Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving


Let's give our thanks to spirits dispossessed
Of bodies and of their ancestral lands.
When they had minds to think, they never thought
They owned the prairies or the shifting sands...
But they were linked to that, which gave them birth –
The sky, the sea and this maternal earth...

The turkey gobbles, then we gobble it.
But men give thanks to that paternal god
That let the slaughter last in Jericho
And gave, to “cleansings” past and now, the nod.
Oh Yahweh-Allah, when addressed as Bohg
Or Deus, you remain the selfsame rogue!

******

We saw the Pujas come and go and there
We worshiped Durga with our pageantry.
And those, who'd drunk of bhang, at riverside
Did whirl and dance, of all their worries free...
We saw her slide into the waters dark –
And heard the dogs, that feed on corpses, bark...

But see, some worship still the buffalo-god,
Who's now the demon that our Durga slays,
Resplendent, fierce, upon her lion-steed
That bites the dying “demon” as he lays
His body, pierced by Durga's thrusting lance,
Upon that ground, on which her peasants dance...

******

The Lord of Dance lies comatose on earth
As Kali strides upon his ashen chest.
So Shakti rides on Shiva, who's prostrate,
As woman lays man's mortal myth  to rest.
So male is vanquished – and we suffer woes,
As “yes” of past is turned to echoed “no's”...

How bright, the threads that such as Gotam' wove,
How dark, the ones that these have overgrown!
How much of blood did Aztecs give to gods
Before they were, by fortune, overthrown!
We hear the medicine man, who stomps and wails...
The didgeridoo replies – as reason fails...

sjanah@aol.com
2012 November 22nd, Thurs.
(Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.A.)
Brooklyn

Devils

Devils

The face of sorrow is the same for all,
For stricken Arab and for grieving Jew.
The tribes of men are humbled down to one,
As enemies are bound by common woe.

The mother weeps, the father's face is stone
That shatters as we watch or look away.
The child, the sibling and the spouse have tears.
The women wail. There's nothing friends can say.

How primal is the birth that gives us life,
How final is that ending that is death.
For life is gone and never will return,
And so is hope, for we have lost the bet.

How many years it takes to raise a child,
How quickly vital breath can pass away...
How many tears – of joy and then of grief,
How long the night, how brief, the passing day...

******

There's death that comes in time to ease our pain,
A blessing bright, in darkest cloak disguised.
There's death that is inflicted, full of woe,
Of violence and horrors stark comprised.

There is a calculus of human pain,
A logic dark in all our “leaders” do.
The mob enraged, the bomber in the sky,
Are figured in – and also me and you.

How vain, revenge that brings yet more of death.
How childishly we feed each other's fears!
And what can compensate for loss of life,
When all that's left are memories and tears?

We call for justice, but we call in vain.
There are no gods that watch from arcing sky.
And if there were, they would not care a fig
When ants are crushed – or when our children die.

******
 
But when our anger leads to hatred, death,
To forces dark, we then give shameful birth.
And looking in the mirror, then, we see
That there are devils here, upon this Earth.

The one with strength is he, who should forbear.
In humbling foe, he makes it all too clear
That he, in turn, his humbling, too, will bear.
Who deals in death, will pay in wages dear.

The one, who's weaker, only can appeal
To better nature of the one, who's strong.
The weak are crushed, as others look away,
For might is right – until we say it's wrong.

How much of pain, of horrors, screams that mute
Our voices, dulling orphaned children's eyes?
How much of pain, until our hearts refute
These conflicts, born of treachery and lies?

sjanah@aol.com

2012 November 13th, Tue.

Brooklyn

Background information on operation "Cast Lead", 2009
 
war-to-crush-palestine

Restless Breed

Restless Breed

We come and go, like leaves upon a tree,
By births imprisoned and by deaths set free.
Our labor, which, in living, knows no end,
For some, is joy.  But others disagree.

We flow like water towards the waiting sea,
From whence we came before we learned to be,
Illusion brief – and cause of all our grief,
As droplets bearing names like “you” and “me”.

How many suns have taken birth and died,
How many orphans, for their parents, cried?
And yet the cycles turn relentlessly,
Until we learn that our creator lied.

Why worship one who claims perfection, yet
Has needs that clearly were and are unmet?
From restlessness was born our restless breed.
His starting sin, he'd rather we forget.

We rise and fall, like waves upon the sea,
By tempest pulled from nothingness to be.
For some, the storm's an awesome, wondrous dance.
But others pray for blesst tranquility.

sjanah@aol.com
2012 November 13th, Tue.
Brooklyn

The Sea + Woman

The Sea

The sea, becalmed – a placid, tranquil lake, 

But vast – a mirror stretched from land to sky, 

Reflecting both – a giant, languid eye... 

The sea, now rippled by a rising breeze – 

A woman, wakened by her lover's tease, 

Aroused, with moon reflected in the tide... 

The sea, in fury – thrashing in the throes 

Of passions roused – and thrusting for release, 

By spasms rocked – towards her bless-ed ease... 

sjanah@aol.com

2012 November 5th, Mon. 

Brooklyn 
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Woman

A woman's told that she's the weaker sex,

For she can be the size of half a man;

Yet all, a man can do, a woman can.

And she gives birth, as only she can do,

In nature grounded, tied to sea and moon,

Connected to the earth, as man is not.

As boats may sail upon an ocean wide,

So men may float upon the surging tide

Of woman, roused to tempest in her deep.

And as a woman may, to some appear,

So, to sailors, does the ocean seem.

What lends us life, can also that redeem...

As Durga rides the lion, slays the demon,

And Kali strides on Shiva, so does woman

Conquer man, when she connects with earth.

And men must turn to gods residing high,

On mountain top or watching from the sky,

As they are torn by fear and by desire...

And when the women copy now the men,

And so wear pants, while men do not wear skirts,

They only copy weakness – that which hurts.

For man is insecure and torn from earth.

The weaker sex is he, who's not at ease.

So men make war – as women wait for peace.

sjanah@aol.com
2012 November 6^th, Tue.

Brooklyn