Her Secret Vice

  
Her Secret Vice
  
“What's your hobby?” asked her friend.
“You heard me. Speak, and don't pretend.
I told you mine was postage stamps,
A pastime I acquired from gramps.
But you have never told me. Speak.
I've asked you several times this week.”

She could not speak, for quite a while.
But then, she tried to force a smile.
“Your game is up.” She told herself.
“It can't be kept to just yourself,
This thing you do, your secret shame.
Perhaps she'll understand, not blame.”

And thinking of her secret pleasure,
She found her courage, in some measure.
She'd bowed her head – and looking low,
Had studied well, companion's toe.
But now she tried to meet her eye.
“It's mathematics, on the sly.”

She'd murmured, what she could not shout.
At last!  Her secret now was out.
But searching in the hearer's face,
She saw the worst – a maid's disgrace.
And flustered, she looked down again,
While feeling, in her heart, that pain...

She'd hoped her friend could take, what men
Could not divine – or ever ken.
And so, she'd spilled her secret vice.
But see, her friend had turned to ice.
She saw her look of shock and horror,
And so was filled with sudden terror.

She wondered if she might be blamed
For feeling frightened and ashamed.
She wondered how to fix, what she
Had done – or how and where to flee.
She even wondered, if her life
She now should end, with pill or knife...

“But no,” she thought, “that's foolishness!
Let others think their nastiness.
For if my hobby gives me joy,
Why should I not, this gift, enjoy?
Was I not made by the Creator
To be, like Her, a calculator?”

And saying this, to soothe her pain,
She thought of pleasures past again.
The calculus was exquisite
For those, with skills prerequisite.
But even novices find joys
In playing with their basic toys...

And for the ones, who're more advanced
And have, in rings, with tensors danced,
Or played with algebras of Lie,
They know, what glory this can be.
What joys compare, upon this Earth,
With proofs – or giving theorems birth?

And so, with bashful, downcast eye,
She took her pleasures on the sly,
Remembering her sessions past,
In fields, with groups, that seemed to last
Beyond what humans could endure
And yet emerge, in essence, pure...

But glancing at her shell-shocked friend,
She knew her respite had to end.
But how, alas, she could explain
What she had done, escaping pain,
She did not know. But should she try,
Or wait till other asked her, “Why?”

2013 July 8th, Sun.
Brooklyn

The Darkened Hall

The Darkened Hall

The curtain's fallen. The players all have left.
And yet I sit within the darkened hall,
The voices of the play still echoing...

And if I sit enough, perhaps I'll see
The curtain rise -- and see the play begin --
Another play, perhaps, and yet the same,
As I sit watching in the darkened hall...

2013 July 6th, Sat
Brooklyn
 

The Season of the Sun

  
The Season of the Sun

For all that lives on our planet's northern half,
This is the season of the warming sun,
With pack ice melting into open seas
And mountain glaciers feeding muddy flows,
With all the temperate zone arrayed in greens
And tropics bathed in solar radiance
Or flooded by the thunderstorm's deluge...

So some are fleeing now from fire or flood,
While others bask in languor in the sun...
And date-palms stand in desert oases,
While tal and coconut are bowed by gales
That bring with them the horizontal rain –
As in the stillness of the ocean's warmth,
The great cyclones are born that lash the seas...

And many now complain about the heat,
The humid air, the sweat that clings to skin...
And even lusts, ignited by the spring,
Are now put out by summer's stickiness...
But those of us, who shift with seasons' swings,
Adjust ourselves, accepting what it brings,
This passing season of the broiling sun...

It is the season now of fiery heat,
It is the season now of brown and green,
As throats and fields are parched by drought and sun
Or watered by the clouds that bring relief...
It is the time of fire and withered leaves,
And yet, the time for lushly growing grass...
It is the season now of rain and sun...

2013 July 5th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Broad and Deep, the River

Broad and Deep, the River

Broad and deep, the river, oh,
Broad and deep the river!
See the river's steady flow,
Broad and deep, the river!

The ships, they come a-sailing, oh,
Broad and deep, the river!
See them come and see them go,
Broad and deep, the river!

Who are they, the sailors, oh,
Sailing down the river?
Some are young and some are old,
Sailing down the river!

Where are they a-sailing to,
Sailing down the river?
They're sailing to a city, far,
Sailing down the river!

What are they a-carrying, oh,
On those sailing ships?
They are carrying men and gold,
On those sailing ships!

How'd they get the men and gold
On those sailing ships?
It's looted gold and men in chains,
On those sailing ships!

The ships, they come a-sailing, oh,
Broad and deep, the river!
See them come and see them go,
Broad and deep, the river!

Broad and deep, the river, oh,
Broad and deep, the river!
See the river's steady flow,
Broad and deep the river...

2013 July 5th, Fri.
on the D-train to Manhattan,
crossing the East River
over the Brooklyn Bridge 
  

Company

Company

I have dusted shelves and tables,
I have swept and mopped the floors.
I have cleared away the cobwebs
On the ceiling, by the doors.

I have cleaned the greasy kitchen.
And the bathroom, how it shines...
I've cooked and set the table,
Lit the candles, opened wines...

But the guest that I've awaited
Hasn't rung the doorbell yet.
I've been feeling rather anxious...
It is late... Did she forget?

But the place is looking better
Than it's been, for quite a while...
And I've company for dinner –
A little roach, at whom I smile...

2013 July 4th, Thurs.
Brooklyn
--------------------------------------------------------------------- 
 Note:  This may have been sparked by a
recollection of a poem by Robi Thakur
(Rabindranath Tagore), in which the poet
writes of waiting for his guest, in a room 
that has been swept clean in expectation.

This was probably meant to be an allegory,
with the sweeping of the room representing
the clearing out of clutter and distractions
from the body-mind-soul, and the guest
being none other than the Divine. Of course,
all that the poet can do is wait for that guest,
who may or may not come...

Attempting, perhaps, to recast this dimly
remembered piece (perhaps from Tagore's
Gitanjali) in a modern, urban context, I was
led, by the vagaries and dictates of rhyme and
meter, to candles and wines, neither of which
have ever been part of my dinner preparations...

And into that inner realm there came also that
little being that, for all I know, is as connected
to the divine as any other... and so may be as
good a stand-in as any other for that uncertain
guest...

Encounter

Encounter
 
I met some souls, demented, yet alive,
Who rued their lives, misguided and misspent.
They asked, what lesson could a soul derive,
Except that all is naught, and made lament:

“How few, our moments, brief, of happiness,
How many, those of agony, despair...
In all save death, we've naught but diffidence,
And yet, we're born – to life and loving dare.”

I tried to tell a wanderer that I
Had aught to cherish in the life I'd lived.
He answered not, but with a baleful eye,
My own and so, my living soul, transfixed.

And as he stared into my self, I saw
That what I'd thought was precious now was turned
To worthless trifle.  All that I had built
With hope and labor was, to ashes, burned...

I screamed and wailed in horror and despair,
And heard their echoed voices join with me...
And all, I thought, had gone beyond repair,
Until I woke and light of dawn did see...

2013 July 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn

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