Music?

 
Music?
 
Does music tell us of a culture’s soul? 
If so, then ours is torn and wracked indeed
With rage, frustration—lacking bliss and peace,
Reflecting, darkly, worlds of fear and greed.
If music turns to a tool for torture, then 
What chance is there for healing, born of Zen?
 
Our music once had grace, with Nature's sounds,
The moods of seasons and of times of day.
These touched the heart and gently moved the soul,
And so returned us towards the peaceful way.
But now, of all of this, there's little trace.
Its guns and pistons lead away from grace. 
 
We should not rush to blame the music. It
Is but a mirror of the world we've built.
We’re disconnected from the rest of life—
Absorbed in self, avoiding silence, guilt. 
And so we deafen ears and dazzle eyes. 
Our soul's disturbance speaks in music’s guise.
 
2024 March 6th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
 

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
    

Versus my Verses

 
Versus my Verses

I fill the voids with scribblings such as these,
which serve to soothe my troubled soul a while.
And yet I know the issues I avoid
will still remain to plague this ailing mind.
 
Our angels, demons wait for vacant times
to show themselves.  So good and evil, both,
and beauty, horror go unrecognized
until we find the time to stop and see.
 
And if, indeed, the time I take to write
these verses gives me chances still to be,
to gather in my scattered parts, to take
then stock – and so reflect, it’s time well spent.
 
But if, instead, I merely seek release
or refuge from the stresses of my life,
then every line I write appears to be
another ruse to fool my remnant sense.
 
******
 
We travel, each, upon our roads of life,
and some may find a pleasant walk awhile.
But then, the bandits and the dark ravines
appear.  We’re beaten, broken – and we fear.

So some of us may turn to alcohol,
while others do as they are told by thugs.
And others yet, who’re drained of strength to fight,
may pen their verses, be these light or dark.

And some may write and keep their writings hidden,
while others visit these on readers’ heads.
And in my case, I do this, though unbidden,
and hope to leave some threads of sense behind.
 
But then, I wonder if my foolishness
is even greater than I once had thought,
and whether all the twine I twist and weave
will quickly fray to shreds and disappear.
   
No matter – verse, like beer, gives pleasure still
to those who brew it and to those who swill.
As bodies rot, so also words will fade.
There’s still delight, when verse, like life, is made.

So when, in darker moods, I find I curse
at all the time I've spent on writing verse,
I hear again that whisper of the muse
that bid me write – although it came out worse.
 
******

And so it is that verses come and go,
resolving nothing, much as children might
that mothers bear and then must tend until
they’re grown enough to face the cruel world.

But mothers spend their years on rearing kids,
and many fathers also do their share.
But poets like me are careless parents, for
they give their verses life and let them go.

And so I might condemn this work I do,
if not that endless toil I do for school,
where I’m a parent faux, for a year or term,
to children, often seven score or more.

Perhaps that other labor, more intense
and longer, far, might justify the verse.
Indeed, that’s what has led to it – and yet
I look at both and wonder – whither, why?

2015 April 17th Fri, 18th Sat & 20th Mon 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Note: I wrote the first four stanzas of this piece on 2015 April 17th Friday, around 8 pm, after leaving the school where I work.  I wrote them while sitting on a “park” bench near the "Liberty Pole" and the New Utrecht Church, by 18th Avenue and 84th Street in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. 
    

Liberty Pole and New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/34127825@N03/3243329788/

   
    

The pole was first erected in 1783, at the end of the revolutionary war with Britain. 

Top of New Utrecht Liberty Pole
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980141745/

   

The New Utrecht Church was originally at a site, next to an old Dutch cemetery, that is now two long blocks away, on 16th and 84th.  It was completed in 1700 and stood there for over a century.  The church was rebuilt, in 1828-29, at its present site, using material from the original building.

  

New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Ave & 84th St, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/gallery/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church.html

   

    

    





The cemetery, still standing, dates back to 1654.
  

New Utrecht Cemetery, 16th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980131333/

 
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/History.html

http://www.newutrechtchurch.org/history.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church
  
The middle six stanzas (after the first break) were written the next day, at the Pakistani restaurant (Skyway) on Bath Avenue, between 20th and 21st Avenues, Bensonhurst.
  
The last four stanzas (after the second break) were added at home, in the early morning of  April 20th, Monday, before leaving for work.

  

Of All the Pleasures

  
Of All the Pleasures
    
How pleasant is the bliss of sleep
To those deprived of rest –
Of all the pleasures of this Earth,
Perhaps the very best.

Like rain upon a land that’s parched,
Like grace to those tormented,
So is that blessing sweet that comes
When sleeplessness is ended.

2014 April 7th, Monday, 4:45 pm
Teachers’ Cafeteria, Basement,
New Utrecht High School
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn