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 9th 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.
