The Ever Changing Sky

The Ever Changing Sky

The moon was shining as I swept the yard—
A gibbous moon that hung there in the sky.
Its lantern light, from time to time, was dimmed
By fleets of clouds that floated swiftly by.

I swept that moonlit backyard free of leaves,
But when the shadows came, I looked on high
And watched that act of light and dark within
That play that is the ever-changing sky.
 
How many eyes have watched that circus-stage
Yet never seen an act that was the same
As one before?  The hours and seasons ride
A horse that none of them can tame.

In darkness and in silver light, I swept
The driveway through—and ventured in the front,
And there was struck by light from LED’s—
The city’s streetlights, given to affront.
 
And next I swept the sidewalk and the yard
In front, till all my bags were filled up high.
That done, I paused to take a little break—
To breathe and look up at that changing sky.

I saw the clouds were streaming close, in force,
And threatened then to overwhelm the moon.
A breeze was blowing, shaking branches, so
I knew my work would be negated soon.

I shivered, as the night grew colder and
The moon was hidden by the crowded fleet.
So Priam, as he gazed at Grecian sails,
Could well have done, from fear of Troy’s defeat.
 
2016 October 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Déjà Vu

Déjà Vu

The sun was a vortex of lightness
In the grays of the streaming sky.
The waves on the river reflected
The shades that were churning on high.

I could see that in Queens it was raining.
In the distance, I'd seen a bright flash
And I'd waited to hear then the thunder
But I'd waited in vain for that crash.
 
For I was a passenger, riding
On the train on the bridge in its arc,
On that train that was hurtling from Brooklyn
To Manhattan’s own caverns of dark.

It had roared from the shoreline of Brooklyn,
On the rails that the columns held high,
And then it had clattered through tunnels
To emerge to that bridge and that sky.

I had heard that a storm was approaching
And I looked at that sky and that stream
And I sensed that the world was in motion—
And that this had been part of a dream.

It seemed that I’d seen this in dreaming—
That all this had happened before,
But that train and that storm and that river—
They were not in that dream anymore.
 
How wide was that gray-green of streaming—
That serpent that slid to the sea!
I looked at that wind-ruffled river
And wondered how all this could be.
 
The sky and the river receded.
We were diving back down to the dark.
Like the dream and that storm on that crossing—
This was part of my journey—my arc.
 
2016 October 6th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Below and Above

Below and Above

The train careens through darkness for a while
and then we see the columns flashing by.
Along the other side, the people wait
upon a lighted platform for their train—
but then we plunge in darkness once again.
  
In time, the next one—not a soul in sight,
just advertisements on the shining walls.
And so, with alternating darkness, light,
we ride the subway, through the tunnels, till
we surface and we sight the open sky.
   
****** 
  
We only were beneath for half an hour—
yet how we missed these arcing blues and whites,
these greens, that passing glimpse of russet earth,
and there—a bird that lightly takes to wing.
 
There now are buildings, people, cars on streets,
a sun that hides behind the clouds—and then
strikes out with dazzling brilliance.  We squint.
So zombies might awake—to live again.

2016 October 4th, Tue, 4:25 pm
(on the D-train from Manhattan)
Brooklyn, New York
  

A Turning Point

 
A Turning Point

To bed at eve, to rise at dawn,
Has been our simian custom long,
That’s so entwined with body-mind
That no one sane had deemed it wrong.

But then we had the burning branch
That warmed us in the colder clime,
And even when the sky grew dark,
Could light an hour of waking time.

And then, with lamps of wax and oil,
And next, with lightning run through wire
Or gas that glowed and more, we learned
To sleep and wake in ways that tire.

And so with me.  On weekends and
On holidays, my cycles shift:
I sleep at dawn; on afternoons,
I rise.  I drop, when I should lift.

I stare at glowing screens at night.
I blink in daylight’s sudden glare.
And mouthing verses in the park,
I shiver in the midnight air.

But this has left me tired and weak—
And more and more, I realize
That such nocturnal episodes,
Repeated, might be far from wise.

******

And recently there came a night,
In which it seemed I’d lost my mind.
And yet it was a turning point,
The kind we seek—but rarely find.

Throughout the night, the storm winds blew—
And yet the rain was scattered, scant.
At dawn, the sun—and shining dew—
Had made me pause, amidst my rant.
 
For there were voices in my mind—
And conflicts, till I saw that sight.
And then, a silence fell—a peace,
As one should feel at start of night.

I then resolved to change my ways—
To go to bed at eve and wake
At dawn—on weekends, holidays—
For sanity’s and mercy’s sake.

So now, I’ll sight the morning star
And dim my lights at eventide.
I’ll surely struggle still, but then
I’ll have those rhythms on my side.

They’ll give me back the strength I’ve lost.
They’ll give me rest and sanity.
I hope I'll view the world anew,
With more of faith and charity.

2016 September 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
    

The Girl and her Mom and her Green Balloon

 
Single-click on the image for a larger and clearer view. Click on the white X (at the top right of the dark background) to return to this post.

This is best viewed on a regular computer screen (rather than on a mobile phone). 

Thanks to Kirrin and Thierry for permission to use this wonderful image for this post.
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The Girl and her Mom and her Green Balloon

Maeve and Kirrin, Valença, Portugal, 2016.  Photograph by Thierry
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10153705074865146&set=a.10151014774865146.421843.701310145&type=3

the girl and her mom and her green balloon,

and the slanting sun in the afternoon,

and the land and the lake and the town and the hills

and the golden light on the bricks and the sills,

and the one that knows on the grass that grows

and the smiles and the eyes and the nose that glows

2016 September 28th, Thu.

Brooklyn, New York 

Dues

Dues

When the sweetness drains away,
and all that’s left is bitterness,
when we’re beaten down, alone,
our labors turned to blowing dust,
when we’ve lost our confidence,
stretched and broken on the rack,
then our minds are full of fears,
our hearts and bodies crushed.

When hope has yielded to despair
and courage changed to cowardice,
when we’ve lost our discipline
and wasted so our hours and years,
with wits and strengths, convictions drained
and ardor turned to helplessness,
then all our light has waned and left,
and darkness rules our lives.

******

But in that bitterness, we seek
the flavor, then, of truth,
and in the midst of darkness, there
might be again a spark,
so feeling still the weight of life,
with all its lightness gone,
we still can grope until the end,
unyielding, in the dark.

When life has lost its meaning
and death is our release,
then what remains for us to give,
except our very selves—
until we pause and see that we
have more to suffer yet—
and so remain—to still remit
our dues, before we leave.

2016 September 25th, Sat.
(3rd stanza added Sep. 26th)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Sick at Heart

 
Sick at Heart

When we’re young, we might not know of death
Or even sorrow, till the circumstance,
That brings these to our viewing, struts on stage—
And when its scene is done, we then might find
Another and another take their turns.

There comes a time, in every life, at which
We’re sick at heart from all that we have seen—
The hurt, injustice, death and misery.
And some may bow to gods—or Fortune’s will,
But others, at their deaths, are hurting still.

So tell us then the cure for this disease—
This sickness of the heart that clouds the mind
And weakens will and body.  Can we thrive
When robbed of meaning, living day to day,
Awaiting death—that hope for our release?

Or could it be that this is what is real—
That all the dreams of youth were merely dreams?
At dawn, we’re filled with hope; at sunset, dread.
Is there an in-between, in which to live
To do what needs be done—until we’re dead?
 
We might be sick in body and despair,
But later we might once again be well.
So also with the sickness of the heart—
We need to bear it till it goes away.
We walk, in darkness, towards the hope of day.

Without the darkness, would we know of light?
Without the hunger, would the food have worth?
Without what's cruel, would we feel what's kind?
We need our sorrows, like we need our joys.
From woe and weakness, let us grow in strength.
 
2016 September 18th, Sun, 7:44 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York