Hell-III

  
These lines are meant to be sung out loud. If they appear irresponsible and irreverent, I beg pardon.  At times, a little playfulness is needed.
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Hell-III 

You can keep your mansion-house—
and all your magic toys.
You can keep your shiny car—
with all its speed and noise.
You can keep your shoes and boots—
and all your clothes, so dear.
You can keep your property—
that’s growing, every year.
You can keep your bank accounts—
and all your cards as well.
But leave for me my poverty—
and leave me out of hell.

2016 October 22nd, Sat. 2:45 am
Skyway Restaurant dhaaba
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Related:

Hell-II:
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/01/hell-ii.html

Divinity (originally Hell):
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/08/divinity.html

A Hell on Earth:
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-hell-on-earth.html
  

Companions

 
Companions

It was past the midnight hour
when I noticed they were there—
my ghostly twin companions—
and they gave me quite a scare.

I was walking in the park then,
with these beings by my sides.
They lengthened, twinned and faded
and then strengthened with my strides.

They were shadows from the lamplights,
they were shadows from the moon.
They were shadows that were absent
when I’d walked about at noon.

They were beings of the nighttime
that would suddenly appear.
They would change in length and darkness
and then fade and disappear.

******
 
And in time I grew accustomed
to their presence, and I thought—
they are kin to me, these shadows,
in the dance of maya caught.

For the self that I have treasured
is a shadow in the dance,
projected, of a being
that is also in a trance.

And that being is a shadow
of the being that has cast
its figure on the streaming
that is future, present, past.

Or so I speculated,
as I walked with shadow-mates,
as they also might have wondered
on their origins and fates.

******
 
One may question if a shadow
could be sentient, but I ask—
are we owners of our sentience
or the fabric of its mask?

We are digits in a sequence
that will never have an end.
We may point to a beginning,
but we only can pretend.
 
We are shadows of the shadows
of the shadows of yet more.
There are shadows that will follow
and the ones that went before.

It was past the midnight hour
when the shadows spoke to me,
in the silence of the nighttime,
of the things we cannot see.
 
2016 October 15th, Sat. 12:48 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York
(last five stanzas added October 18th, Tue.)
   

Vote for Trump?

Vote for Trump?

The middle class is in a slump,
and so we turn to Donald Trump.

He boasts about himself a lot,
about that “German gene” he’s got
that makes him, oh so very “smart”,
a master of the swindler’s art.

He’ll make “America great again”
by taking us all back to when
this country had been bathed in light,
because the voters all were white
and men—like him, our Donalt Drumpf.

Then sports like Trump could freely hump,
while Mexicans and Muslims, Jews
and Africans would keep their views
to just themselves—and knew their place,
as workers do, to their disgrace.

"He'll make America great." you say—
for sleaze and jive will have their way
and make us see that night is day.

He blusters, lies and bullies, and
this thing, we have to understand—
if he's President, and you're in his way,
he'll have you quickly put away.

He takes the credit, shifts the blame.
He sniffs the wind and plays the game.
He's out to "win" and feels no shame.
He'll tell you what you want to hear
and then you'll pay the price that's dear.
   
Alas! He speaks a bit of truth
and says he'll give the Bigs the boot,
but he is all about his dick,
and since his temper's really quick,
when challenged, he might hit a button
and bring us straight to Armageddon.

He fancies girls, which would be fine,
but even takes to her, a shine,
who is, by all accounts, his child—
and if we think that that is wild
and say so—why, he then will sue,
which can't be borne by me or you
or others—yes, including those
he chose to grope. So I propose
we vote, November, not for Trump,
but show that we detest this chump,
and vote instead, in places blue,
for Stein—a vote we will not rue.

2016 October 15th, Sat. 11:37 pm
(2nd-4th & 6th-7th stanzas added Nov. 4th, Fri.,
5th stanza added Nov. 7th, Mon.)

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
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Please see also:  Ignorance 
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/ignorance.html 
  
That piece does not name Trump, but applies to him, and also has many pictures of him, each a classic, along with one, at the end, of wiser folk. The text of "Ignorance" does require an unhurried, deliberative, even meditative frame of mind. But you can always just look at the pictures of our potential president and his betters instead. ;-)
  

    

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