Walking Home

  
Walking Home
    
The trees, now skeletal, with snow-draped limbs,
Are reaching towards a darkest-violet sky.
And in that sky, the moon is shining full,
With Jupiter, resplendent, by her side.

When all the madness of the day is done
And I am walking home in deep fatigue,
I see these wondrous things and then am touched
By that which gives me just a bit of peace.

How many, as they travel homeward, see
The trees, the sky with clouds and moon and stars,
And so return, for just a little while,
To that which was – and will for longer be…

If only those like me could call aloud
Or silently, to others, “Do desist!
For what you do is madness.  Stop and be.”
But all we do instead is breathe awhile.

I wonder, if the city’s lights were dimmed,
Would zombies wake and then, in reverence,
Beneath the deep, return to life again,
Or would they, fearing looters, reach for guns?

Let’s leave them be.  Come walk awhile with me.
No words are needed – just the sky, the trees,
That shining moon, that planet jewel-bright.
Who still needs more, let them demented be.

2013 December 18th, Wed.  8:26 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

A Hell on Earth

                
A Hell on Earth

We live in times, when all across the world
The people and their nations turn insane.
And some may say that this was always so,
But in our madnesses, there are degrees.

Wherever there are wars that do not end,
Wherever there is endless violence,
It’s clear that reason’s fled – and minds and hearts
Are sickened by a plague that feeds on men.

But even where the slaughter is far less,
At least of humans, in our cities, towns –
And even now in furthest villages,
Our evil scourges are alive and well.

For humans live as captive zombies might.
They run through hectic lives, in mindless haste,
Or fall in spells of utter, sad, despair
And even seek to exit life itself.

******
 
Amidst this madness, some might dare to say,
“Let's stop this thing, for this is cruelty,
A mad stampede that tramples those who’re frail
And those who pause to question or reflect.”

They're ridiculed or persecuted and
Are silenced soon enough by those who rush
To play the games that lead us all to hell.
The oven’s doors are closed to those within.

And in that oven, humans bake and burn.
They cannot think or speak, from murderous stress.
For even as we burn away the Earth
And all its species, so we murder selves.

So how, within this fatal fever, can
We find our peace, our bit of sanity?
Or is that mission too a sad defeat,
That lets the sickness work its evil more?

******
     
For if the nations and their peoples have
Been so possessed by madness that we turn,
To this, an eye that’s blind – and only seek
A shelter for our selves, then can this end?

Can Ms. or Mr. Lemming pause and yet
Remain alive?  Can nations not “progress”?
I do not know – and so I ask you this,
And pray you will not take it as remiss.

For wealth can never equal happiness,
And poverty is made by those who race.
And till we find the time and strength to ask
The questions that we don’t, this will not end.

But few have time – and even fewer, strength.
With workers squeezed, who still has leisure left?
And those retired, or those who’re affluent
Are either tired – or profit from the stress.

2013 Dec. 11th, Mon, 2:24 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
     

The Small and Easy Lie

            
    The Small and Easy Lie

Of all the means that are employed
    To render workers slaves,
The lie is used, most commonly,
    By each new crop of knaves.

But sadly, it is workers, who,
    To falsehoods, then accede.
And every time we do, we let
    The master-knaves succeed.

For when a job's impossible,
    The shortcut then is used.
This sets the stage for tragedy,
    As lackeys watch, amused.

For conscience is an organ, which
    Will wither, when suppressed,
And gains in strength, when what it says
    Is followed or expressed.

So when we use, in what we do,
    The small and easy lie,
We then should know, the truth begins
    To suffer and to die.

"But facts are facts!" you may declare,
    "And truth is truth." maintain.
But when awareness, memory
    Have faded, lies remain.

And when we've built a structure on
    A base that's clearly false,
That structure is a jail-house, which
    Imprisons, till it falls.

And workers then will toil and strive,
    Not knowing history.
And when they fail at what they do,
    It's not a mystery.

But failure too will then be used
    To sell yet more of lies.
So be aware, for every lie,
    A bit of freedom dies.

And good intentions, too, are vain,
    When sight is so obscured
By lies, unchallenged, mounting up,
    That illness can't be cured.

The jungle we are in will clear,
    When each perceives the truth,
And then proceeds to, one by one,
    The tangled lies uproot.

The fog that we are in will clear
    When each confronts the lie,
And tells the truth, in private and
    In public, lest it die.

    2013 October 26th, Sat.
             Brooklyn  
   

The Price of Sin

The Price of Sin

A fish was swimming in the sea.
It now becomes a part of me.
Its spirit long has left its flesh,
For spirit-nature tends to flee
A carcass, while it still is fresh,
So souls are of encumbrance free.

******
 
Or so, at least, I would presume,
As others mostly do assume,
So all can look at dinners, lunches,
And guiltlessly, those meals, consume,
As well as breakfasts, teas and brunches.

And turning, therefore, to my fish,
Which looks to be a tasty dish,

I see it's sautéed well.  I smell

Its fragrance and I fondly wish
Its taste and flavor will be swell.

I pick the muscle from the spine.
I taste the flesh.  It tastes divine.
It's sad this being had to die
To make, for me, a luncheon fine.
I eat the fish – and do not cry.

But still, a nagging thought remains,
That nags and nags, as certain pains
May do, that we may wish were not,
But still persist, till each obtains
Attention due, that we forgot.

I wonder if, with tables turned,
By fishy chef, I would be burned –
Have salt and spice on scalded skin,
So I, who's dining, unconcerned,
Would fully pay the price of sin.

******
 
And this, I can't but wonder too:
Are our assumptions really true?
Does the spirit truly leave
(As hermit-crabs, their shelters do),
As many smugly may believe,
Until they die – and dinners rue?

2013 September 21, Sat. afternoon,
between Chinatown, Manhattan,
and Bensonhurst, Brooklyn,
on the N and D trains, on
the way home from the
doctor's office in C-t.
  

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
 

Syria

Syria
                 
I saw the horrors on the Internet,
Of little children lying dying, dead,
Of adults kicking, spasming, being held,
As poison did its cruel work on them.

And if I hadn't had my dinner, then
I probably would rise from watching this,
With dinner warmed and ready, and would  eat,
While chatting with my wife on this and that.

I wonder what we all would do if all
That's perpetrated in a war or peace,
Would reach our screens, so sights of burning flesh,
And sounds of screams were heard as watchers dined.

I wonder.  Then I think, how every day
The men and women drive to work and sit
In front of screens – and guide, to targets, bombs
That then explode in places far away.

And some of them may see the ones who burn,
Who run like ants with clothes and flesh aflame,
And some are children, mothers burned to death,
Or maimed, disfigured, left to rot in pain.

And each of these must then, in turn, arise
And drive to homes where they can eat and talk,
With children and with spouses, some of them,
At peace again at end of working day.

So if indeed we saw what nations do,
Be they perceived as foes or closest friends,
I wonder if the world might change or not.
I think I still might eat and carry on.

But then, of course, we haven't reached there yet,
And if it goes like this, might never do.
We'll see the horrors that we blame on those
We see as foes, but rarely what we do,

Each land has troubles of its own enough,
But when the powers use it as a stage
On which to fight their battles, then we see
Unending grief and endless misery.

In Syria, we see what might be us,
If we have come from India or a place
Where many peoples mix and live as one,
With tensions past and present underneath.

We know the fuse, when lit, will burn and then,
If not put out, will lead to lethal end,
A death not brief and merciful but one
That makes of life and land a living hell.

2013 August 31, Sat.
Brooklyn
   
Strange Encounter    

Transience – II

 
Transience – II                                                       \1
        
We cling to life and to possessions, yet
We come with nothing and we go with naught.
The things we think we have are passing through
And so are we – for dust returns to dust.

The things we live for, all the things we do,
May blossom for a little while or not.
But like the blooms that toss upon the breeze,
They'll fade away in time and then be lost.

And all our pride, resentments, anger are
Like storms that roil the surface of a sea,
With waves that wreak their vengeance and are gone.
Let love, compassion work their ways in calm,

For kinder thoughts and words and actions may
Have less of force and yet have more of depth.
Why add to all the suffering, yet more?
Let our remembrance be a brighter one.

We are but mortals and we all are weak,
And some are blinded more than others are.
Forgive the ones who seem to wrong you, so
You may, in turn, from some, forgiveness seek.

The ones that rouse our anger, feel our wrath,
Tomorrow may be gone, like yesterday.
That turning of the cheek, we'll rarely rue,
But should we leave with debts of wronging due?

****** 
             
And even those we love and those, who give
Us of their love, are ripples on the lake.
So who can stop them, as they go their way
And leave us with our grief and memories?

So while they live, let's give to those, who're dear,
And even to the ones we might neglect,
Their due, before they leave or we depart,
Of our attention and our care, respect.

So many live today within a rush,
With constant stress and pressure from around,
And so forgetting, as the madness mounts,
What sanity and life are all about.

We came from naught and will, to nothing, go.
Let's pause from rushing, for a little while,
And ponder this and see absurdity,
So we can savor then a laugh or smile.

To laugh at others, all of us can do.
To laugh at self is truly freedom true.
If you feel sorry for your present state,
Then shed a tear for those less fortunate.

******
            
And if we're overcome or paralyzed,
Let's take a breath and do what needs be done.
Our lives are passing and our time is brief,
And yet there's time for life and for belief.

There's true and false and even right and wrong.
And though we've no reward on heaven, earth,
We still can will to do what's honest, right,
And till the end, for love and reason, fight.

However much the woe, there still is joy,               \2
And in our laughter, we can hear the grief.
This world will be, when you and I are gone.
Let's leave the self awhile, to breathe and be.

Like waves at sea and like the clouds above,
Are you and I, and all the changing world.
The hills are waving in their rhythms slow,
The empires rise and then, in time, they go...

Our days are numbered and our nights are few.
As night and day are mortal, so are we.
For all that's born lives out its life and dies,
From stars to ants, including you and me...

Behold, at night, the starry sky and see
The galaxies that gyre like whirlpools 'round.
We are no more than motes on motes and yet
We have this life to live and not regret.

2013 August 11th, Sun. & 12th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  
    
Notes:
  
1.  Please see also:  Transience
   
2.  This stanza was probably influenced by the quote from William
Blake that my friend Amitabha Sen sent me from Chicago.  This
was in response to my last sending, Nature's Nature:
   
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

-- William Blake
   
See http://www.bartleby.com/41/356.html
to get Blake's poem, Auguries of Innocence.

Then (from Edit-->Find) look for:

man was made for joy and woe

The first 4 lines of that poem, by the way,
may be among the most remarkable in the
English language.  Do take a look.  They may
be very familiar to some of you.  But, if you
have the patience, it may be worth your while
to read Blake's long poem in its entirety.

-- Babui / Arjun
 

The Age of Packaging – Part II

       
The Age of Packaging – Part II 
             
in which the state of these United States (and perhaps of other countries) is described and reflected on, albeit with eye and mind of prejudice... 
           
The Age of Packaging is what we're in.
But there is more to say.  And we had thought
To leave that out, as it's dispiriting.
But pessimism has its uses, too.
So we shall venture now upon that road
And leave to you to follow us or not.

We shall endeavor now to wail a dirge,
With sordid details woven in that seem
To indicate the death was homicide –
Except that we're recounting the demise
Of what was left of sorry humankind,
And so, perhaps, it's suicide that fits...

And some of you, I'm sure, would disagree.
For soon, that dream we had, when realized,
Will let the village boy or girl access
The knowledge – and, perhaps, the wisdom – stored
And ever growing, of our human kind,
So all can use this – and can add to it.

And soon, that other aspect too
Of that same dream – that when their citizens
Converse – and see the others' sufferings,
The nations then might bomb and war no more –
This too, we hope, could be reality...

And that might be, but isn't yet, and those
Who're cynics – or are realists – might ask,
“When families and clans and villages
Resort to violence, can nations cease?”

And others yet, more hopeful, might reply,
“If provinces and cities find their peace,
And often do not care for race or creed,
Then nation-states may surely do the same,
Or else dissolve, in time, so men may move
About and do, what they have always done
To live, without the burdens of a state
Or nation or of empire on their backs.

“And as they talk, across the distances,
Their narrow prejudices then might yield
To broader vision, while what's local still
Is treasured, drawing vigor from the new.”

But all of this is dream and speculation.
We look around and view reality –
And though our sighting may be jaundiced, we
Perceive, that as before, each step we take,
Made possible by reason and by work,
Is then reversed – and all, that labor wrought,
Is turned around to deepen slavery.

This keeps us busy, as we need not be,
While even more distractions rise to cloud
Whatever vision gave us hope of clarity.

When life was simpler, and we ran with apes,
We cannot doubt that many still were caught
Within that web that beings weave, with selves
Emerging from that weaving, like those shapes
That close inspection sees are only threads
Of colors, magicked by embroidery.

But when that weaving too is done for us,
So we have even lost that freedom sole,
Then what remains, is to our ancient selves
As are the plastic prints to cloths of yore.

And so, while in the past one still might hope
To clearly see the woven self and so,
With gentle art, unravel all its knots,
What hope remains, when distant hands conspire
To tangle us so even gods despair?

And as we tire of all that comes our way –
In print or via copper, glass and through
The air itself, on oscillating fields,
We're even less inclined to look within
Those boxes black that run on magic code
That seems beyond our plebeian minds to ken,
To ask, from where the things that we consume
Have come – and how – whose labor was involved –
And whether what we're told by Congressmen,
By rabid ranters on the radio or
By salesmen – archetype of current age –
Is true or false.  A numbing apathy
Descends – and all we wish to sense
Are colors, sounds and titillations.  Pablums feed
Not only children, but our adults too.
We substitute, for facts, mythologies.

So all are turned to salesmen, pitching sales
Of goods and services and attitudes –
Plus wars, of course, as needed for the rest...
And all depends, at end, on packaging.

And only violence appears to wake
Our souls from somnolence.  We vent that rage
That stems from fear, frustration, ignorance.

We cannot see, through blinding prejudice.
We cannot hear the subtleties of tone,
With ears that have been blasted by the noise
That issues, amplified, from gadgets' mouths.
We gladly dance to tawdry piper's tunes
That lead us further into misery.

The package, when it's opened, then is seen
As having content that is clearly not
As we envisioned from the packaging.
So we're enraged, but rarely blame ourselves
Or even packagers, but someone else.

The system's rarely questioned much in depth,
By him, who is a modern fatalist,
Conditioned to be so, by all he's seen,
Despite the jive and all the packaging.

“A pinball game it is, this life,” he says,
And some will win, and hopefully, it's me,
But all of us are losers in the end.”

“So let us all consume, as best we can,
While running fast to earn, so we can spend,
Or if we're prudent, sock away that sum,
That's ever growing, for that future time
When we can either work no more or else
Are rich enough to finally relax.”

But then, too often, the unraveling:
The wealth has disappeared, along with health.
And what's now left is argument, divorce.
The dream's still distant. What is real, is debt.

And as with persons, so with larger realms.

“What happened?  This was not to supposed to be.
We cannot lose, for we're the winning kind.
It must be those and that and all the rest
That's come between us and the very best.”

And welcome, all, to world, as it's perceived
By optimists who flourish in the west
And surely, in our day, in east as well.
Mirages will be chased, as empires rise
And even as they fall to sordid death.

“So what, in this, is new?” you well might ask.
Our masses, long ago, to sheep were turned,
That did, as wolves-turned-herders, class of lords,
Commanded.  Violence was always used,
With law and church subverted for the ends
Of those who reigned and profited the most
From all the labor of the ones “below”.
This came to them along those feeding chains
That still exist.  But times have always changed,
With evils old acquiring newest names...

So now, it seems, the ones who do the best
Are those adept at selling, to the rest,
The products and the myths that propagate
And feed yet more the cancer that has spread
To all the globe, devouring all of life
And humankind itself.  For it's been found
That we've been numbed and dumbed enough to yield,
And gladly, to the art of packaging...

So commerce rules, as many had foretold,
And finance now is openly our king,
And as predicted, local business dies
As giants dominate the globe and run
Their races for resources, markets and
For humans, too, that robots can't replace.

And since so many care for price and show,
And little else, the jobs, to places go,
Where pay is least, conditions often worst.

And labor thus gets cheaper by the day
And yet must face replacement by the ones
Who need no wages, pensions, benefits,
Nor even sleep nor pause from constant toil,
But clank and whir – or function silently.

So many now are jobless. There's no land
Or village to return to.  Others strive
To join their ends – and work themselves to death.
Yet others thrive – or else make do on what
The race throws up – or government largess.

The ties of village and of clan are lost.
Traditions, cultures dissipate and die.
While some may celebrate the evils gone,
Some others see that evils new have come,
With horrors often even greater, yet
So packaged that they tempt unwary souls
And snare them in the nets they can't escape.

What once was virtue, now is seen as vice.
And newer vices rise, as virtues hailed...
So soul departs, with all of substance lost,
And all that's left is lust and violence.

There's more today of entertainment, food,
But less, by far, of depth and quality,
And dare we say, of plain humanity.
We live and die on “bread and circuses”.

The children are corrupted.  Innocence
Is quickly lost, impatience, shallowness,
Suspicion celebrated, trust misplaced,
Sincerity misunderstood, abused...

And yet, on all of this, the marketers
Are able still to put a glossy sheen,
As we can see in plastic packaging...

We do not know, what misery's behind
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, our drugs,
And all that we so willingly consume.
But there are those who suffer.  Yet we're told
They do so willingly – or else, it's God,
Who has ordained they serve our endless wants. 

And if we're scolded for this painting dark
That spreads the shadows, at expense of light,
And does not show the ones who benefit
From all that vision, driving labor, wrought,
We answer, “Surely, of those things, you've heard
Enough.  Discern advances genuine
From those that are yet more of packaging.

“Remember, we are beasts of local scope.
The more the distance is, the more the chance
Of scams.  To pipers, near or distant, do
Not dance – or if you do, step carefully...

“And open, if you can, the packaging.”

2013 August 4, Sun.
(additions made August 10, Sat.)
Brooklyn
   
The Age of Packaging -- Part I
    

Meetings

  
Meetings
  
Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

******

Shall we meet by chance on a country road,
As the end of the day is coming?
And shall we dally there awhile,
With the crickets loudly humming?

Or shall I find you by a lake,
On another day, at evenfall?
And shall we linger by the shore,
As the frogs and the birds returning call?

Or shall we meet  in a wooded glen,
At the sunset hour, in another season?
And shall we stand there, in the dusk,
And wonder then if there's a reason?

Shall we cross upon the field,
At twilight, in another year?
Will you know that it is me,
And will I know that you are near?

******

We met and walked together awhile,
And then, in time, we parted.
But still, I think of you and smile,
Who far too soon departed...

I always feel that we'll meet again,
But then again we'll part.
And so it's always the end of the day,
When I sense that you are there.

But if I smile as the sun goes down,
Will I weep in the light of the dawning,
As I see you walking on the dew-wet grass,
And I know that you're gone forever?

How sad is the gloom of the evening,
How glad is the sun of the morn...
And yet, when I think of your passing,
I smile as I weep that you're gone.

******

Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

2013 July 27th, Sat.
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
  

The Way It Is

The Way It Is

The world is full of madness, cruelties –
And people seem oblivious and proceed.
They pay attention to the petty things
But either can't or will not see beyond.

It may be blindness, callousness or fear,
Necessity or duties that prevent
Our seeing or our acting as we would
If eyes and conscience stayed in good repair.

We can't be saints or martyrs, every one,
But if the ones, who know the right from wrong,
Are silent, then the ones, who don't, prevail.
The sins excused become “the way it is”.

How hard it is to go against the flow,
To speak or act, when others will not join.
The emperor parades without his clothes,
And “adults” have the “sense” to smile and bow.

How many zealots have we suffered from,
Jihads, crusades and endless “wars against”,
Exterminations of the ones who're meek,
Intimidations of the ones who speak?

Competing with the zealot is the lord,
Who thrives from greed, corruption, violence,
Whose hired thugs extract the pound of flesh –
Who yet assumes, with time, the throne “divine”.

Oh pity us, this wretched human race,
That's cannibal and feeds upon itself.
Our wolves can prey at leisure on our sheep,
Who strive to see that errant ones obey.

And yet, amidst the cruel madness, see,
There still are islands left of sanity.
There's duty, love and silent sacrifice.
There's kindness left – and there's sincerity.

For every ten, who say, “That's how it is.”
There's one, who says, “That's not how it should be.”
For every one, who seeks for fame and wealth,
We've ten, who labor cheap and namelessly.

2013 May 30th, Thu.
Brooklyn
 

Transience

   
Transience
     
The days go by – and then the years.
They're dappled with our smiles and tears.
We're born to live awhile and die,
Yet some presume to question why.

They ask, at birthing, with a wail –
And all through life, to no avail –
And even with their final sigh
They question why we live and die.

But none has found, in any season,
For birth and death, a cause or reason –
And yet, without that answer why,
It seems that life's a pointless lie.

So some surrender to their fate
Or find their drives in love or hate.
But even these, when children die –
They raise their arms to the watching sky.

How precious is the fleeting now!
To hold it still, we don't know how.
So past and future feed the lie,
As we, our transience, deny.

2013 March 30th, Sat.
Brooklyn