The Touch of the Rain

The Touch of the Rain

I walked in a gossamer springtime rain,
As much of a mist as a drizzle.
The sky was gray and the sun had set
But my heart, it was lit like the day.

The bark of the tree, it was glistening dark,
And its branches were flung to the sky as it prayed.
The rain of the spring, it was gentling the tree,
That was waiting for warmth for its buds to spring free.

I'd stepped from the schoolhouse and into the street,
And the air, it was chill as I bundled myself.
But the touch of the rain, it was gentle and sweet,
Like the lips of a lover, in tenderness met.

There's grief for the ones that we loved, who are gone,
There's sorrow we carry for things left undone,
There are tensions and worries we all have to bear,
But then there's the kiss of the rain in the spring.

I walked in the fine, thin springtime rain,
And all of the worry and sorrow I'd borne
Was lifted away by the touch of the rain,
And just for a moment, the grief.

I'd worked through the day in the school till the eve,
And my being was worn to a frazzle.
But that touch of the rain, like the grace to a soul
Of a sinner, was granted today.

2014 April 4th, Fri, 8:45 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  
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Recent posts related to spring:  Signs of Spring (March 30), We Call for Spring (March 9)

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Snow on City Trees

Snow on City Trees

    

In every region of the Earth, we see

That Nature teaches men humility.

The nations of the northwest rule the planet –

A source of pride for every John and Janet.

Then winter scowls and shows the northern tribe

It can't be stopped by force or bought by bribe.

The polar vortex whirls, as gutters freeze

And blizzards drape, with snows, the city's trees.

It snowed all day – but now at night it thaws.

And as I walk, I see the trees and pause.

They stand unmoving, yet they seem to fight,

With darkened forms, against their burdens white.

The evergreens are bent with powder-loads

That slide and scatter on the snow-plowed roads.

The trees that spread and arc appear in flower,

As if to mock this blustering season's power.

A skeletal tree is limned in dark and white.

Bereft of leaves, it still gives stark delight.

With tracery of twigs against the sky,

It does the winter, with aplomb, defy.

The trees are comfort for my weary eyes.

Their patience lives, when all our hubris dies.

I thought they're fighting.  Now, I see they're not.

With snows, they're dancing – at a leisured trot.

If men, like trees, would dance with Nature too,

It might be pleasanter for me and you.

2014 February 3rd, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

There’s a Mist Tonight in Brooklyn

      
There’s a Mist Tonight in Brooklyn
                              
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, that caresses city streets.
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, that has issued from the sea.
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, that has softened every light.
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, in which I now delight.

As I’m walking home this evening, I am breathing in the air.
It is cool and sweet and fragrant, with the moisture of the sea.
As I’m walking home this evening, I can see the lamp-lit mist.
And the trees are standing silent, by the breath of ocean kissed.

There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn and it’s settled on the streets,
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, that’s the reaching out of sea.
As I’m walking home this evening, I can see the walkers by,
And it seems that I am dreaming, as the mist is streaming high.

As I’m walking home this evening, I am gentled by the mist,
As I’m walking home this evening, I have found a little peace.
As I’m walking home this evening, there’s a stillness in the street,
As I’m walking home this evening, there’s a stillness in my heart.

2014 January 15th, Wed., 10:23 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Related:
There's a Fog Tonight in Brooklyn
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/02/theres-fog-tonight-in-brooklyn-ii.html )
   

Encounter – III

   
Encounter – III
     
The “polar vortex”, with its deadly cold,
Has now retreated to its northern lair.
It will return, we’re told in forecasts grim,
But now we’ve rain that melts away the snow.

I walk tonight and see the streetlights’ glow
Upon the trees that glisten in the rain.
There’s rind that’s white, like freshly painted wall,
And other, dark as rain-drenched bark can be.

I stand before a strong, gargantuan trunk,
And see the sinews braced beneath the skin.
And looking up, I see the branches flung
Towards the starlit sky in ecstasy.

How beautiful are trees – for winter bare!
If only skeletons could match their grace,
Then when men died, we would erect their bones,
So those still living could admire the dead.

So much to see – for one, who's limited
To walking back and forth, each working day,
Along these city streets, as light and dark
And seasons, years and lifetimes circle ‘round…

2014 January 12th, Sun., 2:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

When Ice Isn't Nice

When Ice Isn't Nice

When there's ice on cement, then beware!
Together, they can be a painful snare.

And if you're older, frailer, then your hip
May not survive that sudden, fatal slip.

I skate upon the ice in sneakers, while
I keep my body low. I glide and smile.

Both shoes on ground, a "safer bet", I call.
A base that's wider may prevent a fall.

A fall, relaxed, is gentler on the bones.
But never use, on ice, your mobile phones!

I understand this might not be your tea.
But gently go -- and always careful be.

2014  January 5th Sun., 8:05 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Poet’s Complaint

The Poet’s Complaint

I met today, amidst the snow, a man I’ve known awhile,
Who stood in ragged clothes, while I was bundled head to feet.
A poet was this man, and when I asked him then, discreetly,
Why he did not dress like me, he answered, with a smile,

“I dress the same, no matter what the season.  There are trees
That clothe themselves throughout the year – yet are, in winter, bare.
But just as there are men like me, who, whistling, blizzards dare,
So there are evergreens, like pines, that winter cannot freeze.”

But I had grown impatient.  So I cleared my throat and said,
“I’ve known you now for many years, and so I’ll speak my mind.
‘To those who best apply themselves, to them is Fortune kind.’
If only you were working, you’d be better clothed and fed.”

The poet, he was silent for a moment.  Then he turned
Towards me and he smiled again, although I knew I’d wounded.
“There’s work and there is work,” he said, “and just with that, I’d end it.
But I have also known you long.  Our friendship, each has earned.

“And so, I’ll speak now seriously, no longer just in jest.
I feel I should explain myself, at least perhaps to you.
For I have lived for long – and so, with years remaining few,
I should not leave, misunderstood by those who knew me best.

“I’ve lived a life of poverty, as others often said,
And yet not lacked for anything, except what can’t be bought.
By most of the Enticements, I have never yet been caught,
Except the Muse of poetry, to whom I’ve long been wed.

“So when I’m dead, if burial of ashes then is fit,
Upon the tombstone, you can write, ‘He wrote his fill of verses,
And for this crime, received in time his fill of all our curses,
But never seemed to mind – or ever made an end of it.’

“And if my writings then are burned – or verses thrown in trash,
Remember then, that though I worked as hard as any other,
I never did, throughout my life, cause much by way of bother,
And neither did my labors or my verses garner cash.

“So if I’m judged by standards that are mercenary or
Derived from views that value only what is deemed ‘productive’,
Then surely I will be condemned.  For I was neither active
In such pursuits – nor think that these are all we’re living for.

“But if I still have one complaint, it then is surely this –
So many ways there are to live awhile and then to die,
And yet we spend our lives ensnared by every dressed-up lie,
While leaving naked truth aside – and so, our chance of bliss.”

I’d listened to his verses, in his singsong nasal mumble,
And when he stopped, I saw that he was shivering from cold.
And if I were a braver man, or harsher, then I'd scold
This poet for his foolishness – that came out in a jumble.

But being who I am, I only told him, “I have listened.
Perhaps you ought to hurry now, to where you can be warm.
It’s freezing – and I fear that, in these clothes, you’ll come to harm.”
He turned to leave.  And at his chin, I saw a drop that glistened.

2013 January 4th, Sat.
(stanzas 2-5 added Sun., early morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn  
  

Expectant

   
Expectant

We've learned that there's a snowstorm headed
this way, towards our city.
I walk the streets and find a haze –
a mist, that's settled in.

The city waits, expectant, tense.
We've had disasters – one
of human making, others wrought
by Nature's caprices.

******
 
This morning, by the steps of City Hall,
our newest mayor stood.
He there declared the ending of an age
and boldly heralded a new.

The city waits, expectant, for the storm.
It also waits for more.
There's hope, however timorous, that should help
as citizens shovel out from snow.
 
2013 January 1, 11:00 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Bill De Blasio's Ceremonial Inauguration as Mayor of New York City 

http://www.wnyc.org/story/bill-de-blasio-inauguration-march-toward-fairer-more-just-more-progressive-place-full-transcript/