The Soft and the Loud

The Soft and the Loud 

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

******

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

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

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

Tweety Grump and Taunting Kim

Tweeting Grump and Taunting Kim

.

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

Kim and Trump, with ballistic penises
source: 

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

The Drums of War

 
The Drums of War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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