It's raining in Brooklyn...

It’s raining in Brooklyn

and as I ride my bicycle

Third Avenue is almost quiet.

The F train seems –

a silver ghost rumbling high above my head;

next stop Fourth Avenue and Ninth Street

on the long journey to the last stop – at Coney Island.

Our local Muslim prayer room

across from the garish tire shop -

and next door to the upscale bar

is closed today.

The cloudy windows covered with notices

are in Arabic words and letters incomprehensible to me.

It’s a Fourth of July weekend

in New York City Two Thousand Eleven

and an acquaintance asked for poetry

on her birthday - some little bit of romance.

So I write – as much for my wife,

as we near our anniversary, as for my friend

and always for my soul.

>>>

The pigeons walk

slowly through the deep grass

in our back yard;

the doves under the near empty feeder wait their turn.

The gray sky drops

her wet gifts early

this morning – but we

take our fifteen-mile bike-run

just the same.

We move across 9^th avenue – seven mph

past the brick buildings housing the artist’s lofts

and the massive metal Kentile Floors sign atop

then crossing the infamous and beautiful Gowanus Creek Canal

over the drawbridge at Smith & Ninth

and up to Court Street

In the rain.

Poetry goes with us into

Red Hook – across Hamilton,

past the old public housing projects

once the “Crack capital of America”

now the new, hip, cobble stoned

and cool place to hang out – IKEA

destination and location

in funky Red Hook.

I bike and my lovely Laura runs beside me

as we discover the most intimate views

of our lady liberty –

through broken down fences

and tiny parks

at the end of perfectly empty streets.

In between raindrops

we catch glimpses on the run.

Where Haddad stores

their movie trailers and Snapple

has their beat up warehouses -

the old haunts of Al Capone.

We see the beautiful and the broken down,

it is all here to appreciate.

Off of the point

into Cobble hill on Smith Streets north

east on Third to Fifth Avenue and

South through Hispanic and Chinese Brooklyn –

now west again we slide down on

Thirty Sixth near the Green-Wood Cemetery

the home of Leonard Bernstein,

Michael Basquit and Louis Tiffany.

Still raining – not heavily,

we continue west to Second Avenue

past the live poultry shops -

while listening to the cluck of chickens –

the squawks and squeals,

competition for the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.

Yet we move on

past Hasidic Jews,

Arabs, Blacks, Chinese

and you would think

if New York

can get along

that a wider world

might get along as well.

Take a lesson from –

our crowded neighborhoods,

our jammed subways,

our soccer fields,

our weekend baseball diamonds,

the classrooms filled with ethnic groups

from all across the globe.

Take a lesson from New Yorkers.

We continue south toward the Verrazano Narrows Bridge –

to our turnaround place at Owl’s Head Park

that tranquil, tree filled, oasis,

where we drink from a full cup of pleasure.

This takes us back from the lush rolling hills

over the pock marked side streets

to our own private garden

in the South Slope of Brooklyn.

Poetry riding with us –

is discovering hope in the lives

of this diverse group of people.

The rain has stopped –

one pigeon lands, flapping

wings ceaselessly moving.

My love now meditates outside –

and I associate this moment with some

inner grace –

a quiet understanding of the infinite

and peace.

J.E. Dorsey – aka Doug Claybourne – for L.D. on our anniversary.

Copyright © Doug Claybourne 2011. All Rights Reserved.