেনো
হয় শহরের চলতি কোলাহল 
কোনো কারনে বিদায় নিয়েছে,
নয়তো নিজেকে আমার ইচ্ছামতো
বদলাতে দিয়েছে। সকল হট্টগোল,
পাগলামি, ঠেলাঠেলি, তাড়াহুড়ো যেনো
সরে গেছে। রয়েছে শুধু—শান্তির স্বাদ।

রাস্তার গাড়ির আসা যাওয়া
যথাকালে যেনো হয়ে গেলো— 
মনোরম তীরের ঢেউয়ের ধুয়া।
উঁচু থেকে উড়োজাহাজের গর্জন 
হ’লো—দূর সমুদ্রতীরের ডাক।

আবার যেনো শুনতে পেলাম— 
এই জগতের শ্বাস-প্রশ্বাস।

******

তাই আজ, শরতের বিকেলে,
বাসা থেকে অনেক দূরে—
তাও পুরনো ঘরে ফিরে—
একটি বেঞ্চি খুঁজে পেয়ে,
তাতে আসন দখল করেছি।

সামনে দেখি, কিছু দূরে,
সূর্যের ঢালু কিরণ এসে 
পাইন-গাছে ঢেলেছে আলো।
সেই আশীর্বাদে যেনো
গাছটা পূর্ণ, পুলকিত।

আমি যেখানে বসে আছি,
সেখানে আরামে এক খেলা চলছে।
ছায়াযুক্ত কয়েক যুবক
নেচে-নেচে খেলছে আলোয়।
বল্-টাকে, একে একে হাতে তুলে,
পাঠাচ্ছে, ধনু-রেখো-পথে,
উঁচু বাস্কেটবল-হুপের খোঁজে।

বাস্কেটবল কোর্টের মেজেতে দেখি
নীল-সাদা-সবুজ রঙ।
মনে আসে এতে, আহা,
সেই হারানো দিনের কথা,
সেই আকাশ-অরণ্য-জল, 
সেই ধরিত্রী—প্রিয়, নির্মল।

পশ্চিমে, সূর্যের আলোয় আঁকা,
ক’টা চেনে-বাঁধা কুকুরের সহ,
এক দল মহিলার চলাফেরা।

আরো দূর থেকে শোনা যাচ্ছে,
শরতের রোদে, শিশুদের খেলা।

******

এই জগতের লীলার মাঝে 
একটু বিরতি, একটু বিরাম, 
কিছুটা আলগা হওয়ার কাল—
কুকুরের সাথে, মানুষের সাথে,
এই বিকেলের রৌদ্রে নাচন—
নয়তো শুধু আলোয় স্নান।

এমন সময় দেখি যে আবার—
দেখছে হেঁসে, আমার দিকে,
সেই পুরনো বন্ধু আমার—
নগরের ভিড়ে হারানো আমি।

******

জানি, এই দিনের আলোর শেষে,
সন্ধ্যে আসবে, ফিসফিসিয়ে। 
তারাভরা আকাশগঙ্গা যেমন, 
তেমনই জ্বলে উঠবে তখন
শহুরে রাস্তার আলোর মালা।

দিনের ম্লান আভা যখন
পশ্চিমে মৃত্যুশয়নে—যখন 
বাকি মানুষ ঘরে চলে গেছে—
শুনতে পাবো আবার তখন,
এই আমার পুরনো বাসায়,
ঝিঁঝিদের সাঁঝের সঙ্গীত।

এইভাবে, নগর-সাগরে, আজও,
এই বাকি ছোটো দ্বীপে,
সেই চিরন্তন চক্র চলে।

জীবন ধরে, পেয়েছি এতে
ঝড়ের মাঝে রেহাই কিছু,
বিরোধের মাঝে শান্তি।

আমারই মতন, আরো কত জন
ফিরে পেয়েছে প্রাণ?
দিনের আলোর শেষ বিদায়ে
শুনেছে ঝিঁঝির গান?

এমনই মঠে, বুদ্ধ ব’সে,
পেয়েছিল নির্বাণ।

ওহ্লোন পার্ক (হার্সট আর মাক্গী রাস্তার মোড়ের কাছে)
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
বুধবার, ৪ অক্টোবর, ২০২৩ খ্রিস্টাব্দ
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ: ৮ অক্টোবর)
-------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a translation, into Bengali, of the poem: Scattered Greens

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

Poetry as Solace

Poetry as Solace

As music is a solace, so is verse,
At least for some of us that have this vice
That has its virtue, more than smoking does
Or all the things that now distract our minds
And so are used to soothe the jangled nerves
That need the numbing that these things provide.

And I confess that I have written lines
Not only when inspired but also when
The madness and the din that is around
Had made me seek my solace—not in drink,
But in the rhythms and the stillness that
I’ve often found in writing lines of verse.
 
2018 December 30th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

I say, “the soul” but mean “the mind”.
Perhaps I am confused.
My soul (or mind) had lost its peace
From being much abused.

And who abused it? Could it be
Itself that should be blamed—
Or circumstance—or others, who
Had better stay unnamed?

If I had found the answer,
It could well have been a lie.
The scab was made for healing, not
For picking for the “why?”

I cannot claim I healed myself
Or found the peace within.
And yet I did find solace, though
This world is steeped in sin.

And what I found, I’ll summarize
By saying only this:
By stepping out of madness, one
May find a bit of bliss.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps
The soul—or is this mind?
I do not know. In everything,
I know we should be kind.

But life may often be unkind.
It’s rarely only fun.
We get our depth from suffering—
Unless it’s overdone.

Too often, we encounter pain
And grief we can’t endure.
And then we seek and hope for that
Which might enact a cure.

And if this comes, we then are blessed.
But though we hope and pray,
There may be times when night prevails,
Without the hope of day.

Amidst the pain and misery,
When hope itself is gone,
We ask ourselves what lies ahead
And why we’re going on.

What answer can we give ourselves
Or those who are in need,
Except that life is precious, so
We walk where it may lead.

We live and so we taste of joy
And equally of grief.
So pain and pleasure come and go,
And worry and relief.

And when it’s time to leave behind
This life and those we love,
We cast our eyes towards the earth
Or the sky that waits above.

From earth and air and water, we
Were born—and when we leave,
To these again we all return,
Whatever we believe.

But that’s the body. Does the soul
Endure—or does it die?
I do not know, and those who say
They do—perhaps they lie.

We came with nothing, never knowing
The reason why we came.
We go with nothing, still not knowing
The reason for this game.

So each of us is humbled, in
That death as in this life.
And all that each can hope for is
The peace that ends the strife—

For conflict, in the world we see
And in the world within,
Is at the root of misery
And much of human sin.

And when that conflict ceases (if
At least within the soul),
We savor then that peace that heals
And makes our beings whole.

The Buddhas say, “Let go, let go—
Of fear and of desire.
Then see their waves—that rise, subside…
Be freed, by this, from fire.”

We cling and so we suffer. Yet
We cannot cling to that
Which is by nature passing. Do
We see that that is that?

I wish upon you happiness—
A long and happy life.
But more than that, I wish that peace.
May free your soul from strife.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps—
That soul. I do not know.
Be kind to others. Be at peace
Within—by letting go.

And who am I to give advice?
A Buddha of our times?
If only it were so. Alas!
I’m only good at rhymes.

2018 November 25th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

What Use Is Poetry?

What Use Is Poetry?

Is poetry of any use at all,
Except to soothe the one who writes the verse?

But then perhaps if those who read it find
In what is written something they have felt,
Then this in turn might give those readers too
A bit of pleasure or of passing calm—
And this may then be seen as proof of worth.

We gaze on beauty—that in Nature’s forms
Or what’s reflected in our human works—
And this is pleasing, calming to the soul.
So also music, song and lines of verse
Have each their beauty that the ear and heart
Perceive. This yields again that treasured calm.

But surely verse, like other forms of art,
Can also agitate, arouse, ignite—
And so produce the opposite of peace?

And this is so. Perhaps at best our verse
Can serve to open senses, minds and hearts
And rouse us to the actions that are then
Perceived as needed—or give sustenance
To courage and conviction for a while,
As songs and poems keep our hopes alive.

But some might say that all of this is chaff
And verse is only useful, if at all, in this—
In sharing sight or in inducing bliss.

So which of these opinions is the best?
I do not know—and likely never will.
I write my verses, never knowing if
The lines are gems—or even more of swill.

2018 November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 Use Is Poetry?

Is poetry of any use at all,
Except to soothe the one who writes the verse?

But then perhaps if those who read it find
In what is written something they have felt,
Then this in turn might give those readers too
A bit of pleasure or of passing calm—
And this may then be seen as proof of worth.

We gaze on beauty—that in Nature’s forms
Or what’s reflected in our human works—
And this is pleasing, calming to the soul.
So also music, song and lines of verse
Have each their beauty that the ear and heart
Perceive. This yields again that treasured calm.

But surely verse, like other forms of art,
Can also agitate, arouse, ignite—
And so produce the opposite of peace?

And this is so. Perhaps at best our verse
Can serve to open senses, minds and hearts
And rouse us to the actions that are then
Perceived as needed—or give sustenance
To courage and conviction for a while,
As songs and poems keep our hopes alive.

But some might say that all of this is chaff
And verse is only useful, if at all, in this—
In sharing sight or in inducing bliss.

So which of these opinions is the best?
I do not know—and likely never will.
I write my verses, never knowing if
The lines are gems—or even more of swill.

2018 November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

This Old Chap

 
This Old Chap 

This Old Chap

The weariness from lack of sleep,
The weariness from age,
And all the buffets borne before
Combine to blur the page.

And though he writes his verses still
And so avoids despair,
It seems his vision falters, fogs
And fades beyond repair.

And so the time has come, perhaps,
To take a quiet nap.
And then he might have strength for more—
This old, persistent chap.

And see—he dozes in his chair
And jerks from time to time.
And when he wakes, he’ll fix again
The meter, sound and rhyme.

2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------

    

Today

Today 

  


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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

2018 January 12th, Friday
Brooklyn, New York
    

Solace-II

Solace-II
 

source: unreachable

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

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

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

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

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

Mitzvah

Mitzvah
 
Soft and gentle was that music,
Soothing to the souls who’d sinned,
Healing to the ones they’d wounded,
Like a whisper in the wind.

Faint and fading though it sounded,
Seeming close, yet seeming far,
Yet it still was soothing, healing,
After all the sounds of war.

Whence this music of the angels,
Floating in the summer breeze?
Who were they, who made that music,
Setting tortured souls to ease?

So we wondered, while that music
Lasted, captured by its art.
How and why this blessing, fashioned
So to touch and heal the heart?

Just as it had risen, softly,
So it ebbed and then was gone.
Years have passed, and yet within
Our minds it still is playing on.

Some have said it was a mitzvah,
A message from a source divine.
All I know was that I heard it,
And it now is yours and mine.

If a human hand had made it,
Guided by a gentler god,
Then I thank the maker for it,
And I’m grateful for that god.

2016 April 20th, Tue. 
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Yemenite Jew blowing the shofar (ram's horn), circa 1935
U.S. Library of Congress archives

Boy playing flute, Peru
Werner Bischof

 

Yemenite Jews studying the Torah in Sana'a, Yemen
https://uk.pinterest.com/explore/yemenite-jews/

Sitting Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

 

Tranquil Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

Grace-II

Grace-II 

He goes among the tribes in the forests.
He goes among the tribesmen in the hills.
He sees the things they make and what they do.
He gazes out from mountaintops. He sees
The mists that rise when touched by morning sun.
He tastes of beauty.  He is gentled by
The lullabies that mothers sing, by children's smiles.

He walks among the tribes in forests, hills.
And there he finds again his innocence.

But even in the city's wilderness,
Where strangers rush by strangers, shunning eyes,
He finds the ones who nurture innocence,
And those who still are gentle, slow and kind,
Who speak in cadences that hesitate,
Who turn to beauty in the ugliness,
Who still can breathe in calm and live in grace.

2016 February 2nd, Tue.

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 )
   

The City’s Trees

 
The City’s Trees
 
The city’s trees are beautiful.
They comfort, through the year,
The harried folk who’re passing by
And chance to stop and see.

******

In spring, their tender leaves appear
And some are lit by blooms.
In summer, dressed in richest greens,
They shimmer in the sun.

In autumn, as they shed their leaves,
They blaze in many hues.
In wintertime, they’re stripped and bare
And yet are clothed in grace.

We see their twisting symmetry—
The balance in the dance.
We marvel at their nudity
Beneath the winter sky.

******
 
That winter sky can be as gray
Or clear as mind and soul.
All winter long, the trees will stand
As clouds go floating by.
 
The clouds are changelings and we too
Are changing, day by day.
The trees are slower beings, yet
They dance, as humans age.

We wait for spring and so do they—
For spring will surely come.
And summer then will follow soon—
And autumn in its time.

******
 
The seasons come, the seasons go—
And in the city’s streets
The workers rush about—and some
Find comfort in the trees.

2015 December 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 
     

How Beautiful—III

 

How Beautiful—III

 

How beautiful this world is,

in which we chance to live—

the blues and greens of sky and plants,

the warmer hues of earth,

the flowers dancing in the breeze,

the wondrous forms of beasts,

the sounds of water and of air—

the tinkle, rustle, swoosh,

the drumming of the raindrops,

the roars of waves and storms,

the scents of rose and jasmine,

of fruits and musks and earth,

the light that’s always changing—

the wonder of the dawn,

the clouds that soar and tumble,

the brilliance of noon,

the starry skies of midnight,

the phases of the moon…

******

I have heard the children laughing,

I have watched the puppies play.

I have seen the mother smiling

at the infant she had borne.

I have seen the sad, the evil,

the horrors of this world.

and yet, when I’m despairing,

I see its wonder still.

 

And so, when I’m departing,

despite the pain I’ve borne,

I’ll leave this place in gratitude,

and bless the ones that live.

To those who have departed

and those who're still unborn,

I'll send my silent greetings,

before I leave this world.

2014 September 24th, Thu.

(last 4 stanzas added Oct 3rd, Sat., along

with lines 4 to 7 from end of 1st stanza)

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Two earlier poems with the same title:

 *   How Beautiful—II  

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/how-beautiful-ii.html )

 *   How Beautiful    

      ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2012/12/how-beautiful.html )    

    

I Do Not Know the Words

 
I Do Not Know the Words

As I was walking on the street, a whisper came to me.
It seemed an eerie whispering, and so I paused to hear.
And then I heard a voice that called, as if across a sea.
And though it sounded distant, yet I also sensed it near.
 
“They know the words,” that whisper said, “so all can sing the song.
They know them well.  And one may lead, while others sing along.
But then another takes the lead. You’re hearing what they feel.
They share in song—and everything—where no one needs to steal.”

I heard that voice that seemed to be so far, so distant, yet
Was also there within my heart, as close as it could get.
“I do not know the words.” I said, “I do not know the words.
Do tell me what the meaning is. To me, they sing like birds.”

For I had heard a singing then, behind that eerie voice,
That rose and fell in cadences, as if a hidden sea
Were breaking on a distant shore, from which a random breeze
Had carried sound across the miles and so by chance to me.

But though I heard that singing still, that voice had ceased to speak.
And so I strained to hear that song, which still was distant, weak.
And as I listened, I discerned the words—they still were strange,
But slowly, one by one, they came within my hearing’s range.

And to this day, I hear that song.  It pulses in my mind.
For me, it's still a wondrous thing.  A passing spirit, kind,
Had given me this gentle song—that whispers, like the sea
May do, when quite a distance from the place we chance to be.

“I do not know the words.” I’d said, “I do not know the words.”
But I could hear the feeling in the song.  That still remains.
And though I’d said it sounded like the singing of the birds,
It sings to me of hopes and loves—of all our joys and pains.

“They know the words,” that voice had said, “so all can sing along.”
And one by one I hear them sing—I hear them sing that song.
They share in this, and everything, where no one needs to steal.
And though I’ve never met them, I can hear the way they feel.

And still I daily walk the streets, within the city’s sphere.
And there are times I’m full of grief, of madness and of fear.
But then I hear that song again, and so my heart is lifted.
I thank the spirit then for this—this drop of kindness, gifted.

I wish I understood the words.  But then, it doesn't matter.
For there's a place for words and there's another place for song.
And so at times the words we speak appear as useless chatter.
For those are times to listen—and perhaps to sing along.

2015 May 25th, Mon
“Memorial Day “ in the U.S.A.
Brooklyn, New York
     

To Monua – Eleven Years Past

    
To Monua – Eleven Years Past
 
In the bitter cold of winter
In the northern climes, we pray
For the warmth of northern summers –
And the ones who’ve gone away…

For the life, we each are given,
We each in time return,
From age, despair or illness –
Or fiends that bomb and burn...

We're born, indeed, by accident.
By accident, we go.
And yet, although we're happenstance,
There's much we get to know.

And when our elders leave, our grief
Is deep – but when we see
The ones who're younger go before,
We wish we would not be...
  
******
   
On a Saturday, you left us –
Or on a Sunday morn,
On the dates returned this weekend,
Oh my sister, all forlorn...
 
And I wasn’t there to stay you –
But a continent away.
And this, I still remember –
In the silence, every day.
 
But if there’s still your spirit
That wanders, asking why –
With our parents now departed,
You should know, I’m coming by –

And surely, we’ll be meeting
And I will hold your hand –
And our parents might be watching
And they will understand.
 
And all your friends, your cousins,
Your elders, in-laws, more –
The ones you touched, who’re living –
Or gone, will come to know.

For you and I and others
Are ripples on a sea –
That though we each might vanish
Will never cease to be.
 
You lived a life of beauty,
However deep the pain –
And each of us is praying
We’ll find you once again.

******

And so – for every other,
Who has passed the “One Way” sign
And left behind another
Who can only pray and pine –
 
I write to you, my sister,
As they might write to those –
The ones, who're not returning
From where their fortune chose...
 
The bubbles meet and part and pop
And others take their place.
So parents grieve and siblings mourn,
Remembering a face...
 
We think with time the wound will heal.
But rarely is it so.
In every home, the sorrow comes
And never will it go.
  
2015 January 17th, Sat. 9:35 pm
Brooklyn, New York

In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004

And Where Are You?
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2011/04/and-where-are-you.html

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/07/immersion-in-ganges.html


Jupiter Rising
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/03/jupiter-rising.html
 
Monua in Boston
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/monua-in-boston.html

 

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