Inversion

 
Inversion

The lies, repeated long enough,
Become accepted truth.
The truth, when hidden well, is then 
Rejected as a lie.

And when there’s much that rides on lies,
The inconvenient truth,
On being seen in public sight,
Is given then the boot.

****** 

Injustice, hidden out of sight,
Does not disturb the soul,
And heinous fare, as haute cuisine,
Can then be swallowed whole.

It’s not that all are evil—no,
It’s that we shut our eyes,
As truth is often hard for those
Who've long been lulled with lies.

******

So even deep in ravaged lands,
Where millions died in pain,
The few who raise those memories
May battle still in vain.

“Out of sight is out of mind.”
And that is how we like it.
So a hell may rage for months on end,
As taxes paid support it. 

******

We shy away from bitter truths,
Content with sweetened lies.
And so a child is orphaned, while
Another burns and dies.

So life proceeds, with galas, shows,
As if it’s all a game,
And acts obscene are justified
Without a trace of shame

2024 June 10th, Mon. 
Berkeley, California

Sacrilege

 
Sacrilege

The only g*n*cide memorialized,
The only one in which we all are drilled,
Repeatedly, through schools and books and films,
With monuments erected, tributes paid,
With pilgrimages due, from those on high
Before we vote, is that which stands alone.

No other slaughters, even those that cleared
The continents on which we settlers live,
Can ever be compared to that Event
Of horror that is singular, unique.

And so our taxes can be used to send
Not only funds but lethal armaments
With which to maim and slaughter thousands. This
Cannot be questioned, nor compared to that—
The One whose name is all but deified.

So through this means, such horrors still are wrought
As might make even hardened mobsters pause
And yet are waved away or justified—
For there can only be that G*n*cide—
That One, that Only, Duly Guarded Thing—
That shields the ones who massacre and starve,
With critics charged with vilest heresy.

And so it is that all the horrors past
And all the ones succeeding that Event 
Of special, primal status, never count,
Nor those that happen right before our eyes.

So truth itself is buried deep in lies,
As bodies are—the dead or still alive—
Beneath the tons of wreckage. Still, we see
The women, children, elders, blasted, burned,
With cats and humans, huddled, homeless, starved,
And lies repeated—till a nation dies.

And some of us have slowly come to know
That even mentions of the victims or
Their land had been forbidden, seen as crimes,
Within the realms of those who’ve realized
With ardent help from other nations, this—
The crime of crimes. And now, in other lands,
The moves are underway, or well in place,
To stem the images and stop the words. 

The goal is not to simply end the lives—
And so the people—but to wipe, erase
The names themselves. What’s nameless can’t exist—
Or so the thinking and the feeling goes,
As power and wealth direct our human flows
And shape our sets of facts, our thoughts and views
By every means—including nightly news.

So is this something new? No, not at all,
Except for what those windows let us see
And hear, as if the ones who sobbed and screamed
Or spoke to us in fright, in measured tones,
Were present where we are, and not where lives
Are snuffed like candles by the blasts of bombs. 

And so we now will see those windows close,
Unless we rise together and resist
And dare to say the word we’ve all been told
Is sacrilege—and yet is naught but truth.

For what had occurred in the past and then
Repeated in our lifetimes is again 
Revived and walking, dressed in black, with scythe,
But wielding now the weapons we have wrought
That burn and blast and bury thousands, while
We coddle those who perpetrate these crimes. 

2024 March 12th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Progoti-প্রগতি

 
প্রগতি
 
 প্রগতির গান গাইছো তুমি—
 নতুন যুগের জয়।
 নিষ্ঠুরতার অন্ত কোথায়?
 জীবের চোখে ভয়।
 বোমার ঝড়ে ঝাঁকছে ভূমি,
 কাঁপছে শিশু, হায়!
 
 মা-বাবা যে কোথায় গেলো!
 কোথায়, দিদি-দাদা?
 এই প্রগতির দাপট দেখে,
 ভাসছে চোখে ধাঁধা।
রাত পোহালো, প্রভাত এলো।
ধুঁকছে, রক্ত মেখে।

এই প্রগতির উগ্র প্রচার 

হচ্ছে যতই দেশে,

গানের ধ্বনি উঠছে জেগে 

ততই তীব্র ক্লেশে।

 
 রবিবার, ১০ 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

The People of the Lie

 
The People of the Lie

They feel that they can kill and lie—
And lie and kill again,
For anyone who dares resist
This terror is a “terrorist”.

Their aim is to erase, delete
A culture and a people, yes.
They claim that they are, everywhere,
Forever under constant threat.

They think that they can terrorize
And cheat and steal and lie,
For they control the ones who seem
To rule—another lie!

They desecrate and they destroy.
They look on others with contempt.
They burn and blast and bury babies, 

Saying, “We are civilized.”

And who then are these people? Why,
They’re just like you and me, my friend,
For truth and justice call—and yet,
We find our comfort in the lie.

 
2024, February 9th, Fri.
Berkeley, California

Sanity

 
Sanity

Amidst the horrors all around, we see
The things of beauty, hear the sounds of joy,
Observe the workings of compassion, care—
And so find solace still—and sanity.

To only note the horror, being blind
To all that still remains of living grace,
Is clearly partial. So it also is
To turn away from cruel miseries,
As if these things were mere imaginings.

How easy it can be to close the eyes,
The ears, and heart and mind, to misery;
How hard it is to turn to it, to try
To ease that pain—or point to it at least,
So others firstly see and then decry
Yet more of endless pain and suffering,
And act together then to end this curse.

******

There is a time for action and a time
For needed rest, reflection and repose.

One needs to close one’s eyes and savor peace—

Whatever little fortune might dispense—
And so to gather strength to live, to think,
To speak and act in ways that benefit
The beings who are helpless and besieged—
No matter what their kind or heritage.

******

When madness dire has seized the populace,
Then thoughts and words and acts are deemed insane
That try to turn from madness back to sanity.
And those who still persist are vilified
And labeled this and that and even worse,
And so, in time or rapidly, they lose
Their friends, their jobs and often even more.

******

We each are subject to what others think
And how they speak and act as they react
To what we say and do. And this is good,
As this constrains us when we are amiss.

But when we take account of frailties
That might be ours and still in peace conclude
That we should speak and act to try at least
Prevent injustice, death and suffering,
Then that is what we need to do, or else
Forfeit what still remains of sanity.

2024, January 28, Mon.
Berkeley, California

Syria-II

Syria-II

I asked the one from Syria,
from al Sham, as he had said,
the reason why he’d left there,
and traveled here instead.

I had heard that he was drowning
but by luck had still survived.
From the cold Aegean waters,
he’d been pulled and then revived.

He looked at me in silence—
he didn’t speak a word,
for he didn’t know my language,
and my question was absurd.

So I left him where I’d found him,
and walking then I saw
the eyes that I had looked at
and that is when I saw.

So I stood there as if rooted
and I saw the world anew,
and it wasn’t as I’d known it
and I didn’t like the view.

So let me try to tell you,
if you’ll bear with me a bit,
as I sketch for you that vision,
if I even have the wit.

******

There is emptiness and dullness.
There’s the reason that is gone.
There’s the lack of any meaning.
There’s the numbness and the ache.

There’s the past that isn’t leaving,
there’s the present hell to bear.
There’s the hope that has departed
and the future of despair.

There’s bewilderment, confusion.
There’s the sleep that lasts awhile.
There’s the madness then that rises
and the fear that will not die.

There is shock and there is trauma
of the body, mind and heart.
There’s helplessness and trembling
and the orphan’s silent cry.

There’s the parent or the sibling
or the spouse who didn’t die.

And for all this, there are reasons—
for there must be reasons why.

******
 
So the arms are flowing freely
from the nations of the west,
through the sheikhdoms and through Turkey,
and the wars are raging still.

So the Russian jets are bombing
and the shells from all are bursting
and the cities lie in rubble
and the drones come in to kill.
 
So the Sunni and the Shia
and the Christian each would flee,
but there’s nowhere left to go to,
and the snipers shoot at will.

So the cannons still are booming
and the shells are coming near
and the planes again are diving
and the eyes are full of fear.

For there’s Assad and the rebels,
There’s al Nusra, ISIS, more.
There’s the U.S., France and Britain,
And they each have bombs galore.
 
******

Iraq was torn to pieces
and Libya was destroyed,
and Syria’s been on fire,
like Afghanistan before.

But who can dare to question—
to ask the reason why?

There’s hunger, thirst and hurting
and the itching and the fly,
and the games are on in Rio
and there’s more who’ve yet to die.

******
 
This is what I saw then
and I thought on it a while,
but then I looked and saw you
and so I had to smile.

So now that I have told you,
you can bear it till we go
to the shop there. There’s a salesman
you should really get to know.

2016 August 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
----------------------------------------------------
   
Related (from 2013 August, three years ago):  Syria
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/08/syria.html

   

Far Behind

 
Far Behind
   
  

Far Away on a  Long and Winding Road, North Hampshire Moors
http://dogwalkmusings.blogspot.com/2010_06_01_archive.html

   







 







When it's normal for the teachers and the nurses not to care,
Then how can those, who’re caring, not be driven to despair?
When the ones who've done the damage can then shrug and slumber deep,
Then how can those, who're trying still to fix it, hope to sleep?
When the people still are racing, when they should be paying mind,
Then where can those, who're slowing, ever be – but far behind?

******

When the madness has afflicted all the world, can then the sane
Not see that they will be the ones that others call insane?
When dishonesty's expected, can the honest then not know
That they will be suspected, wherever they may go?
When the hearts of most have hardened, can the ones of softer heart
Not understand the time has come for them to then depart?

******

There's a road, amid the moorlands, that winds through waving fields,
With sunshine and with shadow, as every fortune yields.
And on that road I'll travel as clouds go sailing by,
With none who'll care to ask me my permit or my why.
And on that road I'll dally and take my own sweet time,
For there I'll take my tally, with reason and with rhyme.
 
2015 March 13th, Fri. 2:33 am
(last stanza added March 15th, Sun.)
Bensonhurst, 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    
    

With All the World Aflame

        
With All the World Aflame

 
  

The fires are burning and the sky
Is roiled with blacks and reds.
And yet, the fiddler fiddles on
And watches with delight.

But now the fire approaches and
He hears at last the screams.
And yet, oblivious, playing on,
He smiles and even laughs.

The fiddler fiddles in his robes
That speak of majesty,
For he's the emperor of Rome,
And all is travesty.

So even in our times, we see
This lunacy persists.
The powerful and rich, they play,
With all the world aflame.

2014 June 21st, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

  

The Stain

    
The Stain
 
There was blood on the sidewalk, where a man had been killed.
It was dark but was faded, from dust and from sun.
And that stain was not noticed, except by the few,
Who had been at the killing, and had seen the man run.

But he’d tripped and he’d fallen. They’d caught him right there,
The ones who had chased him. He’d cried out in fear.
And he’d cried out again, like a cat that’s in pain,
But the cries had grown weaker, as his ending drew near.

How long he had lain there, and whether alive,
A few perhaps wondered.  But they left him to lie.
And they hid him from children, whom they ushered away.
For it’s bad for the young ones to see a man die.

And his slippers had left him, as he ran for his life.
One lay in the gutter, and the other beside.
And when he was lifted, and carried away,
They lay as a witness, like the kelp to the tide.

And when I’d returned, to the spot of the slaying,
The years had been many.  The slippers had fled.
But the stain was still present, though faded by time.
I could still hear him screaming, where his blood had run red.

2014 March 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Teacher

The Teacher

I came upon a person by the sea,
Of haggard aspect, battered down by time.
He slumped upon a bench with downcast head,
And though the sky and ocean were alight,
It seemed it was in darkness that he sat,
An abject figure, sunk in hopelessness.

I sat beside him, wondering at this.
Had death or separation caused this man
To slouch like this, alone by oceanside,
As breezes blew and all around him seemed
A picture drawn of paradise on earth,
With Nature in her garb of happiness?

So when at last he turned to glance at me,
With a look of desperation tinged with guilt,
I bravely ventured then to ask of him
The reason for his obvious sunken state.
And hearing this, he then began to speak,
With a voice that trembled in its earnestness.

“I am a teacher.  That is all I know.
For many years, I labored at my job.
And all, that's thrown at teachers, I withstood
And tried to teach, so students then could learn.
But towards the end, I burned, it seemed, in fire,
And all my nights were seized by craziness.

“The job, impossible for those who are
Disabled by the human tendency
To do their best, and do it honestly,
To care for those they teach, and what they teach,
I still had done, for many, many years,
And even drawn, from it, my sustenance.

“We teachers earn, as workers, salaries,
But that is all.  Whatever benefits
Our union got for us, that now erode,
Do not suffice for labor such as ours,
Which sucks, from each who labors, life itself,
And leaves behind a husk – and emptiness.

“And though some fall away, defeated, some
Persist, for reasons various, and each
Has self to feed – and family as well.
And some are able, by some magic art,
To distance selves from what they do each day,
And so survive, by gift of provenance.

“And others find, perhaps, a little niche,
In which they may find shelter for a while,
And even, if they're fortunate, a bit
Of satisfaction, as their students learn.
For that is what sustains the teachers true,
Who cannot feed at troughs of callousness.

“For teachers learn, who truly are sincere,
Beyond their payment, never to expect,
From those who run the show, the sordid game,
A word of praise  – or even from their wards,
Who still are young –  and unaware of all
The teacher does, in strength or weariness.

“But teaching, just like learning, is a joy,
And when the ground is fertile, even seeds
By sowers lightly cast, untended, grow
And then bear fruit, with more of seeds in turn.
But others fall on ground that's arid, hard,
And all our tending ends in fruitlessness.

“For teaching, learning need some shelter, space,
Some attitudes from those who teach and learn,
From those who run the schools, who make the laws.
For all our culture did not come from those
Who play at high finance or at their wars,
But those, who wove their threads in diligence.

“There came a time when I grew tired of stress,
Of all my labor past and present and
The prospect of yet more until my end.
And all my efforts seemed a waste of time,
So many hours and days and years misspent,
Amounting, at the end, to nothingness.

“And even then, like a horse that's trained to pull,
I strained at harness, though my load grew such
I only crawled.  But never, even then,
Did I succumb to any of the scams
That pass for teaching and are glorified,
Though none can pass the test of harmlessness.

“For we have students, who have but one life,
And parents, live or dead, who gave them this.
And every day they spend with us is less
From what they have, before they too are dead.
So can a conscience let one sleep, who then
Gives other than his due of diligence?

“Deprived of sleep, I felt that I was spent,
So all, that once had looked alluring, now
Appeared as dull.  And what was savory,
When I was rested, now had lost its taste.
And life itself, with all its promise and
Its pleasures seemed absurd and meaningless.

“The ones I'd loved, the ones who gave me life
Had passed away – and even as I worked.
Not only all my most productive years,
But even those for whom I deeply cared
I'd lost to this, the work that teachers do,
Impossible, in total earnestness.

“For teachers, as I said, to labor true,
Look not for praise, but need – the space to teach.
But even this, to them, is now denied,
And all the castigation of the world
Is heaped on those who labor most to teach,
And they are left with naught but hopelessness.

“And yet, I could not leave my job, because
On it depended life and family.
And teaching was the only thing I knew,
And from that thing, that all my life consumed,
I'd drawn my meaning, structured all the rest
Around that thing – that turned to shamelessness.”

He stopped. The blood, that seemed had drained away,
When first I saw him, pounded in a vein
Upon his temple – and his face was flushed.
He'd straightened, gestured, come to life, but now
Again, I saw, had started to collapse.
I took my leave, in sudden fecklessness.

But when, returning from my evening walk,
I passed that spot, I saw, in gloaming's light,
That selfsame man, that teacher, self-described,
Was sitting there, with eyes affixed on ground.
And seeing this, I hastened then my step,
And passed him by, in haste and wariness.

2013 September 17th, Tue.
Brooklyn
 
On Teaching 

http://subject-teacher.blogspot.com/2013/09/on-teaching.html 
 

With Harlot Falsehoods

With Harlot Falsehoods
                                       
When we've walked the road of verity,
Throughout our lives – with all our human faults,
Abstaining from the vices of the lie –
The path of falsehood then cannot be borne.

And when we've been obedient to the call
Of conscience, ever heeding heart's advice,
To disobey is as a living death,
A torture, hell ascended to this earth.

And yet, observe, how in survival's name,
Or merely for ambition, some, with ease,
Can lie throughout their lives and can benumb
Their consciences and hearts for worldly ends.

And slaves, be they in chains of iron or
Of silver, must obey the master's lip.
And those, who quickest shed their scruples, thrive
And do not shy from wielding lie and whip.

So should we martyr minds and bodies for
The quiet voices that we hear within,
Or should we yield to fear or seek to rise
By doing what we see the others do?

The question comes and must be answered, yet
We seek, from this dilemma, some escape.
We all have duties to our selves and kin.
Should mere survival then be viewed as sin?

And yet, those voices, that we've listened to,
Will not be stilled.  They fill our nights and days.
To path of justice, heart and conscience call.
And every step away dismays the soul.

And those, who've wedded selves to truth, cannot
With harlot falsehoods lie a moment long.
And yet, the webs of lies entrap their souls,
And they are found, where they do not belong.

******
   
The ways, that lead to what some call as "god"
And others, "truth", are varied, manifold.
So each may choose to walk upon the way
That's fit for him or her, while harming none.

And all creation, all that's filled with light,
Has source in this.  Compulsion kills the soul.
But even that, which free creation brings,
Is used to slaughter and to dominate.

How many ways have humans engineered,
To make, of others, slaves!  So all, that minds
Have wrought, in innocent ingenuity,
To free us, then is swiftly turned to this.

So farming gave us brigand kings and turned
The freemen into serfs.  And now we see
Computers, mathematics used to serve
As watchdogs on the herds that daily teach.

It will not be.  We shall not be a part
Of evil, though our backs are loaded, bent.
We'll bear our burdens, labor as we've done,
But will not harm our wards or blur our truths.

Our lives have taught us that humility
That those of hubris rarely see till end.
And yet, whatever remnant self-respect
Remains, demands we do not dance to lies.

For how can we fulfill our duties core,
When heart and reason clearly say, "Do this."
And fear and slavery proclaim, "Do that."?
We choose the freeman's path of clarity.

Whatever punishment that brings, we'll bear,
With inmost beings calm, in dignity.
We'll do our work and walk the path of love,
And that will be, for us, reward enough.

stanzas prior to the break written
2013 September 4th, Wed. night
(after being briefed for two days
on the new teacher-evaluation
system in New York City) and
stanzas following the break
added September 5th,Thu.
and September 6th, Fri.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 Comments below.
  

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    

Egypt's Sin

  
Egypt's Sin

In Giza now, the pavement's stained,
With blood of those who died.
The vultures wheel in Cairo yet
We dare not say they lied --
The ones who did this monstrous thing.
So Saudi "aid" will flow.
The Emirates will also give
But all the world will know
That Egypt has been murdered now.
The Copts will slowly flee,
As innocents will die for naught
And all the world will see.

The blood in Egypt marks the end
Of era that had been.
For even royal heads will roll
To pay for Egypt's sin.

*******

Two wrongs together cannot make
A right, it has been said.
So Morsi slapped up Egypt more
And Sissi shot her dead.
Egyptians, rise!  Do not forgo
What's right, but wake and see.
The ones that murder Islamists
Your murderers will be.
The Islamists are but a ruse
To rise again to power.
The Socialists, they'll wipe out next.
So each will have his hour.

So Hitler did, as Germany,
With new-found pride, applauded.
What happened next is history.
Can Egypt now afford it?

2013 August 19th, Mon., 4:31 am (first section)
(second section added August 20th, Tue. 8:15 am)
Brooklyn, New York

Yet More Advice 
 

Yet More Advice

Yet More Advice
     
 (There are references, in parts, to the most recent horrific events in Egypt.  Remembering all the sacrifice and hope of the "Arab Spring", let us hope that courage, reason, humanity, sober idealism and sanity prevail over fear, irrationality, brutality, cynicism and insanity. )
                                                     
If you find a vassal country takes a path that you dislike,
It's your duty to divert it, with a bold preemptive strike.

But when bleeding troops and money, you had better think of ways,
By which to wield your influence.  A little thinking pays.

You can call for free elections and for freedom of the press.
If you don't like who's elected, push for freedom to repress.

And some advice to vassals too – don't take your boss for granted.
They'll let you hang tomorrow – if circumstance demands it.

So if you are the rulers there, depend not on what's distant.
Depend instead on power raw, and seize the precious instant.

If you've ruled a nation long enough (being really who's in charge),
You know that to retain it, there are duties to discharge.

Elections can be dangerous, the people then have say.
The military then must move – express a forceful “Nay!”

You can engineer conditions that will have them up in arms –
The populace – and those who are dependent on your alms...

You can tolerate the ones who're hip, and even spoon them honey,
But you've got to draw the line with those, who're sniffing for the money.

If you buy your suits in London and your wine is shipped from France,
You can't brook interruptions in your dinner or your dance.

Your children are at Stanford, and you've got to pay the fees.
So there's little choice, except to promptly deal with the disease.

The masses, you've contempt for – for they're backward and they're vile.
Can you let them enter in your rooms – and settings then defile?

They are talking of an Allah, and who knows where that may lead?
There are demons there in plenty, who on such as you may feed.

And if they taste of power, then it's curtains for your crowd.
It's then Paris, Rome or London.  But you mustn't say this loud...

For your fiefdom, it is there, where the Nile is flowing broad,
Where the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies had ruled, with spear and sword...

It's best to do it short and sharp, to cow them with your terror,
For laxity in this regard would be a serious error.

And if the slaughter continues – no matter, be resolved.
Such things will be forgotten, once you've got the problems solved.

It doesn't matter who you are – your politics, I mean.
It's power – that's what matters, and the rest becomes a sheen.

You can be a bearded mullah, wear a yarmulke or not,
But if you once buy into power, then you'll leave the rest to rot.

There are those who look to oracles, or pray to the divine,
But in politics, no miracles can build for you a spine.

So you've got to bite that bullet – with its taste and smell of grease.
You've got to swallow then your spit and pull that trigger –  please!

Astrologers may tempt you, you can have your palms be read,
But when it comes to enemies, you'd better have them dead.

There are graves enough for ditherers, or those who were uncertain,
It's better to be murderers, than ousted, that is certain.

The masses may be restive, but let's understand this truth:
They'll bear your rule in silence, if you show you're lacking ruth.

But know the ones to squeeze and also know the ones to culture.
The spoils of war and peace are used, to loyal vassals nurture.

Pay tributes to the ones above, from those below, get same.
In finance, as in bedrooms, there's no place or point in shame.

You've got to have that instinct for subservience to power.
Today it is the U.S.A., tomorrow's another's hour.

That boss you had for many years is aging now, you see.
It's time to cultivate the one, who's itching, boss to be.

With power, as with money.  And the two may go together,
Or for a while may wander, till they reach their ends of tether.

You can shelter in a Dilli, in a Tokyo or Beijing,
But when you feel them quiver, then to old New York take wing.

And if Washington is shaking, then you'd better look around.
Whatever be your politics, let your finances be sound.

There are those who see the world as did the Buddha or the Jinas,
But the others see a chance to lose – or grasp and be the winners.

So there's no place for scruples or a doleful frame of mind.
Why seek for liberation, when your fortune, you can find?

The Century of Labor's past – another one is here.
It's time for entrepreneurship and casting off of fear.

Divisions sow, of every type.  It's best when they're divided.
The working class consists of sheep – by wolves of cunning herded.

Take the best of East and West and North and South – amalgamate!
Then you needn't fear a debacle, as in the Watergate.

You could kowtow to a Pinochet, a Reagan or a Mao,
But in dealing with the obstacles, can you follow still the Tao?

Pay obeisance then to Mammon – and to Lakshmi and Ganesha,
So you can say, "...diversified, by every kind of measure...".

****** 
  
You should wipe out now the Islamists (the moderates as well),
And label all as terrorists.  And some may see and tell.

How many will be listening?  There are interests at stake!
The sleepers, they will sleep through it. A scattered few may wake.

But make the price of waking steep.  And show them that you can,
With prison, maiming, murder and, of course, the legal ban.

The courts bow down to power, as the Pharaoh wields the sun.
And power comes, as Mao had said, from the barrel of a gun.

So show them all what terror is.  Riyadh will then applaud.
And from the Gulf will come support, to fire your flaming sword.

The Islamists have had their use.  Now use them as a ruse
To gain control – and then proceed, to ticking bombs defuse.

For after you have dealt with them, or even well before,
With the Communists and Socialists, you should settle full you score.

For vermin such, the time has come, to end their numbered days!
And all who matter will be glad, when you, their kind, erase.

So courage, then, oh generals!  The world relies on you!
Your Egypt will be prosperous.  And so, of course, will you!

And those who dither, from their doubts, will surely see the dawn.
They've interests – and so will come, with F16's, to fawn.

2013 August 16th Fri. & 17th, Sat.
(last 10 couplets added Aug. 19th, Mon.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

More Advice

Advice
 

More Advice

       
More Advice   
  
Yes, I know of your credentials, as you've come to me commended
By an able old disciple, who has highly recommended
Your performance, for its slickness and its evidence of art –
And he tells me that you're on the way to getting rid of heart...

But he notes that you're uncertain on some matters – that you worry,
And at times, for needed actions, you have ended feeling sorry.
And he says that you are looking for a mentor, for a guide,
Who will aid you in your journey, one in whom you can confide...

So you've come to me requesting that I give you some advice.
But you'd better be prepared, as what I'll tell you isn't nice.
If you're looking to go higher, it behooves you to be shrewd.
Be polite to those who matter.  To the rest, you can be rude.

If you labored in a factory, then you'd do as you were told.
If you worked within an office, you'd be foolish to be bold.
You would follow all your orders and be loyal to your bosses,
Or your exit would be certain. You'd be counting up your losses.
  
Were you serving in an army – or teaching in a school,
You would surely have accepted that you're nothing but a tool.
If you'd started on a business, you'd be forced to toe the rules,
For the morgues for failing businesses are filled by errant fools.

******

If you're thinking you can change the world, you'd better think again.
For the cynics have been betting – and they're winning yet again.
If you venture into politics or you work in institutions,
You should leave behind your right-and-wrong and softer intuitions.

If you listen to your conscience and you do as it dictates,
You may find that you're the object of a multitude of hates.
If you're questioning a “verity” or asking for a reason,
You will surely be suspected then of lunacy or treason.

So be wary of the rebels who are questioning the flow.
To where rising ones are headed, you'd be smart to turn and go.
Leave resistance to the failures, who you'll see are losing ground.
Let reflection be for losers, as you win another round!

To your bosses, be compliant.  With your underlings, be stern.
You should undermine complainers – who will never, ever learn.
The ambition that is needed, if you're looking to succeed,
Should be fortified by ruthlessness – and a fair amount of greed.

****** 
 
For you're clearly not for labor in a factory or school.
As for slaving in an office –  you are surely not a fool.
You're not meant to die for duty in a distant, dirty war.
You were born to be a boss-man, who'll be chauffeured in a car.

So you'll learn to do the herding – and the hunting too, my friend.
And you'll learn from those who're herders – and who hunt until the end.
And you'll ally with the in-crowd, with the ones who're seeking power,
And you'll learn to lie and break the laws and watch the timid cower.

For the rules are there for workers and the lower rungs of bosses,
But they don't apply to owners.  We are ruled by profits, losses.
And a nation, such as ours, is in need of rule by those,
Who were meant to be the owners – and the roads to owning chose.

If you're looking for the power and the wealth, then you should know
That these things, from your own labor, you can never ever grow.
For the roads to wealth and power, they are built on workers' backs,
And the entrances are barred to him, who basic shrewdness lacks.

It's when your wealth is multiplied by all who work for you,
And your power too is magnified by all who're serving you,
It's then, by dint of rent and debt and wages that you pay,
That you'll get, with wits and ruthlessness, your money – and your way.

******

So I think that I shall leave you now to ponder if you're fitted
To clamber up the hierarchies and leave the rest outwitted.
It is heartening for elders, that a younger generation
Will be putting on the stirrups, so's to ride this glorious nation.

You have come to me from someone, who was really rather clever.
He had learned what I had taught him, while repeating hardly ever.
And he says that you are like him, and may even rise above.
If he's right (and I do trust him) then my labor is of love.

For I hope that you'll be smart enough to kill and have your dinner,
And you'll show, to those who're watching, what it means to be a winner.
So I'll gladly be your mentor, for it's rarely that I find,
In a person who is younger, such a cunning sort of mind.

But your quibbles, you should garbage, you should throw them in the trash,
Or you'll find that you are hobbled, or are even acting rash.
To be honest is for others – just be careful, don't be caught!
And you'll have your time for kindness – but there's battles to be fought.
   
2013 July 2nd, Fri.
Brooklyn
   

With Gentle Feet

     
With Gentle Feet
                    
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks she'll do this and that
And so become another –
To her, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

******
 
So do whatever you desire
Or what you have to do,
And savor thus your duty, pleasure,
While still remaining you.

For your body and your spirit are
As waves upon the sea,
And let's observe that wavelet, that
As cloud aspires to be.

It might forsake the ocean vast
And wash upon the land,
Or warmed by sun, as vapor rise –
And yet not understand.

For even if it rises high
Above the rolling plain,
Its nature is of water and,
As water, will remain.

And though it fall as snow upon
The lofty mountain peaks,
In time enough it will return,
As water, level seeks...

And though the sights that we may see
While mounting on ambition,
May serve to feed the dreams of age,
They will not give us vision.

For vision that is not of eyes
Alone is what is needed,
And when the heart is riven, then
Its vision isn't heeded.

And when ambition blinds our soul
Or we reject our parts,
Then all around us, shattered, lie
The bodies, minds and hearts...

So let the ones, who're driven, rise.
Observe them rise and fall.
Go carefully, with gentle feet,
With love for one and all.

******
 
There are so many things that a man can do.
And a woman can do some more.
But when we have done these things, we see
We're still as we were before.

So the one, who thinks he'll do this and that
And so become another –
To him, I say, if that's your end,
It isn't worth the bother.

2013 July 28th, Sun.
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