A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

 

Maria Dorota

As virtuous men pass mildly away,

   And whisper to their souls to go,

Whilst some of their sad friends do say

   The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,

   No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;

'Twere profanation of our joys

   To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,

   Men reckon what it did, and meant;

But trepidation of the spheres,

   Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love

   (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit

Absence, because it doth remove

   Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,

   That our selves know not what it is,

Inter-assured of the mind,

   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,

   Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,

   Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so

   As stiff twin compasses are two;

Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show

   To move, but doth, if the other do.

And though it in the center sit,

   Yet when the other far doth roam,

It leans and hearkens after it,

   And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

   Like th' other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,

   And makes me end where I begun.

 John Donne

On Quitting

glam

How much grit do you think you’ve got?

Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?

You may talk of pluck; it’s an easy word,

And where’er you go it is often heard;

But can you tell to a jot or guess

Just how much courage you now possess?

You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,

But have you tackled self-discipline?

Have you ever issued commands to you

To quit the things that you like to do,

And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,

Those rigid orders have you obeyed?

Don’t boast of your grit till you’ve tried it out,

Nor prate to men of your courage stout,

For it’s easy enough to retain a grin

In the face of a fight there’s a chance to win,

But the sort of grit that is good to own

Is the stuff you need when you’re all alone.

How much grit do you think you’ve got?

Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?

Have you ever tested yourself to know

How far with yourself your will can go?

If you want to know if you have grit,

Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.

It’s bully sport and it’s open fight;

It will keep you busy both day and night;

For the toughest kind of a game you’ll find

Is to make your body obey your mind.

And you never will know what is meant by grit

Unless there’s something you’ve tried to quit.

 Edgar Albert Guest

 

Cowardice in Power

Fatih Berat Örer

A figure of authority, a mask of might

Hides behind a title, and a coward’s fright

Shouting at the innocent, with a voice so bold

But trembles at the thought, of facing the truth to be told

Their words are laced with venom, their actions cold as stone

Leaving scars that linger, long after the moment’s gone

But I see through the façade, the fear that they conceal

A coward’s heart beats weakly, beneath their pompous reveal

I refuse to sign, the papers of shame

I’ll stand up to the bully, and play the coward’s game

You threaten me with dismissal, with a voice so loud and clear

But I’ll take my stand, and show you what courage looks like, my dear

I’ll face the man who’s holding my pay

And demand the truth, in a voice that’s clear and gray

You may try to fire me, but I’ll not be tamed

For I know that courage, is not just a word, but a flame

That burns within my soul, a fire that never fades

Guiding me through darkness, and the coward’s charades

I’ll not be silenced, I’ll not be swayed

For I know that truth and justice, will find their way

You may have power, but I have a voice

A voice that speaks for justice, and a righteous choice

I’ll use it to confront, the coward’s disguise

And bring to light, the truth that they’ve denied

The coward’s mask will crack, the truth will be revealed

And those who stood up tall, will be the ones who are healed

Their courage will inspire, and their hearts will be free

And the world will be a better place, for all humanity.

Sibusiso Vincent

Saying no

archillect

Nobody likes to hear it,

‘no’ is not it, but ‘yes’ is their favorite,

Though a two-letter word,

It has more power than what I’ve heard,

I’m made into a bad person even though I’m not,

I’m then made into a liar right on the spot,

Because, I then say ‘yes’ to change the plot,

Hoping then after they will say ‘I forgot’,

They actually never will forget,

For it was what they wanted to hear,

Then I’m faced with great regret,

For from this siege, I want to disappear,

Situations like these don’t ever seem to end,

But only seems to happen over and over again,

I’ve learnt that it’s better to say ‘no’ than yes,

That way I wouldn’t have to be settling for less,

Terminating all wills and contracts of relationships,

Learning to say no to family, lovers and friends without having to feel like a witch,

Because one day they’ll all have to know,

That very deep down in my heart I actually wanted to say ‘no’.

Jahnella McDonald

Until Love Is All That Remains

 

Tumblr

When I lose myself in love,

the mind becomes a river,

winding through forests

like an unfinished argument,

touching ancient stones

that remember old storms,

embracing Mother Earth,

carrying leaves of ache

toward a sea it cannot name.

O infinite silence,

gather me into your loving arms,

where the heart becomes a shrine,

lit by an unquenchable flame

of longing I cannot command.

It speaks in prayers

carried by desire,

shaped and tempered

by lifetimes of salt and sorrow,

no longer asking to possess,

only to be emptied

until love is all that remains.

When I lose myself in love,

even the body bows—

the hands, the breath,

the trembling silence

between one heartbeat and the next.

And every word,

like an incense-carried prayer,

if pure enough,

if washed of pride,

if softened by grace,

longs to return home to God.

Omniverse Traveler

Not as You Imagined

Lane Dorsey

My life,

my thoughts

are clouds crossing

the sky of consciousness.

Who am I?

Am I my thoughts,

my emotions,

my name,

my hunger to be seen?

The world teaches me

to add to myself.

I become a storehouse of things:

a title here,

a skill there,

another possession,

more riches,

more praise.

Yet, who am I?

I labor, I gain, I lose;

still I ask—

is it enough?

am I enough?

O my soul,

never let me go,

whispers the small self,

afraid to disappear.

Was joy in yesterday?

Shall I chase tomorrow?

What will they say?

What mask do I prepare

to meet the world?

Then, from the silence,

a voice said:

what you seek

lies behind the noise.

But still I cry,

I am special,

I am meaning,

I am the world—

until the sky answers:

yes,

but not as you imagined.

Omniverse Traveler

Ego

 

SetareRzb/Pexels

 I just didn’t get it—

even with the teacher holding an orange (the earth) in one hand

and a lemon (the moon) in the other,

her favorite student (the sun) standing behind her with a flashlight.

I just couldn’t grasp it—

this whole citrus universe, these bumpy planets revolving so slowly

no one could even see themselves moving.

I used to think if I could only concentrate hard enough

I could be the one person to feel what no one else could,

sense a small tug from the ground, a sky shift, the earth changing gears.

Even though I was only one mini-speck on a speck,

even though I was merely a pinprick in one goosebump on the orange,

I was sure then I was the most specially perceptive, perceptively sensitive.

I was sure then my mother was the only mother to snap,

“The world doesn’t revolve around you!”

The earth was fragile and mostly water,

just the way the orange was mostly water if you peeled it,

just the way I was mostly water if you peeled me.

Looking back on that third grade science demonstration,

I can understand why some people gave up on fame or religion or cures—

especially people who have an understanding

of the excruciating crawl of the world,

who have a well-developed sense of spatial reasoning

and the tininess that it is to be one of us.

But not me—even now I wouldn’t mind being god, the force

who spins the planets the way I spin a globe, a basketball, a yoyo.

I wouldn’t mind being that teacher who chooses the fruit,

or that favorite kid who gives the moon its glow.     

Denise Duhamel

in, Queen for a Day

The Scapegoat

kieferpix

We have all of us read how the Israelites fled 

From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, 

And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" 

When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. 

The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" 

That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. 

You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- 

Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". 

For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears 

In deserts with never a famine to follow by, 

The Israelite horde went roaming abroad 

Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". 

When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, 

Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: 

I give you command of the whole of the band" -- 

And handed the Government over to Joshua. 

But Moses told 'em before he died, 

"Wherever you are, whatever betide, 

Every year as the time draws near 

By lot or by rote choose you a goat, 

And let the high priest confess on the beast 

The sins of the people the worst and the least, 

Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer. 

Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. 

Then lead him away to the wilderness black 

To die with the weight of your sins on his back: 

Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, 

For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 

'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity 

This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. 

By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, 

Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, 

Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, 

Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; 

Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? 

It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture 

By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a 

Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose 

Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. 

In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 

'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, 

When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; 

Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers 

Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, 

That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. 

Be that as it may, as each year passed away, 

a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted 

With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) 

And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. 

The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 

With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb 

They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: 

On every hand a reverend band, 

Prophets and preachers and elders stand 

And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, 

Delivers a sermon to all standing by. 

(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he 

No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) 

The sermon was marked by a deal of humility 

And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. 

That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, 

And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. 

Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat 

And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, 

Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. 

With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- 

"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, 

The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" 

Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". 

(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, 

Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), 

As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins 

The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" 

The animal, freed from all restraint 

Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, 

And charged straight at that elderly saint. 

So fierce his attack and so very severe, it 

Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, 

Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. 

The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, 

A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", 

Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", 

And made a beeline back again to the camp. 

The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast 

So gallantly making his way to the east, 

Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again 

If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. 

He's hurrying, too! This never will do. 

Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. 

After all our confessions, so openly granted, 

He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. 

We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, 

If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" 

He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, 

A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. 

"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, 

And drive back the brute to the desert again. 

The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, 

From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- 

Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." 

So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, 

But the goat made it clear each time he drew near 

That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. 

The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- 

"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- 

And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, 

The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. 

The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, 

And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! 

He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" 

But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. 

('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), 

"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be 

A good thing for someone to take up the running." 

As soon said as done, they started to run -- 

The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns 

All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, 

And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. 

And then it came out, as the rabble and rout 

Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- 

The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, 

Had been in his youth a bold metallician, 

And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, 

"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" 

Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, 

And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, 

But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- 

Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' 

And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. 

Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp 

Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, 

And paling and wall he plasters them all, 

"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, 

The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" 

"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all 

Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; 

Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! 

Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, 

For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" 

Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side 

Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! 

One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" 

And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. 

His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, 

But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. 

With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, 

The people came back from the desert in dread. 

"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" 

In very short order they got plenty word of him. 

In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, 

"The trail of the serpent was over them all." 

A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter 

Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". 

The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, 

The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; 

He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, 

But his latest achievement most anger arouses, 

For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, 

One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, 

Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. 

Moral 

The moral is patent to all the beholders -- 

Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; 

Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, 

Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: 

Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, 

But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. 

Remember, no matter how far you may roam 

That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, 

Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". 

Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, 

And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, 

But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!

Sylvia Plath

Narcissist

MillaF / Shutterstock

 

I loved the narcissist

The object of selfish beauty

Engulfed so deeply in herself

No suitors did she see.

I loved the narcissist

But no lovers did she meet

Engulfed so deeply in herself

through the mirror could she see?

I loved the narcissist

The way her beauty gleams

Engulfed so deeply in herself

she was too blinded to see.

I loved the narcissist

her eyes so vague and deep

Engulfed so deeply in herself

The narcissist was me.

Asha Nicole

Basket of Figs

Pumarck-Favim

 Bring me your pain, love. Spread 

it out like fine rugs, silk sashes, 

warm eggs, cinnamon

and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroidery 

on the collar, tiny shell buttons, 

the hem stitched the way you were taught,

pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the gold 

still hot from your body. Empty 

your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it, 

cradling it on my tongue like the slick 

seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal might 

carry a small one in the private 

cave of the mouth.

Ellen Bass

in,  Mules of Love

Touched By An Angel

Robin Skjoldborg

 We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

Maya Angelou

Let them

Pamela Hanné

Just Let them.

If they want to choose something or someone over you, LET THEM.

If they want to go weeks without talking to you, LET THEM.

If they are okay with never seeing you, LET THEM.

If they are okay with always putting themselves first, LET THEM.

If they are showing you who they are and not what you perceived them to be, 

LET THEM

If they want to follow the crowd, LET THEM.

If they want to judge or misunderstand you, LET THEM.

If they act like they can live without you, LET THEM.

If they want to walk out of your life and leave, hold the door open, AND LET THEM

Let them lose you.

You were never theirs, because you were always your own.

So let them.

Let them show you who they truly are, not tell you.

Let them prove how worthy they are of your time.

Let them make the necessary steps to be a part of your life.

Let them earn your forgiveness.

Let them call you to talk about ordinary things.

Let them take you out on a Thursday.

Let them talk about anything and everything just because 

it's you they are talking to.

Let them have a safe place in you.

Let them see the heart in you that didn't harden.

Let them love you.

Cassie Phillips

Projector

 

Freepik

Light takes new attribute

and yet his old

glory

enchants;

not this,

not this, they say,

lord as he was of the hieratic dance,

of poetry

and majesty

and pomp,

master of shrines and gateways

and of doors,

of markets

and the cross-road

and the street;

not this,

they say;

but we say otherwise

and greet

light

in new attribute,

insidious fire;

light reasserts

his power

reclaims the lost;

in a new blaze of splendour

calls the host

to reassemble

and to readjust

all severings

and differings of thought,

all strife and strident bickering

and rest;

O fair and blest,

he strides forth young and pitiful and strong, 

a king of blazing splendour and of gold,

and all the evil

and the tyrannous wrong

that beauty suffered

finds its champion,

light

who is god

and song.

He left the place they built him

and the halls,

he strode so simply forth,

they knew him not;

no man deceived him,

no,

nor ever will,

with meagre counterfeit

of ancient rite,

he knows all hearts

and all imagining

of plot

and counterplot

and mimicry,

this measuring of beauty with a rod, 

no formula

could hold him

and no threat

recall him

who is god.

Yet he returns,

O unrecorded grace, 

over

and under

and through us 

and about;

the stage is set now

for his mighty rays;

light,

light that batters gloom,

the Pythian

lifts up a fair head

in a lowly place,

he shows his splendour

in a little room;

he says to us,

be glad

and laugh,

be gay;

I have returned

though in an evil day

you crouched despairingly

who had no shrine;

we had no temple and no temple fire 

for all these said

and mouthed

and said again;

beauty is an endighter

and is power

of city

and of soldiery

and might,

beauty is city

and the state

and dour duty,

beauty is this and this and this dull thing, 

forgetting who was king.

Yet still he moves

alert,

invidious,

this serpent creeping

and this shaft of light,

his arrows slay

and still his footsteps

dart

gold

in the market-place;

vision returns

and with new vision

fresh

hope

to the impotent;

tired feet that never knew a hill-slope 

tread

fabulous mountain sides;

worn

dusty feet

sink in soft drift of pine

needles

and anodyne

of balm and fir and myrtle-trees

and cones

drift across weary brows

and the sea-foam

marks the sea-path

where no sea ever comes;

islands arise where never islands were,

crowned with the sacred palm

or odorous cedar;

waves sparkle and delight

the weary eyes

that never saw the sun fall in the sea 

nor the bright Pleaiads rise.

H.D.

On the Pulse of Morning

Martin Parr

 

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Marked the mastodon,

The dinosaur, who left dried tokens

Of their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness

Have lain too long

Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,

A River sings a beautiful song. It says,

Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet today I call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I and the

Tree and the rock were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your

Brow and when you yet knew you still

Knew nothing.

The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew

The African, the Native American, the Sioux,

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.

They hear. They all hear

The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree

Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed

On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you,

Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you

Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then

Forced on bloody feet,

Left me to the employment of

Other seekers—desperate for gain,

Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,

Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare

Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am that Tree planted by the River,

Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree

I am yours—your passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need

For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain

Cannot be unlived, but if faced

With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon

This day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands,

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts

Each new hour holds new chances

For a new beginning.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space to place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out and upon me, the

Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister’s eyes, and into

Your brother’s face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope—

Good morning.

Maya Angelou

in, ON THE PULSE OF MORNING

Embrace the Purpose

In life’s grand design, we meet with purpose,

No accidents, no random twists of fate.

Each encounter, a lesson to embrace,

A chance to grow, to elevate.

No happenstance, for there’s a higher plan,

A reason beyond our limited sight.

Lessons to learn, to flourish, to expand,

Seek the meaning, your guiding light.

For in this vast world of billions strong,

Why did your paths converge, align?

A moment shared, a connection long,

To teach you truths, so divine.

Reflect, dear soul, on this profound notion,

Your growth, not an accident’s decree.

Treasure the journey, embrace each motion,

A beautiful path, designed just for thee.

Find the purpose, hidden within,

Uncover the wisdom, the knowledge to gain.

Embrace the growth, let your spirit begin,

Appreciate the journey, through joy and pain.

So, dear friend, remember this truth,

Your experiences hold treasures untold.

Seek the lessons, embrace them with verve,

For your purpose awaits, a story yet unfold.

Garima Sharma

Bryant Park at Dusk

 

Adobe Stock

Floodlights have flared on behind and above

              Where I sit in my public chair.

The lawn that had gradually darkened has brightened.

              The library windows stare.

I’m alone in a crowd—e pluribus plures.

              Far from a family I miss.

I’d almost say I’m lonely, but lonely

              Is worse, I recall, than this.

Loneliness is a genuine poverty.

              I’m like a man who is flush

But forgot his wallet on the nightstand

              When he left for work in a rush,

And now must go without food and coffee

              For a few hours more than he’d wish.

That’s all. He still has a wallet. It’s bulging.

              It floats through his brain like a fish...

Money for love: a terrible simile,

              But maybe it’s fitting here,

A couple of blocks from Madison Avenue

              Where commodities are dear,

Where all around me, rich skyscrapers

              Woo the impoverished sky,

Having sent on their way the spent commuters

              Who stream, uncertain, by—

And as for this whole splurge of a city,

              Isn’t money at its heart?

But I’m blathering now. Forgetting my subject.

              What I meant to say at the start

Is that I noticed a woman reading

              In a chair not far from mine.

Silver-haired, calm, she stirred a hunger

              Hard for me to define,

Perhaps because she doesn’t seem lonely.

              And what I loved was this:

The way, when dusk had darkened her pages,

              As if expecting a kiss,

She closed her eyes and threw her head back,

              Book open on her lap.

Perhaps she was thinking about her story,

              Or the fall air, or a nap.

I thought she’d leave me then for pastimes

              More suited to the dark.

But she is on intimate terms, it seems,

              With the rhythms of Bryant Park,

For that’s when the floodlights came on, slowly,

              Somewhere far above my need,

And the grass grew green again, and the woman

              Reopened her eyes to read.

Geoffrey Brock