In the Rapids of the City

   
Note:  The snapshot pictures in this post were taken with my new cellphone, which is still an antique. The pictures may be viewed as in a gallery, in a somewhat larger, clearer format, by single-clicking on any image.  To return to this post, click on the white X at the top right of the black background in the gallery view.
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In the Rapids of the City

  

Tilted tower and traffic, Whitehall Street, Manhattan
2015 August. 13th, Thu. evening  © A. Janah

In the hubbub and the hurry, we might lose our peace of mind.
Yet when time is ours in plenty, then that peace is hard to find.

For the trauma often lingers—and corrodes us from within.
So our Ava’s long departed, yet we’re paying for her sin.
  
  

Man on cellphone, walking dog
New Utrecht Ave., Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon.  © A. Janah

    
There are things that we have hidden, where we cannot see or hear,
For we sense they are forbidden or impossible to bear.
  
There’s the horror that is wartime, there’s the horrid state of work.
And we need from these our distance, or we’ll surely go berserk.
  
So the answers we are seeking, to the questions never asked,
We have found and then forgotten.  Let them never be unmasked.
   

Two towers, Whitehall Street, Manhattan
2015 Aug. 13th, Thu., late afternoon.  © A. Janah

The summer sees its end, as on the streets
The browned and withered leaves foretell the fall.
While walking long through Brooklyn, I have paused
To sit in light and shade within a “park”.

A bit of green, a glimpse of blue is all
It takes to soothe a weary, harried soul.
They bring the walking dead to life again.
And yet, how many are denied the two!

Branches, leaves and sky, Milestone Park, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 August 14th, Fri. afternoon.  © A. Janah

A wounded dog, escaping from its plight,
Will pause, if given a chance, to lick its wounds.
So humans do as well.  And yet we know,
A wounded mind might best be left alone.

I sip my tea and chew my pretzel as
I mull on my defeats.  When victories
Are gone, philosophies are left—along
With all the aches of body and of mind.

Veterans' memorial, Water Street, Manhattan 
situated, interestingly, right by the Teachers' Retirement Service office 
2015 August 13th, Thu. afternoon.  © A. Janah

When in Manhattan, in the city’s roar,
I thought I heard a little, quiet sound.
But that was yesterday.  In Brooklyn now,
I sit upon a bench and look around.

I see the little sparrows hop. They pick
At seeds, and quickly dart aloft in fright.
A pigeon flies across—a blur of wings.
A squirrel climbs atop a green-lit tree.

The little children run around and play.
The adults group themselves at cards or chess,
Or quietly walk around, or sit like me—
Contented, for a while, to simply be.

Girl riding a bike, Milestone Park, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah

 
A taste of peace, a sip of quietude—
And I am rested.  Yet I wonder still
About that sound I heard but yesterday—
That seemed so close and yet so far away.

When we’re defeated, then we might perceive
The shadowed things that we had overlooked.
Amidst the gemstones, lit with wisdom, are
The scorpions that we fear to understand.

 

Shadows from the elevated D/M track, New Utrecht Ave.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, 2015 Aug. 14th, Thu. afternoon
© A. Janah

At times like this, my life, from birth till now,
I see as in a slideshow on a screen—
A sign, perhaps, it’s time to stop and then
Begin anew, until this comes again.

Our lives have acts and scenes, as in a play,
Or else it seems we’re authors—and our books
Have chapters that have ends we can’t control.
Yet end we must, while leaving loose the ends.
 

Bench, Milestone Park, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah

     
In the rapids of the city, when the roar was all around,
I had thought I’d heard a tinkle—a whisper of a sound.
  
In the shimmer of the summer, I’ve been sitting in the park,
And the whisper in the silence is the calling of the dark.
  
  

At Milestone Park, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah

     
There are things that we’ve forgotten, so we cannot see or hear,
For we sense they are forbidden or impossible to bear.
  
There’s the shame and guilt of childhood, there’s the hurt and rage within.
There’s the grief and there’s the sorrow that can issue from our kin.
  
So the answers we were seeking, for the questions rarely asked,
We had found and then had hidden.  Give us strength, when we’re unmasked.

  

Two towers, Water and Whitehall Streets, Manhattan
2015 Aug. 13th. late afternoon.  © A. Janah

      
2015 August 14th, Friday, around 5 pm.
Milestone Park, Bensonhurst Brooklyn, New York
(fourth, twelfth, and twentieth [second from last] 
stanzas added Aug. 15th, Sat afternoon; cellphone
images added August. 16th, Sun. morning)
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Note:  The snapshot pictures in this post were taken with my new cellphone, which is still an antique. The pictures may be viewed as in a gallery, in a somewhat larger, clearer format, by single-clicking on any image.  To return to this post, click on the white X at the top right of the black background in the gallery view.
    

March Encounter

 
March Encounter

So March has end, with hints of better days.
The twigs are taut with buds, but winter stays.
For though the city streets were washed by rain,
There’s snow that’s coming – so the forecast says.

I see an elder, trudging down the road.
He's stooped by winter and his heavy load.
I look at him, as in a reverie,
And I am him, in a transcendental mode.

He walks the streets and sees the buds and dreams
That winter’s gone, with all its harsh extremes,
And gentle spring is here, with smiling warmth...
So glaciers thaw and turn to babbling streams…

He bears his memories still of winters past
And wondrous summers that had faded fast.
And in his autumn now, he's walking slow
And wondering if this March will be his last...
 
But what is that, which sits within his head,
Where naught should be but there is snow instead,
Compacted into ice, and sullied, dark,
Awaiting spring, but still encased in dread?
 
I look away, for such a tie can lead
To knowledge that is misery indeed...
Let winter leave and spring arrive in haste,
So plants and beasts can have the warmth they need.

2015 March 29th, Sun.
(4th stanza added April 1st, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Gloaming

      
The Gloaming
   
So this is the time called the “gloaming”, when
The light is draining from the evening sky.
And though, before the dawn, it’s “gloaming” too,
I’ve mostly seen this at the hour of dusk.

And there’s a stillness in this twilight time,
A pause, as day is yielding place to night.
And looking at the treetops now, I see
They’re barely moving, in the faintest breeze.

And high above, the clouds are swirling, slow,
As all the sky is lit in somber grays.
But since the light is fading, all I see
Are hints of ghostly movements in that arch.

And down below – the silent, rain-washed street,
The lighted windows and the spreading gloom.
And as I walk and reach my waiting door,
It’s quiet, calm and very, very still.

In a puddle in the gutter, I can see
A window – and that gray and eerie glow.
And looking up, the greens are deepening.
The trees will soon be dark against the sky.

And while I watch, the sky is darkening too,
But slowly, making sure to take its time.
If only we would do the same, perhaps
Our twilights could be wondrous gloamings too.

But though I’ve paused to savor this awhile –
This time when time itself appears to pause,
It’s time, I realize, to climb the stairs.
There’s work that’s left that I have carried home.

2014 May 22nd, Thu., 9:47 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York