Magic

 
Magic

We humans have abilities that awe
That when unhemmed by ethics and by law
Can lead to great calamities indeed. 
No magic can suffice, when few will heed

The voice of conscience and the pull of heart
As ears are deafened and we're pulled apart
By hatreds born of ignorance, instilled.
And so are prophesies, of hate, fulfilled.

****** 

So you and I and others have conversed
On how to end the wars with which we're cursed,
As more and more of science, art, and craft
Are used to wage what reason sees as daft—

What every heart and wakened conscience feels
Descends on people, trapped, and blindly steals 
From these, its victims, all, including life,
And so maintains the never-ending strife

That heaps, on generations, more of woe,
With senseless hatred turning friend to foe
As every act unjust and every blow
Begets its offspring, violent even more.  

******

So each of us has asked, in silence and
In speech, if anyone can understand
The sense behind this senselessness and show
A way by which to stop—or even slow—

The rush to our destruction: sober those
Whose hubris causes hearts and minds to close,
As blissful, willful ignorance parades
As truth—and blatant lies inform charades

Performed by rogues, as legislators cheer
The murderers of children, feel no fear
Of judgment, further seal their hearts
And practice, daily, more deceiving arts.

*********

If I could wave a "magic wand", I would—
And make those evils disappear, that should.
So bombs would all reverse, and bullets too—
And then we might be smiling, me and you—

As every missile sent and every shell
Would turn—and so return! It would be hell
For every bully, armed with war machines,
As "magic" gave the rest of us vaccines

Against their bribes, their threats, and all the fear
And horror. So these wars would disappear—
Of mass destruction, misery, and death—
Replaced perhaps by even worse! Regret

Could then descend on well-intentioned me
As all my "magic" turned out, not to be
The thing I'd hoped for. Squeezing evil, I,
Would see its means to lengthen and defy

My efforts to contain it. So elastic
This scourge of ours could be, that only drastic
Measures might suffice to bring to end
This evil that afflicts us all, my friend!

*********

And what could truly be more drastic than
To end our species, twinned as woman-man?

It might perhaps be time for diving deep
Within the wilds of psyche, through the sleep

In which we often spend our waking days,
With steps, as usual, on accustomed ways
Of habit born of training, so we see

What seers saw, informing you and me,

In wordless ways that cannot be expressed 
In verse or prose, of That which so impressed
The ones who saw that they awoke from sleep,
Enlightened—and connected with the Deep.

******

It’s only this, it seems, that could provide
The insight and connection that abide
And so inform the heart and mind to steer
Away from that which then is seen as clear. 

Is it “good and evil”? Simply, “right and wrong”?
Or was and is this cleavage, all along,
Misguided—clouded by a lack of sight
Of those connections needing pause—for light?

Our feelings, thoughts, and words and deeds, we see, 
Are ripples on the surface of a sea
That can be whipped by winds to stormy waves.
And yet, beneath, there’s peace—a strength that knaves

Cannot perturb. And some may call this “faith”
And others, “insight” or “connection”. Fate
Can put us each in peril and in stress, 
But only grace can change a “no” to “yes”,

Delivered from the heart—and not by force. 
So endless lies and wars may take their course
With cities laid to waste and no one spared.
The spirit lives—in those who saw—and cared. 

And this, dear friend, is all I have to say
To end the many words I’ve said today.
There is indeed a magic: it’s within;
It gives us strength to see—and not to sin.

2025 March 7, Fri.
Berkeley, California 

Mayar Cho'le-মায়ার ছলে+An Infant Cries in Palestine

মায়ার ছলে

ফিলিস্তিনে শিশু কাঁদে।
দূর সুদানেও তাই। 
কঙ্গোতেও কান্না ভাসে। 

ইয়েমেন দেশেও, ভাই। 

যতই কাঁদে, পায় না জবাব। 
চুপ হয়ে যায় শেষে।
ত্রাসের থেকে নেই যে রেহাই, 
দুর্ভাগা সব দেশে।

দেশে-দেশে, অনাহারে 
লোকে ভুগে মরে— 
নইলে কবর, নইলে শ্মশান, 
জ্যান্ত, বোমার ঝড়ে।

****** 

উপমহাদেশের ব্যোমে 
শোকের বাতাস বয়ে। 
পূর্ব থেকে কাঁদুনি এসে
পশ্চিম-নিবাসী হয়।

******

কার আদেশে হত্যা এতো? 
কোন কানুনে, শোক? 
জানলে পরে, জানিও আমায়— 
যেটাই জবাব হোক। 

‘আমি-তুমি, আমরা-তারা!’ 
বিবাদ, লড়াই চলে। 
অন্তরে যে সবাই এক-ই, 
ভোলায়, মায়ার ছলে। 

এই মায়া তো উৎস, ক্রোধের। 
দয়ার মায়া নয়। 
এর ফাঁদে লোক বিবেক হারায়।
নিষ্ঠুরতার জয়। 

সোমবার, ২রা সেপ্টেম্বর, 
বার্ক্লি, কালিফর্নিয়া 

----------------------------------------------

An Infant Cries in Palestine

An infant cries in Palestine, 
Another in Sudan. 
The winds in Congo carry wails. 
In Yemen, it's the same. 

No answer to the crying, so 
It comes, at last, to end. 
No respite from the terror, pain—
In these forsaken lands 

Where people die from famines or
Are buried, burned, alive
As bombs descend like rain in storms
On those who’re terrified.

******

The winds of weeping waft across
Subcontinental skies,
As sorrows sough from East to West
And find their resonance.

******

By whose command, this violence? 
Which law dictates this grief? 
If you come to know, inform me, 
Whatever it may be. 

“You and me! Us and them!” 
Disputes and fights go on. 
That all of us are the same, within—
That truth has been forgotten.

 
This is a cause of our madness, while
Our kindness lies discarded. 
We lose our consciences in snares. 
Cruelty prevails. 

2024, September 2nd, Mon. 
(translated from Bengali, September 3rd) 
Berkeley, California

Peace and War

. 
Peace and War
.
The silence and the summer sun
On California’s coast,
The rustling of the leaves of trees,
The distant, passing train,
.
The letting go of everything 
Of which I once could boast,
The touching by the cooling breeze,
The easing of the strain,
.
The blue of sky, the green of leaves,
The warmth of sun on skin,
The calling of the bird I hear, 
The sway of grasses tall—
.
These all combine and so provide,
Within this world of sin,
A music of the eye and ear
That brings relief to all.
.
******
.
And yet, the all-devouring greed
Will rarely pause to taste
Of all of this that beings need,
While laying more to waste. 
.
So wealth will flow, accumulate,
And bombs will fall and burst,
As burnings rise, along with hate,
And children die of thirst.
.
****** 
.
I call to those who've closed their blinds
To open windows wide
And look, with open minds and hearts,
Across the harsh divide—
.
To see that children, everywhere,
And women, are the same—
That sentients feel of grief and pain,
As humans should of shame.
.
2024 July 15th, Mon.
Berkeley, California
.

Till We Die

.
Till We Die
.
So “science” is placed upon a throne that gives
It more of title than of power, while 
In vassalage to commerce and its drives,
With human wit and industry subsumed 
By all the cash that builds up capital.
.
This puts us on the roads of noise and rush—
The paths that lead us more and more away
From quiet observation—being one
With all existence—and our reverence
For life and all of Nature's balances.
.
Our sense of right and wrong, a sense innate
That judges what is fair and feels the pain
Of other beings—this is dulled, obscured
By distance from the acts that we defend
Or those about which we are ignorant.  
.
Afraid of depth, afraid of painful sight,
We close our eyes and ears and so our hearts, 
With minds and senses jaded, scoffing at
The ones who bring attention to the wrongs
Or struggle hard to change what isn’t right.
.
This mass retreat to dwell in shallowness—
Is this from age—and  all the buffets borne
Through years of struggle to subsist, survive—
To do what’s right in even little ways—
To find that even these were scorned and blocked?
.
Or is it from the long-accustomed ease
Of “going with the flow”, “not making waves”—
That most of us have followed through our lives –
As evils grew—with our acquiescence—
With basic ethics leashed and pegged in place?
.
I do not know—but see this in myself 
And others of my age and even those
With many years remaining in their lives.
It is as if we all have given up
On even seeing past our small cocoons.
.
So hopes of changes for the better lie, 
Along with youth, within our garbage cans,
And even younger folk are blinded by
A loss of sight as more of us are turned
To serfs that sell our labor for a wage. 
.
And yet, we still have senses left to use—
To know and try to understand the world,
However poorly, yet with diligence, 
With patience, inner sight, humility,
And courage still to question and rebel.
.
And doing this may often cause us pain,
With scorn from others when we speak of things
They do not wish to hear. And yet there is
The truth, perceived, that undercuts the lie, 
That each can softly whisper, till we die.
.
2024 July 3rd, Thu.
Berkeley, California
.

Sacrilege

 
Sacrilege

The only g*n*cide memorialized,
The only one in which we all are drilled,
Repeatedly, through schools and books and films,
With monuments erected, tributes paid,
With pilgrimages due, from those on high
Before we vote, is that which stands alone.

No other slaughters, even those that cleared
The continents on which we settlers live,
Can ever be compared to that Event
Of horror that is singular, unique.

And so our taxes can be used to send
Not only funds but lethal armaments
With which to maim and slaughter thousands. This
Cannot be questioned, nor compared to that—
The One whose name is all but deified.

So through this means, such horrors still are wrought
As might make even hardened mobsters pause
And yet are waved away or justified—
For there can only be that G*n*cide—
That One, that Only, Duly Guarded Thing—
That shields the ones who massacre and starve,
With critics charged with vilest heresy.

And so it is that all the horrors past
And all the ones succeeding that Event 
Of special, primal status, never count,
Nor those that happen right before our eyes.

So truth itself is buried deep in lies,
As bodies are—the dead or still alive—
Beneath the tons of wreckage. Still, we see
The women, children, elders, blasted, burned,
With cats and humans, huddled, homeless, starved,
And lies repeated—till a nation dies.

And some of us have slowly come to know
That even mentions of the victims or
Their land had been forbidden, seen as crimes,
Within the realms of those who’ve realized
With ardent help from other nations, this—
The crime of crimes. And now, in other lands,
The moves are underway, or well in place,
To stem the images and stop the words. 

The goal is not to simply end the lives—
And so the people—but to wipe, erase
The names themselves. What’s nameless can’t exist—
Or so the thinking and the feeling goes,
As power and wealth direct our human flows
And shape our sets of facts, our thoughts and views
By every means—including nightly news.

So is this something new? No, not at all,
Except for what those windows let us see
And hear, as if the ones who sobbed and screamed
Or spoke to us in fright, in measured tones,
Were present where we are, and not where lives
Are snuffed like candles by the blasts of bombs. 

And so we now will see those windows close,
Unless we rise together and resist
And dare to say the word we’ve all been told
Is sacrilege—and yet is naught but truth.

For what had occurred in the past and then
Repeated in our lifetimes is again 
Revived and walking, dressed in black, with scythe,
But wielding now the weapons we have wrought
That burn and blast and bury thousands, while
We coddle those who perpetrate these crimes. 

2024 March 12th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Ghouls

 
Ghouls

Spare me from the ones who feel no doubt,
Who think they know what things are all about—
The jaded cynics, firm on fear and greed,
The zealots, fixed, of each and every creed,
The ones who walk in furrows others plough
Or practice paradigms, not asking how
These came to be, nor ever asking why
The weapons flow as women, children die,
The ones who close the eye and ear and mind
To all beyond their own exclusive kind,
Who use their labels, stamping each in turn,
To silence those who scream when others burn.

Oh spare me, please, from humans, turned to ghouls,
Who've found their grooves—and clearly lost their souls,
Who still can party, while the children die,
And still have gall enough to spread the lie.

2024 March. 1,  Fri.
Berkeley, California

Blindness, Evil and Greed

 
Blindness, Evil and Greed

“Out of sight is out of mind.”

And this, the rulers know.

So humans can be blasted, burned,

In places far away—

And other species tortured, killed, 

In places out of sight,

So those of us who do not see

Can watch our TV shows

And carry on, as if these things

Were mere imaginings.

 

And there are those, with hardened hearts,

Who find their entertainment

In parties on a hilltop, where

They watch the bombs exploding

Within the city they have cursed

As children burn and die—

A cause for celebration, since

They might “grow up to fight”.

 

So people who are prominent

Quite publicly declare

Support for endless massacres

And even loudly cheer

Destruction, death, and suffering,

Till those they see as “vermin”

That plague the promised land 

Are dead or fled and cleared.

 

So some are blind to evil, while

Some others seek revenge—

Not “an eye for an eye”, but a hundredfold—

Not soldiers fighting others,

But bombs that rain, for months on end,

On those defenseless, trapped—

On children, women, elders, men,

Removing limbs and skin,

And leaving others who survive

To perish, buried deep.

 

So some are blind or seek revenge,

And these are everywhere,

But others simply want to clear

The nuisance that resists—

That stands against their endless greed—

By chance—or act of will.

 

And these are they who start these things

And these are they who steer

The rest, through lies and influence,

Towards more and more of war.

 

So what we see in Gazza—that

Is not an aberration,

But just the latest episode

Within that local roil

Of death and grief and suffering

That never seems to end.

And there are others we forget

Or never even knew of, 

Who suffered through their genocides,

Unseen, unheard—as though

They never had existed.

And some, who visit where they lived,

May find their silent bones,

And linger, for a while, perhaps,

Where once they'd built their homes,

Deserted now—or filled with those

Who came and took their place,

Not knowing or reviling those

Whose crime was mere existence. 

We think these things are far away

In distance or in time,

And see no reason why we should

Be bothered by these troubles. 

Yet all the world is joined and one.

In blindness or in vision,

What happens there will happen here, 

Unless we see and act.

2024  January 25th, Thu.
Berkeley, California 
 

The Madness

The Madness

We humans think so highly of ourselves—
And yet we trap ourselves in madnesses 
Of various sorts—and some are recognized 
And others not—as each in turn is praised

And then reviled and cast aside—and then
Revived, in force, to blight our lives again. 
We recognize a body's illness, but 
Ignore or serve collective madnesses. 

****** 

The quest for money drives the world we’ve made.
It rules our lives and colors all we see.
Our minds are trained to function through its rules—
And those who can’t or won’t are seen as fools.

To question this pursuit is heresy.
Some shed religion, only to adopt
This faith in money. Mammon rules on high
And governs what we think and say and do.

****** 

And who can blame the ones who play the game
And find in wealth and all it yields no shame—
Or those, for whom the cash they slave to earn
Is what sustains their selves and those they love?

But could the rules and so the play be changed 
To ease the lives of humans under stress—
And save our species from the fate that we
Have sent so many others to, in haste?

****** 

The world of Nature isn’t filled, we see,
With love and peace alone; these do exist—
Along with predators that stalk their prey,
And parasites that feed upon their hosts.

We humans are a part of Nature, so
There is, in us, a mix of all these things.
We still have power, though, to bend our lives
Towards what is sane—or towards insanity.

****** 

Some say, “The world is what it was and is—
And always will be. Let it go its way
And mind your business. Tend to self and kin
Or find your peace by seeking what’s within.”

But others say “The tides that rage and flow
Are made by humans, who’ve been led astray.
Unless this madness ends—this wild stampede—
Our kind, like others, will be swept away.”

****** 

The ones who halt—or slow too much—within 
A charging crowd are trampled under foot—
Until awareness spreads and one by one
We slow the race and so the spreading blight.

I’ve found no answer to the issues raised,
Nor any means to ease the plight we’re in. 
I only ask that humans recognize
This illness grave—that blights the world we’re in.

2022 October 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Region of Darkness

 
Region of Darkness

Where the eyes are cast down or are forcefully shut,
Where the ears cannot listen to pleas,
Where the things all around us will never be known,
Let us go, and be satisfied, please.

Let us harden our hearts, as we smile and we laugh
At the jokes about people who suffer.
Let us silence the one who may still have a heart
And say, “He's a traitor, that duffer!”

Let this be the place that we live in, oh lord—
A place that has freedom from worry.
To this place of our dreams, let us hasten, oh lord—
To this region of darkness, let’s hurry.

2018 November 4th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

From Ape to Ape

From Ape to Ape

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154857296365950 

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

https://www.facebook.com/plugins/comment_embed.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Farjun.janah%2Fposts%2F10154857296365950%3Fcomment_id%3D10154866581400950   
  

A Love That’s Unrequited

 
A Love That’s Unrequited
 
A love that’s unrequited
is dismissed as just an ache
by those who’re unaffected,
yet the one whose love is spurned
can either then be lessened
or be deepened by the burn.

And though it’s unproductive
in the realm of matter, yet
it still can have its children
in the hearts and minds of men
and women who are hurting
but can then express that pain.
 
And one may write her verses,
while another quietly works,
but yet another, pining,
may be driven to despair
or even to a madness
that could lead her to her death.
 
Yet most survive rejection,
and can still find love again.

We take that love too lightly
that we fail to recognize,
but learn to love more deeply
when rejected in our love.
 
2016 August 23rd, Tue.
(last 4 lines of 3rd stanza
and the 2 lines of the 4th stanza
added August 27, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
 

Left to Be

 
Left to Be

How much of pain and suffering can living things endure?
How much of harsh injustice can our fellow humans bear?
The cruelties surround us, yet we seem to be immured.
Perhaps we could not bear them, if we cared to see and hear.

We each have our survival and the cares of those we feed.
But even one, who’s lucky and has leisure, rarely pauses
To listen and to look with care, to read and understand.
So rarely does he correlate effects with hidden causes.
 
It never will be governments—except for just awhile—
Or financiers who will provide the things that beings need.
They must procure these by themselves, together and alone.
They can, if they are left to be—not mauled by fear and greed.

Though Nature can be cruel, as it also can be giving,
The structures that we’ve built that prey on us are clearly worse.
They’re hard enough, though still with joys—our journeys, each, of living,
Without enslavements, gilt or not.   With that, I’ll end my verse.

2016 February 9th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
    

The Cost

 
The Cost 

We surely need to turn away from that
Which drives us mad by slow degrees – or fast.
But in our times, that turn is hard to make.
The place, for sanity, is often last.

We lose awareness.  So the mind, confused,
Is driven into darkness.  There, it’s lost –
And seeks for light in ways that darken more.
We sin in blindness and we pay the cost.

We act from anger or its kindred causes,
And our discomfort is expressed in ways
That transfer that disturbance to another.
And so is karma wrought, as evil stays.

The one who harms is harmed by what he does,
Although this might not seem to be the case,
For himsa will extract, from each, that price
That’s marked – and which we mortals can’t erase.

We turn from madness, from the rushing mob,
But find that we ourselves are deemed as mad.
No matter.  Though the cost again is high,
It's better paid than that more lethal price.

2015 April 14th, Tue. 12:07 am
Brooklyn, New York

Note: The word himsa is the opposite of ahimsa, the a- prefix in Sanskrit being cognate to that in "amoral", "atheist", "asexual" etc.  The two Sanskrit words may be translated into English as "violence" and "non-violence", respectively.  Both these translations are, however, approximate and incomplete.
   

Vortex

 
Vortex

We near the precipice and hear its roar,
And yet, the madness of the rush proceeds.
And even though one says, “Is that a scream?”
The others shout, “Go on. It’s just a dream!”

So lemmings, we’ve been told, may die in fjords,
And humans perish, as we’ve seen, in wars.
The ones of narrow vision rule our herd
And goad us on, upon this whirling earth.

In truth and kindness, though the saints believe,
This world is ruled by cruelty and lies.
In most religions, peace is valued most,
And yet, it’s war of which the nations boast.

So those who follow conscience now are doomed,
As they are punished and their ventures fail.
For virtue now is only seen as vice,
And he or she succeeds, who isn’t nice.

If I believed in God and Satan, then
I’d see a world that’s headed straight for hell.
And though I’ve tried to steer to what is right,
The fiery portals are what loom in sight.

Salaam, shalom, and shaanti, peace…
So men beseech the spirit, everyday.
And yet, the demons, that infest the mind,
Their newest means of endless torture find.
  
How many are the traps and vortices –
The snares and whirlpools that devour our souls...
And all around us, swirls the great cyclone,
Yet in its eye, we sit – and psalms intone.

How many are the myths by which we're led...
How many are the prisons built by men...
From deep within, the captives call, in pain.
But few can hear them, as they call in vain.

There was a time when I could view the world
And all its madness with a tranquil eye –
Observe its wonders and its horrors and
Attempt, with mind and heart, to understand.
  
But having fallen in the vortex, I
Have lost, alas, that clear, untroubled sight –
For all the conflicts of the world are fought
Within ourselves – where sanity is not.

And yet, in night's despair, the hope persists
That there's a day that will, with time, have dawn –
That deep below the shallow storms of self,
There's still that calm, to which we turn for help.
       
2014 September 13th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
      

Interwoven

   

Interwoven

                  

The past, the present and the future are

As interwoven as the tribes of men.

Who posits, simply, “That and they are other!”

Forgets his birth and therefore shuns his brother.

So men are blinded and they go to war.

And yet, in battle, each can other ken,

When slaughter's done, and plunderer then finds

A little note that him, of home, reminds.

******

We leave our homes and often travel far,

We think that now is different from then,

But actions past, that rippled out, return

And at our journey's end, we homewards turn

Our ethics may no longer serve to bar

Such actions as might harm our fellow men,

But everything we do has consequences

That only are revealed in future tenses.

2013 September 1, Sat. 3:50 am..
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

A Ramble and a Rant--Part I

        
A Ramble and a Rant
        
Part I – A Ramble

When I was young, I read or I was told
That you can tell a lunatic by this –
A person who believes that he is sane
But is convinced that all the rest are not.

I look around, and more and more, I see
That people rarely question what they do,
For if they did, they'd see the craziness.
I wonder, does this mean that I'm insane?

I also see, the ones who're sensitive,
The ones who care, are diligent to fault –
They seem to be the ones, who're most at risk
Of going quietly mad from hopelessness.

When I was young, I saw a fly that buzzed
Against a window pane.  It beat its wings
And dropped, at end, exhausted – there to die.
How many now are caught, as was that fly?

The sages say to find the peace within.
The seers speak of vision, bright and clear.
But when our work, our lives, are steeped in sin,
Can far be seen – or even what is near?

We learn a language – and what's right and wrong.
And languages, and morals  too, may vary.
But when there is a moral conflict, then
The ones of stronger conscience meet travail.

In this our world, where men can feed on men,
Our ethics turn to baggage that we carry,
And those with less can speed along with ease
And so can prosper.  Those with more cannot.

Our morals had evolved within our clans,
Where actions had their consequences as
The ones aggrieved or aided would be there,
To give to us, at end, what we deserved.

But now, we interact with strangers, who
Are next to naught to those who swindle, rob
Or even murder, singly or en masse,
And then depart – to dine and soundly sleep.

And so we did, with beasts we chased and killed,
Although some thanked the spirit of the beast,
While others thanked that god, who had ordained
That all that lived was their inheritance.

Religions, laws arose to meet the needs
Of people, unacquainted, thrown together,
With old constraints removed, in childhood learned,
With gentle arts that sprang from loving hearts.

But love and friendship bind, with tenderness,
The ones who're bonded by their births or chance,
And few are they, who're sainted far enough
To stretch these spheres to all that lives on Earth.

It's clear enough that laws, religions were
And still are used to keep us herded, tame,
Obedient to our masters, who exploit
Our labor in a god's or nation's name.

And so it is that hierarchies abound,
Be they in lands of empires in the east
Or north or south or west.  And each must bow
And be a vassal to a lord or god.

For even as there is, in all but few,
A sense of fairness, justice, equity,
There also is, it seems, proclivity
To be a serf – or else a master be.

How little do we know of history!
For even where traditions tell a tale,
How much of it is myth, we do not know,
And every nation centers on itself.

So victims' children may recall, perhaps,
The horrors past, those bloody annals that
The perpetrators' children glorify
Or do not care to know or understand...

And victors soon can occupy the place
That despots past assumed – and be the lords
To which the vanquished pledge their fealty.
So brigands rise, in time, to be as gods.

For see, we strive to learn the victors' tongue.
We ape their habits – and their vices, most.
We scorn the ones who feebly might resist,
As we, of newest lackey stations, boast.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

Cadences – Part I

Cadences – Part I  
         
A summer sky of blue and glowing white,
An evening breeze, with waving leaves – and I
Am as fulfilled or more, as those with wealth,
Who'd rarely find, in these, their hearts' content.

How simple are our basic needs, and yet
We find ourselves entrapped.  The endless race
To nowhere picks up speed, or faltering,
Creates conditions for yet more of stress.

So autumn, with its drifting leaves, will see
The students and their teachers crawl to schools,
And there, their labors, which could be of love,
Will turn to joyless tasks, as madness rules.

Then winter – with its chilling winds and snows,
A season for reflection and reserve,
But subject now to more of lunacy,
With silent solstice turned to loud bazaar.

And spring will come, with all its hope and lust –
And even these, in turn, will turn to dust,
Unless, perhaps, as pole inclines to sun,
Our souls awake – and nightmares end at last.

The seasons come and go – and each delights
If only we would dance with seasons' flow.
But how can we, until we're frenzy-free?
We then can move in cadence joyful, slow.

The drums of war, the pipes of finance sound,
As masses march yet faster to their deaths.
Oh pause, we say, and see the ocean, sky,
The land with all its beings...  Question why.

2013 August 6th, Tue. Evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

With Gentle Feet

     
With Gentle Feet
                    
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks she'll do this and that
And so become another –
To her, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

******
 
So do whatever you desire
Or what you have to do,
And savor thus your duty, pleasure,
While still remaining you.

For your body and your spirit are
As waves upon the sea,
And let's observe that wavelet, that
As cloud aspires to be.

It might forsake the ocean vast
And wash upon the land,
Or warmed by sun, as vapor rise –
And yet not understand.

For even if it rises high
Above the rolling plain,
Its nature is of water and,
As water, will remain.

And though it fall as snow upon
The lofty mountain peaks,
In time enough it will return,
As water, level seeks...

And though the sights that we may see
While mounting on ambition,
May serve to feed the dreams of age,
They will not give us vision.

For vision that is not of eyes
Alone is what is needed,
And when the heart is riven, then
Its vision isn't heeded.

And when ambition blinds our soul
Or we reject our parts,
Then all around us, shattered, lie
The bodies, minds and hearts...

So let the ones, who're driven, rise.
Observe them rise and fall.
Go carefully, with gentle feet,
With love for one and all.

******
 
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks he'll do this and that
And so become another –
To him, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

2013 July 28th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

Love and Zen

Love and Zen
  
When there is caring, there is also sight
That sees what's wrong as well as what is right.
And if there's power, there is action then,
And if there's not, the old familiar plight...

In each tradition, seers prophesied,
To draw attention to the problems tried...
A few succeeded and were honored men,
But most were laughed at, shunned or vilified.

There is compassion and there's cruelty.
And both of these, so many will not see.
And those who do, no matter how or when,
Are then accused of lacking sanity...

We're born and live and love and wonder why
Our fellow men embrace the easy lie.
The truth is there for those who care to ken.
Some care and try – but then it's time to die...

But this is not a paradise, this Earth,
In which, in pain, we each are given birth.
Yet there is love and there is also Zen.
Let's practice both – and then return to dirt.

We've some who only see in black and white.
They swing from love to hate, from ease to spite.
But others note the shades of gray and then
In brightness see the dark – in darkness, light.

2013 July 17th, Wed.
Brooklyn
Notes: 

1. The word “men” is used as shorthand here
for “men and women”, to keep the rhyme and
meter.

2.  The Japanese word zen (Chinese chan)
derives from the Sanskrt dhyana, which may
be translated in English, depending on the
context, either as attention or as meditation
(deep, relaxed attention, especially the quiet
observation of one's own body-mind in the
present moment, beginning, for example,
with the breath).
 

Darkness

Darkness
  
Darkness into Darkness, sightless to the end –
When all are competitors, then who can be a friend?
Darkness into darkness, turned away from light –
When all we see is darkness, what use to us is sight?

Dark and deep the river, ceaseless in its flow –
When everyone is racing, then who can dare to slow?
Dark and deep the river, feel it swirl and rage –
When all around is madness, who listens to the sage?

Darkness into darkness, blindness cannot see –
When all that's good is dying, who wishes then to be?
Darkness into darkness, callous till the end –
When what you do is heartless, how can you be a friend?

2013 June 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn