Wednesday, August 30, 2017

The Soft and the Loud


The Soft and the Loud 

The words of those who’re humble
are rarely harsh or sharp.
They often have the music
of a gently fingered harp.

And yet a voice that’s softer
can hide a vengeful heart.
So words are used as weapons
by those who've learned that art.

And those who speak out louder
may have a cause sincere
and bravely speak for others
whose throats are dry from fear.

There’s rarely gain from volume
where reasoned words would do.
We might prevail from shouting
but lose our bearings too.

******

A parent who’s beleaguered,
a teacher who is stressed—
might raise a voice in anger
yet leave things unaddressed.

And so it is with siblings—
with friends and lovers too.
And so it is with spouses 
and all like me and you.
  
We’re better when we’re softer,
but best when paying mind.
Let’s listen and let’s reason—
not forgetting to be kind.
   
There is a time for whispers.
There is a time for screams.
There is a time for talking,
for silence—and for dreams.
  
****** 
  
How often, words are uttered
that lack in grace and art—
the words of ire, derision—
that show a lapse of heart.
   
Let’s notice when we’re angered—
and count those breaths of ten
that should be slow and measured
to lead us back to zen.
  
Let’s notice when we’re fearful—
and breathe then, once again,
to find the strength and courage
to speak and act—and when.
  
There is a time for speaking.
There is a time for pause.
For thought and word and action,
there should be sight and cause.

******

We each have had our traumas—
and some of us were spoiled.
Too often, we are blinded—
and our whips are then uncoiled.
    
So scorpions use their stingers
and dogs might use their jaws.
But notice cats who’re playing
and how they sheathe their claws.
  
We're often steered by habits—
and each of these has use.
But if they are our masters
the outcome is abuse.
  
Each day is a beginning.
Each moment is a start.
It also is a dying—
that gives a chance to heart.
  
******

Let’s leave behind our losses.
Let’s leave our hurts behind.
We’re neither serfs nor bosses.
Let’s keep that truth in mind.
  
We see the anger rising.
We see the fear that spreads.
We breathe and watch them moving—
our rages, lusts and dreads.
  
We bow and meet the anger.
We smile and greet the fear.
We laugh with all our passions—
for each of these is dear.

There’s grief that’s deep within us.
There’s joy that bubbles still.
Let’s leave the world in leisure
and wreak no more of ill.
 
2016 mid-October (the first five stanzas) 
and 2017 August 30th, Wed. (the rest)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Tweety Grump and Taunting Kim


Tweeting Grump and Taunting Kim
.
Tweety Bird and Mister Grump were married one fine day,
And in due time a son was born, whose name I now must say.
His name is "Donald Trump", but he is "Tweety Grump" as well.
And that is why he’s such a grump and why he tweets each day.
.
At sunrise, birds arise to tweet and Donald does that too.
But what he tweets are grumps and dumps, received by me and you.
The twitter of the birds at dawn, we sadly find displaced
By that of grumpy Donald Trump—until he is replaced.
.
*********
.
But whoah! He's met his match in him—that spoiled and laughing brat,
Who rules where bombs had fallen till they'd left the cities flat.
And wow! As Tweeting Grump says "Boo!", so also Taunting Kim
Replies with shoo's that match our Grump—or even besting him.
.
So Tweeting Grump and Taunting Kim agree to have a battle.
For Taunting Kim, says Tweeting Grump, has made a bad new rattle.
And as for us, we do not know to laugh or quake in fear—
For though we're rolling on the floor, we sense our end is near.
.
2017 Aug 12th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Kim and Trump, with ballistic penises
source: 

https://www.facebook.com/cecil.gover/posts/10208057776442260

   

Friday, August 4, 2017

The Drums of War

 
The Drums of War

Can those, who make the music, slaughter too?
Can he, who wrote the verses, drop the bomb?
It seems it cannot be—and yet it is.
Our monsters swim beneath our waves of bliss.

At heaven’s gates, we find the demon-guard.
The beauty and the beast are always one.
We copulate—and practice martial arts.
The drums of war recall our mothers’ hearts.

How tender was the hand that struck the blow!
How swift, the passing of the ancient rite!
We cling to comforts as we hold to hopes.
How harsh, the laughter as we're made the dopes!

The “times of peace” can match the times of war
In horrors that will never come to light.
So virtuous men and women earn that wage
That Mammon serves to serfs in every age.
 
The ones, who seem to us the sanest, wreak
Yet greater havoc than the maddest men.
We have, upon this planet, just a while.
Amidst the mayhem, is there time to smile?

We sing our songs, as flutes and zithers play.
We beat upon the drums; we sway and dance.
But listen—there’s a music singing this:
“We heeded duty—and we savored bliss.”

We march to battles, led by wailing pipes.
And then, amidst the dissonance of war
Or caught within the madness of our jobs,
We yearn for peace—with every pulse that throbs.

But who can slip the knot that strangles us?
The more we try, the tighter is it grip.
We’ve had no peace, and hear, while still in pain—
The drums of war are beating yet again.
 
2017 August 4th, Fri.
New York, New York
    

Thursday, July 20, 2017

From Ape to Ape


From Ape to Ape



I am a monkey, and so are you
and so are all of us.
Monkeys see and monkeys do.
So why then all the fuss?

When monkeys do not like to see
or hear, they close their eyes
and ears, and also stop their mouths—
for truths as well as lies.

And so we also do, my friends.
That's you and I and he.
The things we do not like—those things,
we neither hear nor see.

But then a time arrives, for each—
or most of us, I'd say.
And then, we're shocked to hear and see,
and so, like asses, bray.

So monkeys are, to donkeys, turned.
And so it is with apes.
We once had swung from branches. Now,
we're swinging by our napes.

2017 July 20th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Faith-II


Faith-II

A face of beauty, like a flower’s bloom,
is but a passing thing that brings us joy
and then remains awhile in memory.
A heart of beauty—that of selfless love—
is what endures and gives to life its grace.

And though we each are like a blowing cloud
that rises and dissolves, we still can live
our lives in love—and so in partial peace,
however much the winds of hatred howl,
as tortured lives cry out for their release.

Let’s light our lamps, as sunset turns to dusk,
and through the darkness, as the planets wheel,
then guard those flickers, till it’s time to sleep.
And if we’ve tried to cleanse ourselves of sins,
our slumber might be restful, long and deep.

And when we wake, it’s then another day,
with trials old and new—and yet with hope.
Amidst despair, we still can try to be
aware of all the wonder of this world—
where cruelty and kindness coexist.

2017 July 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------------

Related:  Faith 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/07/faith_30.html )

  

Friday, June 30, 2017

Love


Love


"What is love?" you ask, my friend, although you surely know.


We each can see it manifest--in actions, more than words.


Like envy, anger, grief and hope, it's felt--and then we know.


It leads outside the self and so it fills and heals the heart.


So self is sacrificed, without a thought or a complaint.


Without it, we are lost indeed--and wish we could depart.


No matter what the measure and no matter which the species,


The give and take of love is joy and pain--through all the ages.


2017 June 30, Fri.

Brooklyn, New York
   

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Not in Substance or in Form


Not in Substance or in Form

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,

there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.
  
When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn

as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces? Not in substance or in form. 

2017 June 29th, Thu.

Brooklyn, New York
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have not quite succeeded here, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font, with the "small" font-size. 

But if you want each line to fit as it should, and have good eyesight, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the blog's default font, but with the "smallest" font-size. That is at:

 http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form.html