Ki bujhechi-কি বুঝেছি

 

কি বুঝেছি?

আমার জীবন, অতি সাধারন। 

নেই গো তাতে হীরে-রতন। 

ঘোসে-মেজে বাসন, চালিয়েছি তাও, 

করেছি আয়, আয়োজন।

ভোরের আলোয় জেগেছে আশা। 

সাঁঝের সাথে এসেছে ক্লান্তি। 

দিনের বেলায় করেছি কাজ। 

শেষের বেলায় চেয়েছি শান্তি।

কত রকমের নিষ্ঠুরতা, 

কত চেতনের কান্না, হায়! 

নির্বিকারে, হৃদয় ঢেকে, 

চলছে পথে, সবাই প্রায়।

কারোর জীবন কষ্টে কাটে, 

কারোর সহজ পথে। 

ধুঁকতে ধুঁকতে লক্ষ হাটে।

কেউ ভেসে যায় রথে।

এই জীবনের স্রোতে ভেসে, 

ভুগেছি কত দুঃখে, ক্লেশে। 

দেখেছি কত দয়া, মায়া। 

কি বুঝেছি, সবের শেষে?

অনেক দেখে, অনেক ভেবে—
লবডঙ্কা, গোল্লা, জিরো!

তাই, হতাশায়, আবোল-তাবোল 

পদ্য লিখে, হচ্ছি হিরো।

সোমবার, ১৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

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

Numbered

Numbers, essential as they are, seem to have taken over our lives. 

Even our seers have to watch their watches—currently perhaps the digital ones on their smart phones.  Time is money and money is all. 

This view might have first gained currency in England, during its industrial revolution, but in the centuries since then it has spread to every country.  Those who do not live by it swim against the tide.  One might as well be in denial of gravity.

Monetary values are attached to most things, including living things.  Even human lives have actuarial values.  It is the same with activities and occupations.  Those with lower monetary worth are devalued. 
 
Finance and economics had naturally been born from numbers.  Humans, corporations and entire nations are ranked and described by these.  

The physical sciences, engineering and technology have of course been based on measurements and calculations.  But now, even medical science increasingly rests on measured numbers.  

More generally, anything that cannot be measured and so cannot have numbers affixed to it is is disregarded or dismissed.  Such things are viewed as inconsequential and are even rendered invisible.

The revolution in information processing and communication has of course been a digital one, based on numbers, most commonly in their most basic, binary forms.  This has made us even more dependent on numbers and even more enslaved through them—and seemingly to them. 

We are now routinely identified by our numbers, and those with power over us, including financial institutions and governments, literally have our numbers. 

Here are some metrical reflections on this phenomenon. 
---------------------------------------------------

Numbered 

From yes and no and repetition rise
Our newest wonders and our newest lies.
And streams of these, that merge at logic-gates,
Predict our futures and decide our fates.

From one and zero, is the world construed—
With all its shades and subtleties imbued?
Or are these primal numbers mere devices
With which to breed yet more of human vices?

We look around the world we’ve made and see
That Number is indeed a deity.
We count our money and we strive for more.
In learning, as in soccer, there’s a score.

We rank the players and the jobs we do
And happiness has now its index too.
A war is gauged by tonnage dropped and deaths—
And driven by the “windfalls” that it nets.

And money is of course the number that
Knocks all the other jousting numbers flat.
So income, wealth and GDP and more
Are numbers at the center and the fore.

******

But “wealth and power” are the twins conjoined
(And so that phrase in earlier times was coined),
And what is power if it lacks in force?
So arms and numbers never seek divorce.

Investments, in a war or in the land,
Are things that lords and bankers understand,
But now this Understanding Old has spread
And been, with Streaming Digits, duly wed.

There’s number, number, number everywhere.
It rules—and runs through ocean, land and air.
Our bodies and our minds have been reduced
To numbers that are measured or deduced.

The doctors now consults the oracles
That know our numbers.  Seeming miracles
Are wrought by robots that can operate.
Our numbers get the job and find the mate.

In science based on mathematics, counts
Are needed—and, in finance, the amounts
Are all that matters.  All our new machines
Subsist on numbers—though behind the scenes.

******

But can sensation and perception be
Devolved to measures of a quantity?
And are the qualities that we perceive
No more than mere constructions that deceive?

Are colors such as reds and greens and blues
No more than wavelengths that we see as hues
Or oscillations in a neural field—
And not the qualities these pulses yield?

Can all the vortices of our affairs
Be mapped, like those of galaxies, in stairs
Ascending and descending, on a scale
That has in it a point that is a whale?

Who dares to pause, within the lines of labor,
Will find, bestowed upon her head, no favor
From overseers—or even from her peers—
For pausing lowers numbers, raises fears.

And pausing might permit reflection, thought
Among the ones in mills and numbers caught.
And thought, that wonders why the numbers reign,
May question things we’d rather not explain.

*****

Could numbers be as blinkers to our visions
That force us to be focused on the missions
To which we each have duly been assigned—
The tasks to which, like asses, we're resigned?

For fears, desires there may be measures, yet
Are loves and duties fishes in the net?
Are there dimensions that are qualities
That can’t be reached by measured quantities?

We each need meanings in the lives we live.
What meaning can a mark that’s measured give?
To ask such questions is to be a fool.
We’ve made a word in which the numbers rule.

We’ve been conditioned by our jobs and schools
To follow orders and to follow rules—
And one of these is to always strive for worth
In grades and cash—until returned to earth.

The numbers certainly have uses, friends,
But numbers surely cannot be our ends.
Let numbers be our tools and weapons, braves!
But let's not be, to all these numbers, slaves.

2019, March 29th, Friday 
Brooklyn, New York

The World is Flat

The World is Flat

They tried it first in the U.S.A. and honed it to an art—
For selling what they wanted folk to fork up cash to buy.
And then the Nazis used it too—and others, so that men
And women bought the party line—and did not question why.

Some call it “propaganda”, and others, “advertisement”.
Some do it rather plainly and others are more subtle.
It’s useful.  It can take a lie and turn it into truth.
And that’s a transmutation you can bet they’ll never scuttle.

A lie that is repeated—that is whispered in your ear,
That’s written into textbooks and is linked with what you cherish,
That you hear and read and then repeat—is turned to something dear,
And so in time becomes a truth—a staple that you relish.

And so it is for me and him and her and all around.
In every place and every time these methods have been used,
They’ve worked as they were meant to do. So lies have long prevailed,
And those who held to truth or questioned lies have been abused.

So what to do? Remember this—it’s only things you’ve seen
And heard and smelled and tasted, felt—and not through others—that
You should believe without a doubt—for you were there yourself.
All else is sadly suspect. Till you’ve seen, the world is flat.

What’s that? You read me right. Or else, convince me I am wrong.
But first of all, convince yourself. It’s science, not religion.
And science can be questioned—and it shouldn’t just be priests
Or scientists that you believe. It’s fact, not an opinion.

But every doctrine is a lie. And so it is with this.
We cannot catch the whirling flow within the nets we weave.
A life that’s caged is sad indeed. So ignorance is bliss,
Until the knowledge that’s ignored says, “Here! Do you believe?”
 
2017 October 20th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Layers

Layers

There are layers of the truth that lie
atop each other—or are intermixed.
And only if we start to dig, will we
discover this, and learn to know the lie
and recognize the half-truth that parades
as all of truth, which is obscured by it.

The truth could be unpleasant and upset
beliefs we’ve held as true for many years.
We might then have to modify our “truths”
to fit with what our digging has unearthed.
As long as others do the same, our own
experiences will also have their place.

We peel the onion and our tears begin.
There’s only so much that our eyes can take.
We wash the onion, cut it, cover up
the pieces, wash our eyes and then
begin to sauté onion, garlic, seeds…
We know our pain and labor lead to feasts.

2017 May 9th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Sick at Heart

 
Sick at Heart

When we’re young, we might not know of death
Or even sorrow, till the circumstance,
That brings these to our viewing, struts on stage—
And when its scene is done, we then might find
Another and another take their turns.

There comes a time, in every life, at which
We’re sick at heart from all that we have seen—
The hurt, injustice, death and misery.
And some may bow to gods—or Fortune’s will,
But others, at their deaths, are hurting still.

So tell us then the cure for this disease—
This sickness of the heart that clouds the mind
And weakens will and body.  Can we thrive
When robbed of meaning, living day to day,
Awaiting death—that hope for our release?

Or could it be that this is what is real—
That all the dreams of youth were merely dreams?
At dawn, we’re filled with hope; at sunset, dread.
Is there an in-between, in which to live
To do what needs be done—until we’re dead?
 
We might be sick in body and despair,
But later we might once again be well.
So also with the sickness of the heart—
We need to bear it till it goes away.
We walk, in darkness, towards the hope of day.

Without the darkness, would we know of light?
Without the hunger, would the food have worth?
Without what's cruel, would we feel what's kind?
We need our sorrows, like we need our joys.
From woe and weakness, let us grow in strength.
 
2016 September 18th, Sun, 7:44 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

We Went to War in the Morning

   
We Went to War in the Morning

We saw the sun was sinking
Towards  our planet’s west.
We were soldiers, tired and seeking
For a place in which to rest.

It was evening, when we struggled
To hide ourselves within
A ditch, all wet and muddy—
And dark—like clinging sin.

We were woken, in the nighttime,
By the crying of a bitch
And then the cries of puppies,
As we hid within the ditch.

We cursed then at those puppies
And at that bitch that cried.
We tried to sleep but couldn’t,
Until that crying died.

We could see, where clouds had parted,
The stars that shone on high.
We saw those stars were shining
And hoped we would not die.

******

We went to war in the morning.
We went to war at dawn.
When the sun had not yet risen,
We'd woken and we’d gone.

We'd left behind the puppies,
We'd left the dying bitch.
We'd heard a stray pup crying,
Who’d fallen in that ditch.

But we were off to battle.
So who had time to spare
For her, that dying mother,
Or could, for puppies, care?
 
And when the day was over—
How many mothers dead?
How many children dying—
Or better killed instead?

We wake, when day is breaking.
In time, we sleep again.
We're born to go to battle,
To give and take of pain.

  

******

We then had followed orders
Or fought like devils might.
We’d lived in death and dying,
In horror and in fright.

We'd seen the sun at noontime,
We’d seen it blazing bright.
We’d seen, through squinting eyelids,
A planet filled with light.

We’d heard the cries, the shrieking.
We’d heard the boom, the roar.
But then there came a silence
That told us what’s in store.

We saw the sun to westward.
We saw it sink and go.
And where we next were going,
By then, we’d come to know.

We’d seen the elders burning.
We’d seen the children burn.
We felt the planet turning
And knew it was our turn.

******

We’d seen the sun arising,
We’d seen the sun on high.
And as that sun was sinking,
We  knew that we would die.

And so, as shadows lengthened
And someone softly cried,
We struggled still to live then,
As one by one we died.

And who would find salvation
And who would end in hell,
That evening, after sunset,
It was hard for us to tell.

We're born, it seems, to suffer.
We're born to die in pain.
We rise, to join the rushing,
Till time to slow again.

We went to war on our planet.
We went to war at dawn.
But when the day had ended,
What planet were we on?

2016 February 1st, Mon. morning
Brooklyn, New York
  

Slowing Can’t Be Right

 
Slowing Can’t Be Right 

How much of all our suffering is due
To speeding when we should be going slow?
We work and eat and couple now at speed
And rarely notice all the harm we do.

So some can thrive, with sense and conscience stilled,
While others suffer from their actions or
Perceive the things that go unheeded while
We're busy rushing through our hectic lives.

******
 
We live our lives of loneliness and fear
And seek our consolations where we can.
The sun may rise, the little birds may sing
And yet we sleep or go to work in dread.

We live in isolation, torn apart
By all the tempests blowing through our lives:
The storms of Nature and the works of Man—
What others do and what we do ourselves.

We’ve lost the arts of tolerance and fun.
We turn away from relatives and friends
And seek our entertainment and our worth
In things and places distant from our earths.

We learn to race, forgetting how to slow.
We spend our lives acquiring knowledge, things—
While losing wisdom and that freedom true
Of living like the ones still human do.

You’ll find them in the forests and the hills,
In regions far removed, on arctic ice
And in the places of the scorching sun,
Beleaguered now as they are pushed to die.

They do as belly and as conscience bids.
They live and die in goodly company.
They have no money. Their possessions, they
Can carry on their backs as lightest weight.

They pay no rent to landlords or to banks.
They answer to no bosses, being free.
There is, among them, neither “high” nor “low”.
They’re born, they smile and weep, and then they go.

And some might say that I romanticize
The lives of those that dwell in poverty.
But I reply, “What wealth could ever buy
The gems of love and of sincerity?”

And others still might say, “We disagree.
We would not trade our lives for such as these.
Besides, there isn’t room, upon this Earth,
To live as once we did, in misery.”

So each may view the grass that’s distant as
Of greener hue or less than that beneath.
And we might say, “The world is changing, so
We cannot now remain as once we were.”
 
But should we then surrender to the flow
That takes us where some others want us to?
Or should we say, “We still are beings free,
Who choose our lives to be as they could be?”

******

The one that halts, when all around stampede,
Might well be trampled on—and even die.
But when the wiser start to slow and turn,
We slowly could return to clarity.

The question is, “Will sanity prevail
Before our madness breeds catastrophe?
And some might say, “We’re told that’s happened, yet
We do not slow, for slowing can’t be right.”

2015 August 30th, Sun., 3:28 pm
(first two stanzas added Sep. 2nd, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

On Winning and Sinning

 
On Winning and Sinning
  

http://memegenerator.net/instance/58914267

  























We've had our castes, our classes, sects and tribes.
And all of these remain, along with bribes.
But now, as "winners", "losers", we're divided.
And all the "losers" ever win are jibes.

Our virtues old, we've long exchanged for vice.
To those who're young, we give this shrewd advice:
"When 'winning' is the only thing that counts,
Then who has use for those who still are nice?"
 
The race is on, and all are running fast.
The gentle folk are those who finish last.
"Produce, consume and sock away your stash."
That mantra is – and all the rest is past.
 
In every land, the workers rise at dawn
To race to work.  And others, every morn,
Return from working on the graveyard shift.
We work and work, until we're dead and gone.

How much of labor!  Yet the question, "Why?"
Is rarely asked, until it's time to die.
To pay the rent, to feed ourselves, our kids –
Are these the reasons?  Who perceives the lie?

There's food enough and room enough, indeed
To house us, feed us – more than what we need.
For we and our machines – we work enough
In half our time – for all but endless greed.

Ignore the corporatists and their rants.
We've harvested the labor of the plants –
The myriad seeds of grass, the fuels below –
And yet we labor at our jobs like ants.

So pause to trace the path that value takes
From where it's made, where human labor slakes
The thirst that drives the ancient feeding chains
To where it ends, within the bankers' lakes.

And see – from there, the cash, in cycles, flows
And hither, thither, 'round the planet goes
To everywhere that rent and debt are used
To lead the harried workers by the nose.

How many hopes arise and then are dashed,
As profits grow and bonuses are cashed.
To Mammon's anvil, humans bound are led –
The hammer falls – and skulls and lives are smashed.

And what's the cordage that has long sufficed
To bind the ones who're daily sacrificed?
Their blood is flowing dark along the drains,
But few are they, who've paused – and so surmised.
 
Make no mistake – the jets that scream on high,
The cloud that rises in the crystal sky,
The fire below, the screams and silence – all
Are gifts of those who will not question why.

"That's how it is." they say and shrug or grin
And so they clear the path for more of sin.
"The way it is" is not by Nature made,

Nor made by gods, but those, who always win.

http://blogdailyherald.com/2011/03/14/higher-ed-roundup-winning-sinning-and-wtfing/

 

 


The Pharaoh once had stood between the sun
And those that worshiped both of them as one.
They worked the land from which he drew his wealth.
Six thousand years – and still we haven't won.

The newest Pharaohs now bestride the land
And their intrigues are still the stories grand.
We workers toil – and ever faster run,
And though we lose, we rarely understand.

The game is rigged. The scam is always on.
And those, who're losing, cheer the winners on,
For we've been gypped, and so we only blame
Ourselves and luck for how our lives have gone.
 
And so this worker writes, perhaps in vain.
He writes, so each of you can ease the pain.
Arise and see, what mischief is about
And end it, so it does not start again.
 
It's time the winners tasted too of loss,
It's time for drudges to defy the boss.
But only when we rise together, will
There be a chance for us to win this toss.

There's fortune, blowing in the winds of chance,
And there are pipers, playing us the dance.
And we can go with wind or piper or
Resolve to stand and take our measured stance.

Let's call for revolution, of a kind
That opens eyes and ears and also mind.
Until we see and hear and understand,
We'll never pause, our value true, to find.

But only when we pause can we begin
To see that we, who've lost, can also win.
So here's a catch that's needs to be released –
So virtue is, where now there's only sin.

As long as vice is seen as what is needed,
So long will labor's voice remain unheeded.
To cynics and to parasites, we say,
The time will come, when you will be defeated.

For though the ignorance is broad and deep,
Beneath the murk, the sense will slowly seep
Until it flows, in currents, like a tide
That clears away the rotten garbage-heap.
 
Then "winning, losing" will no longer be
The chorus that we hear, the fog we see.
Then vice and sin will yield to vision, yes,
As rivers open to the boundless sea.

And for that time I wait.  And if I die
Before that hour, and on my deathbed sigh
Because I did not live to see it, then

Remember still to ask that question, "Why?"
 

http://www.geniuscoaching.com/2014/11/4232/

 
 
 
 


When those like me are dead and gone, there still
Will come the ones who'll question, with a will.
And all the myths and lies and fakery
Will yield to those who dare to deeply drill.

"The way it is" is not by gods dictated.
This "winning, losing" we have overrated.
And this is what has led us into sin.
But sin is not the thing for which we're fated.

"The way it is" is not by gods designed,
To losing, workers long have been resigned...
But if, indeed, it's good, at times, to win,
Then by the gods, a win, we have in mind.
  
2015 February 16th, Mon. 9:36 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

Revolution

  
Revolution
 
You call for revolution – and I support your call.
Let’s set the wheel in motion – but let it turn for all.
What use is revolution – if peasants still must starve,
If workers still must labor – for less than they deserve?
 
What use is revolution, if not for each and all?
What use is revolution, if despots still are tall
And all the rest are crawling – if bosses still give orders
And soldiers still have stations at every nation’s borders?
 
When hierarchies are flattened – and newer ones not built,
Then all can claim we’re better – and this, without the guilt.
For if the price was bloody, and yet the value’s low,
What use was revolution, for those who’re still below?
 
What use are revolutions that do not free the soul,
That do not heal the body and make the fabric whole?
Let’s set the wheel in motion, but let it turn for all.
Let virtue rise, with justice.  Let vice and evil fall.
 
We cannot make a heaven, upon this spinning Earth,
But still can make things better, for those of humble birth.
We need no more of leaders, but more, who are aware.
Of lies that are misleading, from those who lead, beware!
 
The sheep, domesticated, have herders, so their fleece
And flesh can yield the bounties – in England or in Greece.
So humans, too, were corralled, and those, resisting, slain.
So peasants, workers, toiling, gave "landlords", "owners" gain.
 
We're long domesticated – to beings tame and mild,
Who do as they are bidden, forgetting eons wild…
So those, who wait for leaders – they wait for them in vain.
For when they find their leaders – they’ll find they’re fooled again.
   
The slaughterhouse is waiting, for grazers on the meadow.
Be wary –  and be humble, so none may cast a shadow
In which another’s hidden, deprived of rights and voice
Or stays content to follow – and so surrenders choice.
 
If leading is your habit, then lead us with the truth.
Perceive your branch of falsehood – and trace it back to root.
If more inclined to follow, then be of courage strong.
It's difficult to follow what's right, when all is wrong.
 
But revolutions happen – and seem to hold out hope.
The martyrs' blood then darkens, and people feed on dope.
It's still the same old story, and often even worse.
The people still have leaders, who soon will hit "reverse".

The pressures mount from bankers, the threats from powers grow.
The country is in crisis, with prices rising more.
There's fear and there's repression – and soon enough, there's war.
We sacrificed for nothing, for back to naught we are.

For still we had divisions, which still could be exploited.
We turned against each other, and all we gained was voided.
So it's the same old story that's one more time retold.
For those who bought the fictions could once again be sold.
 
There’s the marching in processions, there’s the shouting in the streets.
There’s the storming of the barracks.  There’s the tasting of the sweets
That lasts for just a season.  There's then the season sour,
When once again there’s "order", with leaders still in power.
 
And what has changed, in essence?  The hierarchies remain –
Or even when they’re broken, are seen to rise again.
The only revolutions that humans can sustain
Are those that start within us, that seek to end the pain…
 
We cannot, by our thinking – or writings, prose or verse,
Replace the need for action – or currents strong, reverse.
We need the strength collective, we need the actions bold.
We need to break the choke-holds, reject the notions sold.

But this can only happen, when each of us has strength
That comes from inner practice that’s been of depth and length.
For each must dare to question.  Together, mind and heart
Can give to us the answers.  To reason, there’s an art…

But reason, in a vacuum – or feeding on what’s fed,
Produces false "solutions".  Beware of being led!
There’s fact and there’s opinion.  You’re only sure of that,
Which you yourself experience – by wrestling on the mat.

You might have gone to college and learned a lot.  And if
You’ve kept yourself updated, unlike the working stiff,
You might have your opinions.  But only they, who’ve labored,
Can truly speak of labor.  Beware the circles favored!
  
The inside’s often different, from what the outside looks.
Do not believe the media or even what’s in books.
It’s only when you’re present, to do and see and hear –
It’s only when you’ve lived it, that vision starts to clear.
  
So who can be a leader, except to lead himself?
For only you have knowledge of what’s around yourself.
No presidents are needed, no bosses up on high –
Or even one that’s nearer.  There’s truth – and there’s the lie.
 
The truth, indeed, is bitter – and yet, what else is there?
To taste of truth, unsweetened, who first will rise and dare?
And who of us will follow – and each with firm resolve,
So all the old deceptions, with newer ones, dissolve?
 
For that is revolution, when people clearly see –
And that’s what really matters, as all the rest will be
As warmth that follows daylight, as seed that senses rain…
From vision, there’ll be action to lift the yoke of pain…
 
Beware of those divisions – of race or speech or creed –
That leave the heart in darkness – and mills of evil feed.
Of ignorance, be fearful; in learning more, be bold.
Observe the new perspective – and yet respect the old.
 
Do not despise the wealthy – nor hold them in esteem.
Do not look down on paupers – or these, as snowflakes, deem.
For all of us are human, with virtue and with vice –
From all around, take counsel – but heed your own advice.
 
If free to follow conscience, if free to seek the truth,
You then can praise your freedom – and praising, speak the truth.
And that is revolution – when each one, speaking freely,
Can say that she has freedom – that's freedom, well and truly.
 
What freedom can the man have, who answers to a boss?
What freedom in a country, that’s ruled by gain and loss?
What freedom, when we're fearful of losing jobs or lives
For speaking truth to power?  What freedom then survives?
 
What freedom, when, at Apple, they can pinpoint where you are?
What freedom, in a country that's torn apart by war?
There’s freedom that is waiting – there’s freedom for the slave.
But freedom needs its fighters – it asks you if you're brave.
   
How many wheels, in violence, have lifted up the low –
But then have kept on turning – until they’re back below?
Let’s call for revolution that frees the mind, the voice –
That clears the vision clouded, so each can then rejoice.
 
2014 December 20th, Sat.
(Some stanzas added Dec. 28th.)
Brooklyn, New York
   

Two Na**d Women

        
Two Na**d Women

Doodle-007-Discord

I saw a lady, walking nude –
A dame of Nordic stock.
And people stared as she went by.
They giggled, gaped in shock.

But she was shod – in fu**-me shoes,
With leather straps 'round calves.
And as she passed, I saw tattoos
Between her buttock-halves.

But though I squinted then to see
What the markings meant,
She strode away – and out of sight –
Unclothed – but fed, content...
  
******
   
I later saw a woman, who
Had not a shred of clothing.
She sat, despairing, in the street,
Subjected, there, to loathing.

She'd neither shoes nor sandals and
Her face and frame were gaunt.
Her eyes were filled with anguish – eyes
That will, my nightmares, haunt.

And as I walked, embarrassed, by,
And offered her no hand,
I saw, upon her wrist, some marks
I could not understand...
  
******
   
The first I saw was pink of skin,
The second, she was brown.
The first was smiling to herself,
The second made me frown.

I wondered what the tracings meant
That graced the first's behind.
It mattered not – that cryptic sign
On her I'd left behind.

And in another dream, I saw
The two, reversing roles.
I wondered what that signified
And whether parts were wholes... 

Doodle-002a-Concord

    
2014 July 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York    
    

Hear and Remember

     
Hear and Remember
       
(includes verses excised from "When Will the Killing Have End?")
      
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seven of the following fifteen stanzas were excised, for the sake 
of brevity, from the poem: When Will the Killing Have End . The 
other eight stanzas were added later.  Images have also been
added. 

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica in 1937, after the bombing, by
fascist forces, of a village with that name in Spain during its civil 
war. The image could only be fitted at a small size in the blog 
column. It is better to view it at a larger size, by clicking on the 
image. You will then see also the other images, in a click-able 
gallery.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   
They each are blaming the other,
As the people are caught in between.
The earth and the sky and the ocean –
Do they watch, as we suffer, unseen?
  
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
 
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.
And these will be there, though we die...

The Shootings of May Third 1808
Francisco (José) de Goya (y Lucientes)
oil on canvas, 1814; Museo del Prado, Madrid
image source: http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/goya/

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
How many, today, will be dying?
How many, beloved, who're dead?
How many, to fight, will be vying?
The streets, with their blood, will be red...
        
How many, from death, will be fleeing?
How many, the children who'll die?
How many, the burned and the blinded?
How many, who'll wish they could die?
 
Our hearts, they are thirsting for vengeance,
And yet, they are breaking with grief.
Where is the road of repentance,
The light of the hopeful belief?

Who are the ones that will profit?
They know that we suffer and die.
Where, in our age, is the prophet
Who tells us the truth, not the lie?

Cambodian Refugees, Thailand
Steve McCurry
(c) Steve McCurry
image source: http://stevemccurry.com/blog/wars-children

What could have set this in motion?
How can we bring it to rest?
Who has the will and the power
And chooses to do what is best?

What do we know of the working
Of all that has brought us to this?
When people are crushed and forgotten,
Who will be speaking of this?

Yet more of these lies and this killing?
Yet more of this darkness of grief?
When will our breathing be easy?
When will we have some relief?
       
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
  
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.

And these will be there, though we die...
      

Guernica
Pablo Picasso, oil on canvas, 1937
Museo Reina Sofia, Madrid, Spain
image source: http://www.pensarora.org/art

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
The earth and the sky will remember –
The sea that has tasted our blood...
And those, who have wrought the disasters,
They will pay, for the things that they wrought...
  
 2014 June 8th Tue (stanzas 5-11) 
& June 11th Fri (stanzas 1-4 and 12-15)
Brooklyn, New York  
     
---------------------------------------------------------------
Note:  The poem, When Will the Killing Have End,
can be read by clicking here .
---------------------------------------------------------------
      

When Will the Killing Have End?

    
When Will the Killing Have End?
    
We heard of your death, my brother.
The grief that we felt was deep.
What could we do but listen?
What could we do but weep?

Some will sing of the glory.
Some will speak of the shame.
What will they know of you, truly,
Who never knew your name?

Who will know of our sorrow?
Who will know of our loss?
Your mother and sister are grieving
For the son and the brother they lost.

You were my hero, my brother –
My teacher, protector and friend.
But now you are gone, oh my brother,
And the killing is still not at end.

We pray for an end to the killing,
We pray for the person that dies.
And yet, how many are willing
To kill or to die for the lies...
                  
  < Please see below the image for the last five stanzas.>

Michelangelo's Pietà in St. Peter's Basilica
image source:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piet%C3%A0

 



















                                                                                                      .
Who is our enemy, truly?
Where is the source of the dread?
Why should the parents be grieving?
Why should their children be dead?
       
You are gone, from this Earth, my brother,
And never will return...
And why should you?  We suffer –
As flesh and houses burn...
   
I walked with you just yesterday,
And yet it seems a while...
It seems that we are walking still.
I see you turn and smile... 

The love I feel for you is deep.
It will forever be,
Although you'll never walk again
And turn and smile at me...
  
The anger in my heart is great,
But greater is the grief.
And so I will not turn to hate,
For love is my relief.

2014 June 7th, Mon. 11:59 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
                                                                                        
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note:  Seven stanzas that originally followed the first five,
preceding the image,  have been excised  for the sake of 
brevity.  Those excised stanzas  have been incorporated 
into a separate poem,"Hear and Remember".)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
   

The Why

The Why
   
I asked a gentleman I met the reason for existence.
He told me God so willed it – and we each should seek repentance.
I asked him where to find his God, so I could push this further,
And silently, he pointed up.  If looks could kill, he’d murder.

I climbed a mountain high to be, to God above, that nearer.
But when I sat atop the peak, that reason wasn’t clearer.
I thought I saw Him in a cloud – dreadlocked, fiercely bearded.
I gave a shout.  He disappeared.  Perhaps He had not heard it.

I sought to ask a Buddhist monk.  He said to me, “Nirvana!”
And handed me, in silence, with a smile, a small banana.
Was I to eat it?  Could this be the reason I was born?
I pondered this.  The more I thought, the further I was torn.

Perhaps I should not eat it – simply watch my own desire?
Could this, perhaps, extinguish what remained of mortal fire?
I puzzled on this – till, at last, I fell to sleep and dreaming.
And there I met a madman, in a valley, madly screaming.

“Why do you scream, oh madman?”  I then asked the one insane.
He danced for me a crazy jig, as if to entertain,
But then advanced upon me with a wild and staring eye.
I tried to run – but woke instead – not knowing, still, the why.

2014 January 11, Sat., 2:09 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Purpose

    
The Purpose
     
I asked an ancient, stooped and seeming wise,
The purpose of this life, in which we race
Towards our ends, encountering the lies
Connivers tell, but rarely finding trace
Of sense or reason – till we endings face.

I’d hoped she give me comfort – kernels, sage,
That she had gathered through her lengthy life
Or finally found as wisdom came with age.
But what she said then sliced me like a knife.
“I only know this world’s a senseless stage.

“So each is born, beneath the changing sky
Of this, our planet, whirling ‘round its sun,
Not knowing even whence she came or why,
To join this race, until, at end of run,
No wiser, she is told it’s time to die.”

So said that ancient, who then shortly died.
And still I wonder if she had it right.
But those I’ve asked have either glibly lied
Or being honest shed no further light,
Except to say that they had lived and tried.

We’re born, beneath the constellations vast,
Not knowing whence or why or whither, yet
We each remember bits of what was past
And try our best to other things forget,
Until it’s time for us to breathe our last.

We suffer – yet, we still may have our joy –
Like night and day, and yearly round of seasons.
The genius, childlike, tinkers with his toy
And cries, when it is taken.  Yet, for reasons,
Even serfs might ask, whom lords employ.

So since my race is nearing now its end
And since exhaustion addles now my brain,
I ask, if you are one who won’t pretend,
But truly knows the why for joy and pain,
That reason, promptly, to this seeker send.

But you might say, “A purpose, each must find.
For some, it’s self, for others, appetite.
And others, who have natures that are kind,
May spend their lives in serving.  Who is right?
The play is that within the sentient mind.

“For some, it’s children, spouses, work.
For some, it’s duty – or it’s nation, god.
Some labor long – and others swiftly shirk.
Some fly on high, while others till the sod.
Do dogs ask why?  They’d only masters irk.

“We humans are but one among the beasts.
What purpose has an octopus or ant?
A bear or human, on a salmon, feasts.
Was that its purpose?  Preachers well may rant
But you had better ask the plants and yeasts.”

But I am putting phrases in your mouth.
I open mine, beyond when I should close it.
I still could talk, about it and about.
But would one talk, who truly, truly knows it?
I ask again – and humbly exit out.
  
2014 January 11, Sat. 3:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Who Profits?

             
Who Profits?
        
In the mathematics, that we learned at school,
We could be sure that two-plus-two was four,
And when we measured, in the physics lab,
The strength of “g”, we found that it was so.

But in our lives, and even more in what
We read and hear – and even watch on-screen,
There seems far less of certainty.  Indeed,
We couple true and false in ways obscene.

How simple is the sly and easy lie,
How facile are the ones that lead to war!
Our falsehoods, oft repeated, stand as truth.
Homo mendax – that is who we are.

So how can we then disentangle facts
From all the myths in which they tangled lie?
I do not know, but this I surely do –
For every falsehood, there's a reason why.

And for the sake of brevity, let's say,
Before believing what we haven't seen,
“Who profits from this 'fact' and our belief?”
Let's ask – so we're not led to where we've been.

But should we then be cynics in all things?
The things we see for selves, before our eyes,
We can believe, if we have eyes to see.
All else is suspect, often being lies.

But then, there's heart, which now is ridiculed.
And some have hardened theirs and some have not.
With senses, heart and logic we proceed.
For in the end, that's all that we have got.

But as we learn yet more disturbing facts,
For which we often have no strength or time,
The picture takes a shape we draw ourselves,
That's closer to the truth than all my rhyme.

2013 December 15th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Benediction (On Muns and Hex)

          
Benediction (On Muns and Hex)
   
When we were young, we were admonished,

By priests at school:  we would be punished

If we indulged in certain pleasures

That led to spillage of our treasures.

     

“A salmon mates – and having mated,

Starts to die, for this is fated.

To salmon, humans are related.

If you’ve had sex, you’ll be negated.”

So yogis sought to save their seed,

And so, to vital engines feed,

In hopes that this would give them strength,

And lives of more-than-usual length.

******

  

So priests and pundits warned, in schools,

That such indulgence was for fools –

That those, with carnal pleasures sated,

To exits, quick, were relegated.

But what of those, who weren’t sinners,

Who prayed before they started dinners –

Those nuns, whose entrances were gated,

Who chastely, for their Lord, had waited?

Would nuns, upon this planet, linger –

Who hadn’t even known the finger,

And only in their dreams had dated –

Till they, with Him, their Lord, had mated?

******

    

But since we know that nuns do die,

Could their chasteness be a lie?

Could it be, though some resisted,

From pleasures banned, they’ve not desisted?

But hark!  As I am penning verses,

I hear the Host-in-Heaven’s curses.

These lines, on which I have persisted,

Have made me, on a memo, listed.

“Re.” it says, “the agitators

Who seek to know if nuns are maters,

With men or selves, the Lord insisted –

‘Target action!’   Team has missed it.”

******

    

But while I’m waiting for the lightning,

Which really isn’t all that frightening,

I’ve begun to question whether,

To truth, these teachings have a tether.

Could each, perhaps, live slightly longer –

And even wax a little stronger,

If she partook of sizzling spices,

Which sadly have been cast as vices?

So now, I’ve learned it’s all a fiction!

We all need more, not less, of friction,

Where it matters.  A nun’s addiction

Is, in truth, her benediction.

    

2013 December 14^th, Sat.

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  
   

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

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