Winter’s Weight / The Prophet (an allegory)

Winter’s Weight  / The Prophet
(an allegory)

I had wandered, in the winters,
In the streets deserted, cold,
With the dreary skies above me
As I grayed from growing old.

For the one who’s old and single,
A winter can be bleak,
With neither spouse nor offspring
As a shelter from its reach.

But neither love nor kinship
Nor friendship can suffice
To free ourselves of a winter
That holds us in its vice.

A season, like a time of day,
Is a being and a mood.
In colder climes, the winter’s traits
Are often rather rude.
 
******
 
It blusters as it freezes us.
It dumps its loads of snow.
It takes what autumn might have left
And then it asks for more.
 
But seasons, much like times of day—
And moods, are transient things.
So winter, like a tyrant, reigns—
And then, the minstrel sings.
 
But till that little bird arrives
And perches on its tree,
We live with winter’s weight on us
And struggle to be free.

And some may look to forecasts in
Their hopes of warmer weather,
Or seek for a prophet, who’d show us how
To break from winter’s tether.

******

How many were the prophets false,
How many true were slain?
And yet we seek for “leaders”, who
Might free us from our pain.

In the winter, comes the "leader",
To a people turned to sheep.
He says, "Follow me to summer."
But the price is often steep.

There always are the foolish,
Who never will be wise.
Will he lead them to the slaughter
Or towards their paradise?

For it's only when we waken,
From the sleep in which we dwell,
That we know which way is heaven
And which will lead to hell.
 
******

I had walked the cold and silent streets
Of the cities of the north,
And wondered, would those songs return
That autumn’s winds sent forth.

On winter nights, I had seen in dreams
The colors of the spring.
I had huddled then beneath my quilt,
But my heart had taken wing.

How many "revolutions",
How many "springs" have turned
To bloodbaths and unreason—
And yet, the spirit yearns.

The tides of men have seasons
That last for many years.
And then there comes a prophet—
And hope that wells as tears.

******

I traveled to Manhattan
To hear the prophet speak.
And there I saw that Sanders
Was out of winter’s reach.

His hair, which age had whitened,
Was tousled by the breeze.
But though the wind was biting,
He stood and spoke at ease.

So winter’s weight was lifted
And grays replaced by hues.
The birds would be returning—
Although it wasn’t news.  *

And riding back to Brooklyn,
I sat within the train,
Resolved that, what the winter
Had stolen, we’d regain.
 
2016 January 16th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 

*  Sanders’ gave his aggressive Wall Street Reform speech, which I attended, at the “Town Hall” building in Manhattan on Jan. 5th.  This, along with polls showing that his campaign was succeeding despite the mainstream-media blackout, did finally get him some long-due coverage in that media.

Bernie Sanders, giving his Wall Street speech,
at the "Town Hall" in Manhattan, 2016-01-05
photographs (very poor): A. Janah 

Sanders had given his talk, in which he had attacked the excesses of the financial institutions, many of them centered in Manhattan, at the historic midtown "Town Hall" building on 43rd Street.  This building, with its large auditorium, had once been a center for the suffragette movement.
 
After the talk, I joined a group of supporters who were waiting for him outside the building.  Once he had emerged, we followed Sanders, along with some media folk, as he briskly walked, hat-less and glove-less despite the cold, east along 43rd and then south along Sixth Avenue, crossing it at 42nd Street and then stopping for awhile, at an entrance to Bryant Park, to be interviewed. 
  

Midtown Manhattan, with Bryant Park on lower left, between 40th & 42nd Streets.

The "Town Hall" is on 43rd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

After the interview, the prophet continued to walk rapidly east along 42nd, towards Fifth Avenue, followed by a sizable entourage.  But I walked back west instead to Sixth Avenue to take the D train back to Brooklyn.

You can click on any of the pictures to view all of them in a somewhat larger and clearer format, in a sort of gallery show.  Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to this post.
  

Sanders crossing on the streets of Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (not the best): A. Janah

    

  

Sanders being interviewed by an ABC News reporter,
Bryant Park, Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (somewhat better): A. Janah

   

  
  

   

     

  

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 )
  

Broverbs of Pain

Broverbs of Pain

How red the wind-tossed roses blow,
How sharp, their curving thorns!
And just as red, the blood will flow
From thumbs of eager hands.

How beautiful she does appear
To those who yearn for her!
What misery, they do not know,
That yearning might confer!

******

How beautiful, that song of love
That’s sung in soundless tones.
How silently that river flows
That runs so swift and deep.

******

How tender is the heart of love,
How hard, the one of hate.
And in-between is callousness—
That leaves us to our fate.

******
 
Who murders, knows what he has done
And all his life repents,
Unless he’s blinded by that fog
That makes of Earth a hell.

 ******

Though pleasures might be shallow, short,
While pain is deep and long,
There’s joy that’s true that melds with woe
And so gives rise to song.

******

As sculptures, paintings get their depth
From shadows more than light,
So also we are deepened more
By pain than by delight.

******
   
Look not to me for happiness,
But only more of grief.
Of all the happiness you’ve earned,
I might be called the thief.

******

I met a man in a hopeless state—
Or so it seemed to be.
Yet when I greeted him, he smiled
And kindly looked on me.

******

There’s comfort in a misery
To which we are accustomed,
But newer woes can startle us
And shatter our repose.

******
 
We yearn for things we cannot get,
Neglecting what we had.
And some of us, on knowing this,
Might even feel regret.

******
   
When it’s cold and gray and raining,
In the dreary winter climes,
We remember then the sunshine
And the warmth of bygone times.
 
When the sun is high and blazing,
In the heated tropic zone,
We have dreams of clouds and rain then—
And of winters we have known.

2016 January 8th, Fri., 8:30-9:30 pm
David H. Koch Theater, Lincoln Center
Columbus Avenue and 63rd Street
New York, New York
(added later in Brooklyn: 4th quatrain 
and 3rd, 4th & 5th quatrains from end)
  

a big fat ingrate, giving the finger to the notorious multi-
-billionaire David H. Koch, in the theater named after him
at the Lincoln Center, New York City, 2016 January 8th
(Click on the image for a slightly better view of the degenerate,
and then click on the white X at the top right of the black
background to return to this post.)

  

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 )
   

In the Gray

In the Gray
  
In the gray that marks the winters
Of the coastal polar climes,
I’ve wandered on deserted streets
And mouthed my dismal rhymes.

In the silences of holidays,
I’ve passed by windows lit,
Conversing with my lonesome self,
With remnants left of wit.

And so it is with exiles
And so it is with those
Who’re born to die in prisons
Or live in those they chose.

We humans are a social lot—
And wounded loners need
Some company to soothe their souls,
So healing can proceed.
 
How many days and weeks and months
And even scores of years
We humans bear, removed from those
For whom we shed our tears?

In the gray that marks the winters
Of the lands towards the poles,
The migrants gain their living, while
They slowly lose their souls.

There is light and there is darkness.
There is evil, there is good.
And then—there is the grayness
That blurs what’s understood.

  

So we wander in our limbos
In the foggy shades of gray
And we wonder how it happened
That we lost, alas, our way.

“...and deliver us from evil.” 
In the school that I attended,
We would say this in the morning
And again when classes ended.

But we never said a prayer
That said, “Save us from the gray.”
In my dotage, still in exile,
I should say this every day.

2015 December 26th, Sat. 12:51 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  

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 
     

The Sunbird

  

The Sunbird  

The Sunbird

Arjun Janah, 2015 Dec 15th 

 
It was sometime before sunset,

As the afternoon wore on,

That the sunbird had been spotted

As it flew above the clouds.

And we watched as it descended—

Those brave enough to stay,

While the others fled, some screaming

That we all should run away.

It spiraled, slowly sinking

As it spread its giant wings—

And its shadow crossed the ocean,

As the song primeval sings.

How many generations

Had it been since it had come,

I wondered, as I watched it,

And my heart began to drum.

Around me, men were running,

As the bravest feared and fled,

For the sky was changing color—

And it seemed to turn to red.

The sun was strangely yellow—

By the sunbird’s shadow dwarfed.

In fear, I started running,

As a madman cried and laughed.

It seemed it was the ending

That the prophets had foretold.

But I lived, and I’m recounting

What I saw—who now am old.
   

But I was then a young man,

And I did not know of fear—

Until I saw that sunbird,

With its talons, swooping near.

If you ever see the sunbird,

You should swiftly run and hide.

If you're prudent, then in hiding,
Till it passes, do abide!

  

For that madman and some others

Who had stayed, when we had run—

They were taken by that sunbird,

As it rose above the sun.

    

We could hear them faintly calling

As it carried them away.

I remember still their voices

As I near my ending day.

   

That’s the story of the sunbird

That I saw, with these my eyes.

But some others, who are younger—

They will say I’m full of lies.

  

Believe them, to your peril,

Or hark to what I say:

If you ever spot the sunbird,

You should wisely hide away.
 
 

Crimson Sunbird
http://www.desktopwallpapers4.me/animals/crimson-sunbird-14183/

   

2015 December 15th, Tue.

Brooklyn, New York