No'mo, no'mo-নম, নমঃ-Reverence

 

The English translation follows the Bengali original below.

____________________________________________________

নম, নম:
 
বাড়িতে বসে, গেছি যেনো ম'জে।
দেহ মন দুই দুর্বল।
মনে চিন্তা আসে, বুকে ভীতি।
না মরেও, মরি বারে বারে।
 
সন্ধ্যের আগে বেরোতে পারলে, দেখি
আকাশে আলোর লীলা।
গাছ উঠেছে সূর্যের খোঁজে।
মাটিতে ছড়ানো পাতা।
 
মৃদু মৃদু বইছে ঋতুর হাওয়া।
গালে তার শীতল হাত।
মনে মনে ‘নম, নমঃ’ ব'লে,
নত মাথা তুলি আবার।
 
মানুষ, খেটে রোজগার করে।
বেড়ে চলেছে দাম।
তবুও, চিত্তের সেরা খোরাক
ফাউতে পাওয়া যায়।
 
বুধবার, ১২ অক্টোবর, ২০২২ খ্রি.
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
____________________________________________________
 
Reverence
 
Stuck at home, it seems I am decayed—
Enfeebled both in body and in mind.
The mind is filled with worries, the heart with fear—
The thousand deaths, it seems, of cowardice.
 
If I can venture out before the dusk,
I see the play of light across the sky,
The upward thrusts of trees that seek the sun,
The leaves of autumn strewn upon the ground…
 
The breeze of autumn blows, at times, and I
Can feel its touch upon my neck and cheek.
I utter words of reverence and then
I straighten up and raise my head again.
 
We humans slave to earn our sustenance.
The price of everything is going up.
But should we then forget that the best of foods
For heart and soul are freely still dispensed?
 
2022, October 12, Wed.
Translation into English: Oct. 13
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
-------------------------------------------------------

    

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Winter neared its end, I saw a tree,
Denuded, waiting patiently for Spring,
With limbs outstretched towards the white and blue
And towards that sun in which the trees delight.

It was the sun that whispers of the time
When roads will shimmer in the summer's heat,
And leaves will flutter as the branches sway
In pleasant breezes blowing from the sea.

And as I stood and squinted at the sky,
I saw the balance and the grace in trees,
Whose trunks and branches reach towards the light,
As roots we cannot see dig downward, deep.

I looked awhile in wonder and in awe
At this—this beauty on the city's street,
And then resumed my walking towards the train,
As trees stood waiting, near to Brooklyn's shore.

2018 April 9th, Mon. afternoon
D train from Brooklyn to Manhattan
 

Needs

 
Needs
 
The things that humans build and make,
in cities, factories—these
are often wasteful, monstrous and
disturbing to the soul.

And so we need the open space,
with sky—and water, earth,
and all the hues and sounds and scents
that heal and make us whole.
 
We need the plants, we need the beasts—
we need the rest of life.
We need the clouds, the rain and snow,
we need the open sky.
 
We need the dawn, we need the dusk,
we need the arcing sun.
We do not need to speed to work
and back—to race and run.
 
******
 
We need the curve of hill and branch,
the flow of water, wind.
With quadrants and with walls, we’ve penned
ourselves and we have sinned

against this world and all that lives
and all that gave us birth,
and all that still sustains this life
upon this whirling Earth.
 
We need the whispers of the winds,
the gurgling of the streams,
and all the softer sounds we heard
that soothed us in our dreams.
 
We need to savor what we do—
to labor slow, with love.
We do not need the overseer
who drives us from above.
 
******
We need the brightness of the day,
we need the heat and cold.
We need the darkness of the night,
we need the moon and stars.
 
We need to learn, we need to teach,
to care for young and old.
We do not need the speed, the din,
the factories and the wars.
 
We need to find or grow our food,
to spin and weave the string.
We need to feel, beneath our feet,
the earth, the grass, the moss…
 
We need to talk and touch and kiss,
we need to dance and sing.
We do not need to bend the knee
or bow to lord or boss.
 
2016 October 22nd, Sat., 1:47 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York

  

Home

Home

You cannot take the city or the farm
from him or her who had been reared in one.
And those remaining in the forests or
the deserts or the mountains or the ice
have need of these to keep their beings whole.
But I have town and village in my soul.

Give me the city and the countryside—
the honking cars and blessed quietude,
the sunless toilets and the fragrant trees,
the towers and the open fields and sky—
and set these things, so contrary, beside
each other, as the breath drawn in and out,
and I will be content, between the two,
to live awhile—and then, in peace, to die.

******

Within a bustling city, I was born,
and in the cities I have worked and lived,
yet only when my soles had touched the earth
and when, in turn, the waters and the sky
had touched my soul, and villagers my heart,
could I perceive that I was home at last.

The city’s spawn may sneer at small-town folk,
as these in turn look down on villagers.
And peasants too may view as primitives
the ones who live in forests or in hills.
But I have dodged the city’s traffic and
have slowly walked on winding forest paths.
I’ve heard the city’s roar, been hardened—sinned,
then gentled, cleansed, by water and by wind.

******
 
Some tribal folk maintained unbroken lines
of culture, through the ages, even though
the empires, rising later, came and went.
They might appear as “simple”, yet they know
the precious things that we have sadly lost.
New empires rise—and beings pay the cost.

From teachers in the city’s schools, I learned,
and from the books in libraries and stores,
but just as much—perhaps, in essence, more—
I gleaned from kindly folk with rustic roots.
Our cities’ schools and books have been, at best,
an overlay on what was there before.
So though we post things on the Internet,
there’s still no substitute for local lore.
 
******

In Beijing’s narrow lanes, the rickshaws ply
and those who pedal greet the ones who sit
in summer evenings on those darkened streets.
But in Shanghai the lanes of traffic flow,
as advertisements shine from towers of glass,
and few are asking, “Where did China go?”

The traffic and the crowds and all the rest,
the canyons of the city, libraries,
the silent alleys at the end of day,
the coffee shops where poets still may meet—
these all are part of me, and yet there is
that treasure of the past that’s precious too—
that  place, where all the faces there were known—
that village which, for humans, was their home.
 
strophes 1-3, on a bus in Beijing, July 8th, Fri.
strophe 4, on a plane from Beijing to Shanghai, July 9th, Sat. 
strophes 5-6, on a bus nearing Nanjing, July 9th, Sat.
strophes 7-8, in our apartment in Brooklyn, July 31st, Sun.
   

Nature's Wine

 
Nature's Wine 

When the spirit has been troubled
And the body too is weak,
We may turn then to the spirit
That is bottled, there to seek
For the comfort that is lacking
In our lives and in our work,
And for refuge from the troubles
And the woes that daily irk.

But the truth is that the spirit,
From such potions, won't revive,
But will only more be weakened
Till it barely can survive.
But we still can heal our bodies
And our minds with Nature's wine,
For by looking out the window,
We can drink of the divine.

2015 January 14th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

See also: Beer and Wine
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/12/beer-and-wine.html )
  

Echoes

 
Echoes 
   
  

Chaos

     
When I get up in the morning,
And I totter from my bed,
I remember then my father,
Who’s been only three years dead.

And then looking in the mirror,
Since I’ve shaved away my beard,
I can see my father’s visage
And no longer think that’s weird.

The grunt I make on rising,
The downturn of my mouth,
Remind me that I’m aging,
For my parts are going south.

And I see and hear my father
And my uncles, grandpas, more—
That lineage, male, of elders
Who walked this way before.

So I go about my business,
But suddenly I laugh,
Remembering a gem-like grain
My father picked from chaff.
 
He had an eye and ear for it.
I hear, as I grow old,
His mild remarks that made one smile,
The stories that he told...

******
   
But when I see a stranger
And I see that stranger smile,
I know my mother’s in me
And will remain a while.

For that was how they greeted
My mother, who had eyes
That looked on them with kindness,
As each would then surmise.

And so it is with puppies
And even dogs when grown—
Except it’s me who’s smiling,
As if they were my own.

She had a way with animals,
As she also had with us.
Her instincts, of the kinder sort,
She acted on—sans fuss.

So though she was a mortal
And so had faults like all,
It seemed she was an angel,
Who’d chanced, by us, to fall.

And so my aunts and grandmas,
And that widow, with a will,
Who mothered so my sister,
Are each within me still.

******
 
I see my sister walking
Within a region hallowed.
She went her way before me.
I often wish I’d followed.

I call to her, “I’m coming.”
She doesn’t seem to hear.
I stand and watch my sister—
So distant, yet so near.

In everything she tried to do,
It seemed that she was gifted.
And yet, with so much left to do,
Her soul, from Earth, was lifted.

I read the pages of the book
She’d written with such grace.
And as I read, she lives again,
And I can read her face.

******
 
I also see the others—
From the villages and towns—
To whom I sat and listened—
The sages and the clowns…

My cousins, older, younger,
The friends I made at school,
And those who once were neighbors—
Are still within this fool.

For a fool is what I’ve turned to,
Upon my downward arc.
And so, to all that brightness,
I turn to, in the dark.

Our childhoods might be wretched,
But even those have light.
The hurts are healed and hidden,
The blessings stay in sight.

******
 
We circle, in our journeys
From birth to death, so when
We near our mortal endings,
We’re back where we began.

And where was my beginning,
Except where I was born?
So there I'll be returning
To mend the fabric torn.

I will see again the rivers
And the fields of gold and green,
So even in my misery
A breeze will blow, serene.

Village River, by Samiran Sarkar, 2011
http://www.absolutearts.com/art-for-sale/themes/all/landscape/river-5.html

 
I will hear the city’s bustle;
I will see the city’s skies.
I will squint up at the cloudscape;
I will watch the kite that flies.

I will hear the tongues my kinsfolk spoke.
I will hear the dialects’ speech.
I will savor, as I’m dying,
The flavor that’s in each.

The languages of childhood,
Of the land that gave me birth,
Their timbres and their cadences,
I’ll hear, when leaving Earth.

******

The aged are often treated
With disrespect and worse.
The scoldings are repeated,
With orders sharp and terse.

There are echoes from our childhoods
That we hear through all our lives.
And among these there are voices
That can help us bear the jibes.

There are voices past of wisdom,
There are voices that are sweet.
There are voices that are sterner
That can help us bear defeat.
   

Chaos and Perception

I’ve traveled, in my journeys,
Across the theaters grand.
I’ve met the proud and humble
And grasped the offered hand.

But when I’m near my ending
And racked by grief and pain,
The proud will be forgotten;
The humble might remain.

But surely those, that childhood
Had seen with a widened eye,
And those, to whom I bonded,
Will haunt me, as I die.

So when my hearing’s faded,
I will hear those echoes weak—
I will hear my parents talking,
I will hear my sister speak.

     
2015 September 12th, Sat., 10:20 pm
Skyway Restaurant, Bath Avenue
(some stanzas added Sept. 14th, Sun.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

  

Sustenance

Sustenance
    

Moon and Branch, by Mike Crabtree
http://crabphoto.com/

   






























When caught within the madness we create,
we’re captives who have lost, it seems, their souls,
until a child, a dog, a breaking dawn
can reconnect us with our primal source.
 
And some may find this in a fallen leaf,
and others, in the rhythms deep within
or in the tides that move the days and nights,
or in the turns and seasons of their lives.
 
And so it is with me, whose spirit seems
to weaken from the running of the race,
but then, from drinking at the spring, revives,
so I can slowly walk awhile at peace.

******

I'll give, as just an instance, this – a day
that I remember from the jumbled wreck
that's been my life from working in the mills
that now have entered even in my dreams.
 
So after sleeping – or a semblance of it,
I woke and hurried out to work and then
I met the morning, with the chill of dawn,
and this, with coffee, roused me as I walked.
 
And working then throughout the stressful day,
I did by chance look out the window once.
And then, on high, I saw the clouds that passed.
They gave me breath, and so I still could be.

    

I kept on working, as the day went out,
and felt that I’d been torn and drained of strength.
But when I left the building where I'd worked,
I met the evening and it soothed my soul.

And after dinner, though I still was spent,
I ventured out to tryst awhile with night.
And once again, it seemed I came to life
beneath the stars that shivered in the cold.
 
But then, returning, when I tried to sleep,
despite a dullness and a deep fatigue,
I only slept but briefly and awoke
in terror from the roar of factories..

But when I stood awhile by a window-side
and saw the moon behind a reaching branch,
I found my solace and my silence deep
and so could slumber for a bit till dawn.

******

How rarely do we pause to question why
we do the things that we are told to do.
And some might say, "We do, so we can live."
But so do those, who murder by the book.
 
A job we do should give us nourishment
not only of the body but of soul.
But when it ceases to, or shatters us
we need a source to make our fragments whole.
 
And so I draw my daily sustenance
from that which gave me birth and gives me life.
For when I’m agitated, tired, depressed,
it never fails to give me strength again.
 
2015 March 1, Sun, 1:27 am
(additions and changes made that
afternoon & on March 6th Fri. night)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Language

                  
Language   
                   
A language is a living thing.
It breathes and grows and pulses.
It melds with us when we are young.
It’s always at our service.
And yet we are as cells that serve
The mind that lives in language.
  
How varied are our human tongues,
In rhythms, sounds and structures.
And yet they are projections, each,
Of that, which can’t be spoken.
        
******
   
A language is a living thing
That shifts and sways and dances.
The songs we sing are sung through us.
The singer true is hidden.
But in our speech, we hear it talk.
It lives in us as language.
  
So every dialect’s the same,
However each may vary.
And that’s because the mind’s the same,
That’s there, in every sentence.
      
******
  
There is a tongue that has no tongue,
And so cannot be heard.
And yet we know that it is there,
By inner sense inferred.
And each of us can feel it speak
In silence, if we listen.
   
So premonition, like a cat
That walks on velvet feet,
Comes padding by.  A faint “meow”.
We turn -- and it is gone.
      
******
  
A language is a living thing,
And yet, it’s like a shadow
That changes form with time of day,
With latitude and season.
And when the clouds are blowing wild
It vanishes.  We seek it.
 
And as the sun breaks through the clouds,
It’s born again.  We see it.
We know that it was always there.
So language is a shadow.
 
******
   
While languages, from others born,
May live their spans and fade,
In wanton acts, we murder them
As remnant speakers perish.
So as we kill the species, so
We kill our cultures too.
  
And what we’ve done is vaunted then
As progress.  Such advances
Bring tears to those remembering
The riches and the nuances.
  
******
    
As we may love a being that
Has a face and limbs and body,
So also we may love a tongue
That’s living or has perished.
As none can substitute for one
Who’s gone, so naught -- for language.
  
How tender is that love we feel
For a tongue we learned as infants…
How grievous is our loss when we
Have none, with whom to speak it…

******
   
As lovers are devoted, so
The poets are to tongues,
For a dialect has its flavor that
No other one can match.
As women have their essences,
So languages have musks.

For even as two siblings might
Have characters apart,
So sister tongues have melodies
As different as birds'.

******
   
How humble is a patois,
How regal, classic verse.
Yet each has provenance the same,
Like those, of women birthed.
They rise in rustic habitats
And end as they began.

And urban speech, where finance rules,
Is rapid, clipped and terse,
But where horizons far are seen,
The speech there slows and broadens.

******
   
Some languages are musical
And others seem more rough,
But that, imbibed with mother's milk,
For each, is sweet enough.
The lullabies of of mother tongues
Give sustenance to us.

And language can be used to lie,
To subjugate, confuse,
Or it can light the way to truth
And liberate, refute.

******
   
Like sea reflecting sky, a tongue
Can alter with our moods.
And so there's speech that's like a gun,
And that which soothes the heart.
But blame this not upon the tongue
Nor give it credit false.

For language is a living thing
That changes as we do.
When madness rules our lives, our tongues
Reflect that madness too.

2013 November 23rd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

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
  

That Heartless Moon

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

****** 

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

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

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

2013 September 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn

On Moonless Night
   

Nature's Nature

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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
 

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)
    

A Window to the Sky

  
A Window to the Sky
   
Imprison me within a cell – but leave
A window there, that's open to the sky,
And I shall live a while – and even smile. 
But if you seal that view,  I soon will die.
   
2013 July 18th, Thu.
Manhattan, Chinatown