The Myriad Stars

The Myriad Stars

The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum, Arles, at Night
Vincent Van Gogh, 1888

  




 The city in the night, with light and dark,
And wheeling high above, the myriad stars!
And all of time, in just a moment, caught.
And all our labors turned, at end, to naught.

What solace then, for mortals, save in this –
We lived awhile – and tasted, once, of bliss.
So sweet remembrance feeds our hunger still,
As darkness comes, to all our yearnings fill.

From naught arisen, so to naught returned.
What more remains, except to say it's meet?
The stars revolve and fire embraces fire,
As death becomes our final sweet desire.

2014 March 11th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

We Call for Spring

We Call for Spring
 
We wait in weariness for signs of spring,
When warmth returns and little birds can sing.
We long for days, when grasses green can grow,
And tulips rise above the final snow.

                         
Tulips in the snow during spring in Patagonia,
South America
 
Then you and I will meet and walk again,
And seek our shelter from the springtime rain.
And each shall smell again the wetted earth,
And all that wakes and rises from the dirt.

    
A trail through the woods, with spring flowers

This winter long will then be memory,
And all its troubles, but a passing dream.
The roses, with their colors, then will blow,
And women thighs, for spring's caresses, show.

Sun in the new leaves
  
But winter circles 'round and comes again.
And you and I together now complain.
We doubt the seasons listen to our words,
But still, we call for spring – and chirping birds.

2014 March 9th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn  
  

Ethics

       
Ethics
   
Some spin the globe and frown or smile and say,
“I think I’ll try out Singapore today.”
And by the afternoon, they’re flying high,
And only they know well the reason why.

But others you might see, who race to catch
The train or bus, or just a minute snatch
To run, when they’re allowed, to sit and pee.
How many, short of sleep, we daily see!

While both are captives of the juggernaut,
One rides above. The one below is caught
Among the horde that draws the chariot’s wheels.
One wields the whip – the other, whipping feels.

And yet, observe – how few are slacking off.
They pull and push, and though the path is rough,
They persevere.  So pyramids were built,
While pharaohs watched, without remorse or guilt.

For whips cannot procure our diligence,
Nor tap our conscience or our common sense.
The habits learned in youth, we still display
While duly working, every working day.

And as they work, the ones who work the most,
Are also those who very rarely boast.
And if they raise their voices to complain,
They quickly learn how surely this brings pain.

It’s natural to ask for reasons why.
But these are answered with the usual lie
That changes with the seasons, though the same.
Why question those, who show no trace of shame?

The lessons, from a life of labor, learned,
Are like the brands, upon the cattle, burned.
And these remain with us until we die.
The humbled, quiet, watch the braggarts lie.

How many schemes, by those of means, are spun?
How many ventures, gamely lost or won?
The worker has a job – and if that’s lost,
What else remains?  Who dares to pay that cost?

And yet, in labor, even slaves take pride.
Who still has legs, does not another ride.
With mouths to feed and bodies small to clothe,
To whore herself, a woman still is loath.

They say,
“The middle class has morals, not the rich.
The poor have none – they don’t know which is which.”
That's half a lie.  Although the rich are rotten,
The poor degraded, right is not forgotten.

The middle classes bow before the rich.
And some, for more of affluence, may itch.
But what they still, of ethics, may retain,
Has roots in that, which once for all was plain.

2014 March 9th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Bitch – Part I

    
The Bitch – Part I  
 
There are those who’re filled with malice, till it’s grown to be an evil.
There are others, who are sainted, with whose kindness, who can cavil?
But the common man is middling – not a devil or a saint.
And I’ll say that I am common, till you tell me that I ‘aint.

I have met so many people, in my years upon this Earth,
That they seem to blur together, as I’m readied for the dirt.
But there are those, who stand out clearly, as I lie upon my bed.
And I think I’ll have them with me, till I’m well and truly dead.

And some there are, whose presences, remembered, bring a smile,
And others, who bring shudders, for their actions that were vile.
And chief among the latter, is a figure I remember –
And though I often wish it, that I still cannot dismember.

I have tried to clear that image, that is evil, from my mind,
I have tried out that forgiveness, that in trials, we might find.
And in failing, I have ventured then to cut it into pieces,
And to burn the shredded fragments, as they did with Luther’s theses.

But for all my mental labors, I was greeted, at the end,
By the selfsame evil visage.  Not an eyelash could I bend
Nor a single mole make vanish.  I was seared, as with a brand!
So I’ll tell you of this person, and then perhaps you’ll understand.

I had met her in the workplace, when I'd first begun to work
And the chains of my enslavement hadn't started yet to irk.
I was innocent of malice – and, despite the sin of Adam,
Had been free of stain of evil, till I met up with this madam.

As I said, I’d joined the workforce, found a place where I could work.
I was bright and I was ready, not inclined or trained to shirk.
But the workers, they were restive – not because they weren’t rich,
But in consequence of saddling, so they murmured, by a "bitch”.

I had learned there was a woman who had reigned there for a while.
She would watch you like an eagle, and would rarely ever smile.
But her look, when she was smiling, wasn’t pleasant. It would chill.
For her smiling was a signal she was wishing someone ill.

And the workers had informed me: – she had risen up so fast
That at first they thought it likely that her tenure wouldn’t last.
But the things she lacked in graces weren’t what the job required.
And her status, as a “mover”, she had ruthlessly acquired.

For she hustled and she jostled and she rode the others rough.
And she always won her battles, but would never say, “Enough!”
And they feared her tongue and temper, and the coldness in her eye,
As they knew she wouldn’t hesitate to knife them with a lie.

And they said that she was Irish – but an Irish that was cold.
For her hair was red and flaming, and her speech was often bold,
But her eyes were calculating, and a pale and evil blue,
And whenever you were near her, they were coldly watching you.

It’s the fate of those religions, that have ceased to be in favor,
To be icons of what’s evil, in the phrases that we savor.
It’s the fate of the non-humans, to be utilized for purses,
From their carcasses refashioned – while their names are used as curses.

So the workers who had suffered, from that ogre in the office,
From the cynical old veteran to the fresh, astounded novice,
And were powerless to counter her, would either mutter, “Witch!”
And if Christians, duly cross themselves – or softly utter, “Bitch!”

And so it was, with not a bit of angst and trepidation,
That I viewed this dismal damsel, with her fearsome reputation.
And I slyly tried to hide myself – and was anxious in my work,
For I feared that I’d be noticed – or have errors that could irk.

But he told me – another worker, who was seasoned more than I –
To be watchful, yes – but fearful, no.  For we only once would die.
And to spend our lives as cowards, was to spend our lives in shame.
If we still would choose to do this, we'd have only selves to blame.
   
So with words of his emboldened, I then straightened up my back,
And found solace, even courage – that's a quality I lack.
I no longer hid from eyesight, and I held my head up high,
And I even dared to venture once to look her in her eye.
 
2014 March 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Remnant Snow

    
The Remnant Snow
 
In Mecca, Muslims circle 'round about
A cube of black, within which sits a stone –
The object of a worship that was old
Before Muhammad heard the desert's call.

******
 
The snow is rotting on the sidewalk still,
Its marble turned to hues of dark decay.
On milder days, we see the trickling pus,
And then are grateful that it has no stench.

But deep within, there still is solid ice,
As hard as rock of grayed and sullied salt.
The broken blocks are piled on corners still,
As if a glacier left a dark moraine.

On a very cold and windy night,
Beside a crossing, by the station-house,
I stopped and shivered by a heap of ice
That looked primeval, as I stood in awe.

******

One monstrous block was like a meteorite
That rested, massive, on yet more debris.
I saw no crater – but, on looking up,
Beheld a moon that shone with frigid light.

And looking ‘round, I saw, through soot and grime,
The crystals sparkling like a diamond dust.
The wind was blowing fiercely – and the cold
Was such that I could barely feel delight.
 
And so I kicked, with full frustrated force,
That great gray rock – and winced in sudden pain.
It hadn’t moved.  And though I kicked again,
The winter’s hard, misshapen spawn sat firm.

*******
 
A meteorite?  Or shattered comet's chunk –
Or screaming jet-plane’s frozen fecal-mass...
A piece of something, even larger, that
Had crashed and splintered?  Or this winter’s waste...

And yes – I thought its origin was this: –
Those crystals – they had joined to make this ice.
And this, compressed by traffic's weight, and glued
By melt from salt – had then been broken up.

For cities move – and that is paramount.
Without that movement, engines all would halt.
And so, the solid, rock-like ice must yield
To sleepless garbage-men in monster-trucks.

******
 
The comets, arcing in from cold and dark,
Appear as torches as they near the sun.
Upon such comets, dust and ice are mixed –
And blocks and specks are floating 'round like gnats.
  
And as the comet tumbles, day and night
Are harsh relief, with sudden heat and cold.
So summer ends.  In winter, ugly moons
And fireflies swarm – and stream across the dark.

I wondered whether straying comets brought
Our water, frozen, to this orb that spins
So near the star that vaporizes all
Such substances, on which our swarms depend.

*******
 
I stood, transfixed and shivering, before
That kaaba-stone, besmirched by urban filth,
And yet, with all its hideous shape and size,
An icon bleak of much that went before.

2014 March 5th, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Winter’s March

   
Winter’s March
   
Now March is here but still old Winter reigns
And wheels his troops  in furious campaigns,
With waves of bitter cold advancing south,
And blizzards roaring east across the plains.

In January, his cannons thundered snow.
In  February, he sent us even more.
Now March has come and still he won’t relent.
We cower and we pray for him to go.

North American plains, eastern great lakes and Atlantic, 2014 January

  














But hope has long departed, leaving dread.
On city streets, you see the walking dead.
At start of Lent, they ask, “Will penitence
Give strength enough to face what lies ahead?”

Chicago lake-shore, 2014 January (Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images)

    















  
For glaciers now appear where pavement was,
As some debate our future and its cause.
And some are crying, “Let us legislate!”
But Winter little cares for human laws.

Ice formations, Chicago, 2014 January
(AP Photo/Andrew A. Nelles)

 
 
And those of science, with their knowledge vast,
Declare, “Such things have happened in the past.”
But that, to us, is comfort cold indeed.
We wonder if, till April, souls can last.

We once were puny apes in tropic lands.
But then, we camped on ice and desert sands.
And now our engines can pollute the poles,
And what this does, no human understands.

Weakening of the polar vortex, causing cold air to spill  into North America, 
2014 January 6th (NASA image)
    
But those of wisdom, who are patient, say,
“The night is lengthened, but there’s still the day.
We’ll bear the cold as we have borne the dark.
When March has ended,  we’ll have April, May…

“For winters come and rage and then they go.
From empires too, we’ll surely suffer more.
In hubris, humans wreak their havoc, but
In time, they’ll vanish, like the remnant snow.”

Monster storm over New York City

                                                                                                  

Jesus recumbent over New York City  
                              

2014 March 4th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Wars

Wars

An empire, like a fiefdom, feeds
On fear and greed and evil.
There rarely is a shortage of
These victuals of the Devil.

There’s malice in the hearts of men.
It lies there like a snake.
And when the time is opportune,
That serpent does awake.

And many are the stories told,
That feed our pride in nations –
And in our empires too, that grow
Like spreading  infestations.

No empire could have conquered lands
Or lasted, sans this malice.
And though a nation spins its tale,
It’s one that’s fit for Alice.

So neighbor turns on neighbor,
And a brother on his brother.
What one may see as treachery
Is fortune to another.

We covet land, we covet more,
We covet till we die.
And though the simple truth is greed,
It’s covered by the lie.

We're fed the tales that we believe,
Where myth adds spice to fact.
And this concoction, we devour,
And with conviction act.

But there are also bonds that served
Us well, in clans of yore,
And these, by fiefdoms, utilized,
Result in yet more gore.

And humans have a tendency
To worship those with power.
They kick the ones “below”.  To those
“Above”, they bow and cower.

And this perhaps had served for our
Survival.  Yet we see
How it ensures that humans now
As toiling slaves must be.

And all these things I listed that
In human natures are –
They're utilized, in factories –
And in the fields of war.

So every virtue, in its turn,
And surely, every vice,
Is used by those, who’re canny, so’s
To tighten more, the vise.

****** 
  
We kill and die for nations as
We once had done for clans.
Our empires feed on horrors – yet,
Like horror-films, have fans.

Our soldiers march in step towards
Their deaths, in senseless wars,
And yet we justify what isn’t
Just – or blame the stars.

Our armies slaughter thousands in
The lands across the seas.
So terror stalks those ravaged lands,
Where horrors do not cease.
   
When we've unleashed the forces that
Subsist on human malice,
Can we then claim that we are still
As innocent as Alice?
  
And yet we celebrate our selves.
We hail our godly nation.
And we agree to feeding more
Our engines of damnation.

And so it was for empires past
And nations ‘round the world,
Who fought – and fight – in lunacy,
With men in ovens hurled.

And if the ones, who kill and die,
The bitter truth are told,
They still believe the sweetened lie
Which all of us are sold.

For phantasms are what they are –
Our nations, built by men.
And they dissolve when we attempt
Their nature, true, to ken.

For phantasms, we kill and die –
For phantasms and lore.
So was it in the past and so
It is, in blood and gore.

And yet there still are reasons why
The men and women die,
There’s reason why the children wail,
There’s reason for the lie.

And this is what we each must find –
And this takes time and trouble.
It’s only when we see the “why”
That we can prick the bubble.

But know – that those who’re heartless, find,
In every war, a profit.
And though they know on what they feed,
They’re never sickened of it.

As long as men are herded and
To herders, bow and scrape,
So long will they, from factories
And armies, not escape.

But when we men and women serve
No bosses, seek no slaves –
As  equals, then, we all shall make
A people, true, of braves.

When charity replaces more
The malice in our hearts,
Then empires will be starved – and so
Will all their evil arts.

But this will not be what we see
On rising in the morrow.
That dawn must break within ourselves
So we can end this sorrow.

When factories will crumble and
When armies will disband,
Then humans will be humans true –
And walk then hand in hand.

But this again is but a dream,
Until we make it true.
But hark!  You’ll hear the children scream –
Because of me and you.
  
We still have better instincts left
That at such things revolt.
But there are instincts too, that serve
To keep those calls on hold.

For if we try to answer them,
We may ourselves be lost.
How many hear that distant cry
And rise, to bear the cost?
   
For most will say, “Let children scream,
Out there, so far away.”
But when that sound gets nearer, will
We still then turn away?

2014 March 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York