Darkness—and Light

 
Darkness—and Light

We need to see and so to understand

How pettiness and peeve can overwhelm
Our better instincts, blur and blind our sight,
And bend our reason towards disastrous ends.
So conscience dies and truth is buried deep,
As endless lies and endless wars extend
Disaster zones in which the children wail
As parents weep or turn to remnant faith.

The gods and goddesses of ancient yore
Took part, we’re told, in all our grievous sins
Of lying, cheating, loot and murder—yes,
And even now we bow to Mammon’s will
And execute his lethal schemes and  worse—
As both the godless and the theists claim
Their rights to slaughters that will never end.

In all this darkness, growing deeper, might
There still be light that waits for more at dawn?
There surely is, as mind and heart can see
If only turned and opened towards this light—
That strives at every time and every place
To heal, console, and give us more of strength
That still sustains the soul in all that lives.

Behold the darkness, viewing it in full.
Observe the remnant light and cherish it.
The cynics and the ones defeated spurn
The hope that’s offered and the needed fight,
And in so doing aid the dark’s advance.
So recognize this trait, within yourself
As well as others. Understand the plight

Of those who’re wounded, yet sustain the light.

2025 July 5th, Sat. 
Berkeley, California

Magic

 
Magic

We humans have abilities that awe
That when unhemmed by ethics and by law
Can lead to great calamities indeed. 
No magic can suffice, when few will heed

The voice of conscience and the pull of heart
As ears are deafened and we're pulled apart
By hatreds born of ignorance, instilled.
And so are prophesies, of hate, fulfilled.

****** 

So you and I and others have conversed
On how to end the wars with which we're cursed,
As more and more of science, art, and craft
Are used to wage what reason sees as daft—

What every heart and wakened conscience feels
Descends on people, trapped, and blindly steals 
From these, its victims, all, including life,
And so maintains the never-ending strife

That heaps, on generations, more of woe,
With senseless hatred turning friend to foe
As every act unjust and every blow
Begets its offspring, violent even more.  

******

So each of us has asked, in silence and
In speech, if anyone can understand
The sense behind this senselessness and show
A way by which to stop—or even slow—

The rush to our destruction: sober those
Whose hubris causes hearts and minds to close,
As blissful, willful ignorance parades
As truth—and blatant lies inform charades

Performed by rogues, as legislators cheer
The murderers of children, feel no fear
Of judgment, further seal their hearts
And practice, daily, more deceiving arts.

*********

If I could wave a "magic wand", I would—
And make those evils disappear, that should.
So bombs would all reverse, and bullets too—
And then we might be smiling, me and you—

As every missile sent and every shell
Would turn—and so return! It would be hell
For every bully, armed with war machines,
As "magic" gave the rest of us vaccines

Against their bribes, their threats, and all the fear
And horror. So these wars would disappear—
Of mass destruction, misery, and death—
Replaced perhaps by even worse! Regret

Could then descend on well-intentioned me
As all my "magic" turned out, not to be
The thing I'd hoped for. Squeezing evil, I,
Would see its means to lengthen and defy

My efforts to contain it. So elastic
This scourge of ours could be, that only drastic
Measures might suffice to bring to end
This evil that afflicts us all, my friend!

*********

And what could truly be more drastic than
To end our species, twinned as woman-man?

It might perhaps be time for diving deep
Within the wilds of psyche, through the sleep

In which we often spend our waking days,
With steps, as usual, on accustomed ways
Of habit born of training, so we see

What seers saw, informing you and me,

In wordless ways that cannot be expressed 
In verse or prose, of That which so impressed
The ones who saw that they awoke from sleep,
Enlightened—and connected with the Deep.

******

It’s only this, it seems, that could provide
The insight and connection that abide
And so inform the heart and mind to steer
Away from that which then is seen as clear. 

Is it “good and evil”? Simply, “right and wrong”?
Or was and is this cleavage, all along,
Misguided—clouded by a lack of sight
Of those connections needing pause—for light?

Our feelings, thoughts, and words and deeds, we see, 
Are ripples on the surface of a sea
That can be whipped by winds to stormy waves.
And yet, beneath, there’s peace—a strength that knaves

Cannot perturb. And some may call this “faith”
And others, “insight” or “connection”. Fate
Can put us each in peril and in stress, 
But only grace can change a “no” to “yes”,

Delivered from the heart—and not by force. 
So endless lies and wars may take their course
With cities laid to waste and no one spared.
The spirit lives—in those who saw—and cared. 

And this, dear friend, is all I have to say
To end the many words I’ve said today.
There is indeed a magic: it’s within;
It gives us strength to see—and not to sin.

2025 March 7, Fri.
Berkeley, California 

Conscience and Choice / No Karma-Phala

 
Conscience and Choice / No Karma-Phala

There is no punishment, reward—
In this life or another.
There is no heaven that awaits
The ones who do what’s right.
There is no hell in which we’ll burn 
For doing what is wrong.

There are no gods with registers
Observing what we do.
There are no records being kept
Of actions good and bad.

******

The predator can kill its prey,
The parasite its host.
No ethics or morality
Constrains our human wars.
There is no nation on this Earth
Whose hands are free of blood. 

The ones with wealth and power make
The laws by which we’re ruled.
Our histories are filled with lies.
The news we get is false. 

******

So is there wrong? And is there right?
And is there good and bad?
There is a conscience—that is heard
Or not—that tells us this.
It channels our capacities
For quiet, inner sight.

It’s empathy and fairness—
That say what’s right and wrong.
And some extend their circles
And others squeeze these tight.

******

We can choose to seek for justice
For others, not just selves.
We can choose to practice kindness
Towards all that lives and feels.
We can listen more to conscience
And do what soothes and heals.

It’s not for fear of punishment
Or hope for some reward
One seeks the path of justice
And keeps an open heart.

****** 

There is a choice for each of us
To make at every time.
At times, the choice is difficult
And pain may well result
From choosing what the conscience
May whisper to the heart.

Do not expect that others 
Will sympathize or help.
We can listen to the others—
But do what conscience says. 

2023 November 30th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

 

This Cannot Be a Lie

This Cannot Be a Lie

Could there perhaps be meaning still within
This world where lives are racked with misery—
Where orphans wail amidst the wreckage caused 
By “acts of gods” as well as acts of men?

It seems that much of what we once believed
Was based on dreams and flights of fantasy—
And all that matters in the end is that
Which propagates the genes—or raises yields.

And even these are simply senseless games—
With passing pleasures yielding more of pain.
And all the “noble ends” that we pursue
Are seen as futile through the wider lens. 

******

So all our knowledge will be set to naught
And all our wisdom make no difference—
As planets wheel around their stars—and these
Expend their lives in whirlpool galaxies.

******

And so the cynic in us shrugs and says,
“Why bother with the things for which we lived?
Accept what is—and what in time will be.
Let go of asking what is true—or right.”

And yet the conscience whispers to the heart
And yet the questions come again to mind—
And still, no matter what the reasons be—
We smile at insights—and at actions kind.

How fragile this—the briefly pulsing life 
Of a plant or ant or human—born to die!
And yet, and yet, how precious, touched with joy—
This chance to live—that cannot be a lie.

2023 February 16th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

Typed: Feb 18, Sat., 
on the BART trains from 
Berkeley to Dublin/Pleasanton
Posted: On the 30R bus to Livermore

Songs-No Better and No Worse

 
                 Songs/
No Better and No Worse
 
I’ve heard the songs of humans, those of birds,
The calls of frogs, the insect choruses—
And I have read that whales have songs, ornate,
With melodies that cross the ocean leagues.
 
******
 
Reflecting on what’s shared in all these things,
Some questions come to mind that might be strange
To others—or may not—that could arise
From what we humans feel on hearing these—
 
But could perhaps be pointers towards the things
That humans long have preferred to ignore,
For reasons justified much less by sense
Than faith—of ancient or of modern kind.
 
Do crickets have a sense of comedy?
Do langurs long for those that they have lost?
I do not know the answer to the first,
But think the second’s answer should be clear.
 
The fish that’s hooked must surely feel the pain
That a human would in such a circumstance—
And just as children can enjoy their play,
So also pups and calves and kittens may.
 
******
 
Pain and pleasure, happiness and grief—
And fear and anger, jealousy and love—
These come and go in us as all things do—
And surely not in you and me alone
 
Or other humans. We are part of life—
No better and no worse than ants or whales—
But special in our ways as all things are,
Including, in our case, the scope of war!
 
A song has length that could be short or long,
And this depends on things intangible.
So also, trees and humans have their lengths
In time, as do the whales and birds and mites.
 
Some things are for a moment, others last
A month, a year—or even till our ends—
And we ourselves are weaves within this flow—
That thread their tunes until it’s time to go.
 
******
 
The songs remind us then of what we are,
Forgotten in our dazed amnesia,

As silence still can do, if it’s embraced,
While letting go of all our prose and verse.
 
2022, July 7^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Kill What You Eat--and Eat What You Kill

 
  Kill  What You Eat—and Eat What You Kill

  While walking in the park, I met
  an elder—and we talked.
  And what he told me gave me pause—
  and later gave me woe .

“Kill, what you eat, yourself, my friend,”
  the elder said to me.
“Do not depend on others, who
  are slaving, out of sight.

“The food you eat, the clothes you wear,
  your trinkets and your toys—
  attempt to kill or make yourself,
  or know their provenance

“The lights and gadgets in your home
  and where you go to work,
  the vehicles on which you ride,
  the roads on which they run—

“the fuels for these things as well—
  are made for you by others
  and brought to you by others or
  the conduits they have made.

“These actions all rely upon
  the slaughters, small and large,
  of beasts (and even human ones),
  and plants—and things that we

“may think are lifeless, yet have lives,
  although of other sorts—
  the mountains, plains and valleys and
  the oceans, lakes and streams.

“If you would have the hearing, you
  would hear their groans and screams.
  The air, that we are breathing, too,
  has a life that you can feel."

  And spreading out his arms, he then
  inhaled the city's air
  and slowly then exhaled that breath,
  let down his arms and smiled.

“This air we’re breathing, you and I,
  though often breathed before,
  would be as fresh, if not for Man,
  as when the plants had risen.”

  He said these things—and made me think.
  I thought: he must be mad.
  And so I said goodbye and left—
  but could not sleep at night.

“Kill what you eat,” he’d said, “and eat
  whatever you've killed, my friend.”
  as he'd gestured 'round at the earth and the sky
  and the trees and the works of Man.

  Kill what I eat?  Oh, how absurd!
  And eat what I kill?  That’s mad!
  I tried to put this out of my head,
  but I felt his words return.

  And ever since then, I've felt unease
  and even unwell at times.
  As I'd like you to share in my misery, I
  am passing this on in my turn.

  2018 December 29?, Thu?day
  Brooklyn, New York 

Kill What You Eat--and Eat What You Kill

  Kill  What You Eat—and Eat What You Kill

  While walking in the park, I met
  an elder—and we talked.
  And what he told me gave me pause—
  and later gave me woe .

“Kill, what you eat, yourself, my friend,”
  the elder said to me.
“Do not depend on others, who
  are slaving, out of sight.

“The food you eat, the clothes you wear,
  your trinkets and your toys—
  attempt to kill or make yourself,
  or know their provenance

“The lights and gadgets in your home
  and where you go to work,
  the vehicles on which you ride,
  the roads on which they run—

“the fuels for these things as well—
  are made for you by others
  and brought to you by others or
  the conduits they have made.

“These actions all rely upon
  the slaughters, small and large,
  of beasts (and even human ones),
  and plants—and things that we

“may think are lifeless, yet have lives,
  although of other sorts—
  the mountains, plains and valleys and
  the oceans, lakes and streams.

“If you would have the hearing, you
  would hear their groans and screams.
  The air, that we are breathing, too,
  has a life that you can feel."

  And spreading out his arms, he then
  inhaled the city's air
  and slowly then exhaled that breath,
  let down his arms and smiled.

“This air we’re breathing, you and I,
  though often breathed before,
  would be as fresh, if not for Man,
  as when the plants had risen.”

  He said these things—and made me think.
  I thought: he must be mad.
  And so I said goodbye and left—
  but could not sleep at night.

“Kill what you eat,” he’d said, “and eat
  whatever you've killed, my friend.”
  as he'd gestured 'round at the earth and the sky
  and the trees and the works of Man.

  Kill what I eat?  Oh, how absurd!
  And eat what I kill?  That’s mad!
  I tried to put this out of my head,
  but I felt his words return.

  And ever since then, I've felt unease
  and even unwell at times.
  As I'd like you to share in my misery, I
  am passing this on in my turn.

  2018 December 27?, Thu?day
  Brooklyn, New York 
  

Congress

 
Congress

A congress that is sexual can be wonderful indeed.
So those who represent us might consider “having sex”,
as the newer generation so dismally now says it,
to receive that inspiration that no lobbyist can give.
And if by chance caresses lead to feelings, surely then
our Congress will be better, though it’s mostly made of men.

And if there is an afterglow, in which unreason flees
as mind and head connect again, there might perhaps be hope
that all of the conventions and the pressures fall away,
and the Capitol, deserted as the Congress is at play,
might function as intended by the best in slavers yet,
when the Congressmen, returning, find they’re reading every line
and voting with a conscience—and a vision cleared by sex.

2016 August 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

For Just a Penny or for Naught

  
For Just a Penny or for Naught
  
 

Maula Baksh Shah or Maula Pagol,
a sadhok-singer in the Baul-Fakir
lineage of Delbar Sai
http://sgbrecordings.com/gallery

  



























Who's keeping count of  all the good we do
And taking note of all the evil too?
The answer, though we wish it otherwise,
Is "No one's watching over me and you."

Who watches, when the ant or spider dies?
Who cares that wars begin and end with lies?
And yet, we humans hold to that conceit –
That only adds, to falsehoods, more deceit.

For when we're young, our elders, teachers see
The things we do, at least to some degree,
And others too might notice, while we age,
And at our actions cheer – or shrug or rage.

And when we work at jobs, our "bosses" see
The work we do – perhaps – and let us be,
Or often don't, or see a part – and so,
In time, their pleasure or their umbrage show.

But most of what we're doing still remains
From others hidden, be they losses, gains
To other humans or to all of life.
So saints are crucified for all their pains.

So rascals mount the ladders to the throne,
And few are they, who ever will atone
For all the misery their climbing wrought,
And all the work their malice set to naught.

So some believe that there's an eye divine
That watches over actions – yours and mine.
But this, I think, is just a fiction sweet
That gives us solace that we sorely need.

So when we care, as others shrug or sneer,
And when we see, despite the fog of fear,
We then will act, although we'll get what's due
In punishment – and none will this review.

For when you're caught within the lanes that speed,
Although you're mounted on a slower steed –
If then, from kindness, you should try to slow,
You'll pay – and swiftly – for your gross misdeed.

Who doesn't need, at times, a friendly glance,
A pat upon the back, a word, a chance?
And if we get this, then we're blessed indeed.
But if we don't, we still will fill the need.

To work for payment, now or later, might
Be fine at times.  At other times, the sight
That comes from mind and heart will tell us this –
"To do what's right, provides enough of bliss."

There's bliss in doing – in creating things.
The painter paints, the minstrel stands and sings.
And surely, if they're paid, they're grateful, yet
They'll paint and sing, no matter what they get.

There's no accountant, working in the sky,
Nor judge, who's waiting for the time we die.
The only judge we need is that within,
The one that is our watchful inner eye.

And so the parent, so the teacher too.
And so, the angel that's in me and you.
"For just a penny or for naught," it says,
"Proceed."  The one, who cares to hear, obeys.

But when we're tossed within the pit of snakes,
Our devil wakens and of soul partakes.
For all we do is turned to dust and worse –
And this remains the mortals' dreaded curse.

The one, who hisses with the viper's sound,
Is then the one, who still will be around,
When he or she, who was by nature kind,
Has long been lost, in body or in mind.

No matter.  Give the snakes but little heed.
They know not what they do or truly need.
Go quietly upon your chosen way,
Reward, rebuke should not deter the deed.

Maula Pagol, on a very cold January
morning in Alamdanga, Bangladesh.
He passed away on 16 August 2012.

 














     

    

  
2015 February 14th, Sat., 10:49 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

There’s Much That Needs Repair

  
There’s Much That Needs Repair
 
The minds of men are fickle, and women too are swayed
By wind and tide and fashion, as others watch dismayed.
They seek for reason steady, they look for conscience clear.
They hope for true compassion, but rarely find it near.

We go to wars in frenzies, we’re led to battles dire,
And though we’re red and gory, of this, do humans tire?
The horsemen whip the stallions, and see – they gallop more.
And who will pause from racing – or even try to slow?

For faster, ever faster, is Mammon’s main demand.
But who can still resist this – or even understand?
The Bloombergs make their billions, they squeeze the workers tight,
And who will dare to question – or say it isn’t right?

The more the factory’s profit, the more we are oppressed.
Can learning true, or teaching, be more and more compressed?
We’re told to cut the corners, but never told this loud.
We bow to all the falsehoods that pose as purpose proud.

There’ll come a time when loving, in euros, yen is sold.
For all, that’s deemed as precious, is eyed for ventures bold.
Enough of buying, selling – of body, mind and soul!
It’s time for a repairing – to make what’s shattered whole.

How sweet the sound of wisdom, how clear is reason’s call!
But who of us has courage, to stand for one and all?
Behold the spoils of carnage, and hearken to despair.
The time has come to stop it.  There’s much that needs repair.

The child is quietly playing, as children once did do.
The mother and the father are none but me and you.
The calf is quietly grazing – but no – it’s what we dreamed.
When conscience has awakened, it’s not as what it seemed.

Do not depend on prophets to tell you what is right.
And do not run to bosses to aid your petty fight,
But listen to your conscience and be of charity.
Expel the must of madness and breathe of clarity.

The revolutions happen – and then they dissipate
And make things even harder, for those who work and wait.
It's quiet that is needed, so rush and madness cease.
The sound is then of gladness, the work is that of peace.

2014 November 13th, 3:29 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Cruelty is Zen

   
Cruelty is Zen
 
You can rail against the madness,
You can work yourself to death.
Until the workers wake up,
The lash is what you'll get.

Why butt your head in fervor,
Until you've brains no more?
The wall will never crumble
Until you're joined by more.

You can follow, quietly, conscience,
But beware that this is known.
When you're punished for your efforts,
You will find you're all alone.
 
There are those who value labor,
There are those who think it cheap.
There are those who value knowledge,
There are those who shun the deep.

When the conscience is extinguished,
When the wisdom has been lost,
Then what avails the worker,
Who's the one who pays the cost?

The mother does her nurture,
The father works his day.
And both of them are working
For the rent and bills they pay.

The teacher does her teaching.
But if, at this, she's caught,
She had better flee the system,
For her future, there, is fraught.
 
The banks have swelled with profits,
The hedge-funds daily soar.
And Bloomberg's gone, but Cuomo,  *
At us mice, can sit and roar. 

And now, he throws us morsels,
And we run to gather crumbs,
As our union-heads, say, "Listen!
Those who're voting no are dumbs."

Can a wolf become a rabbit?
Can their Andrew be our friend?
When his hand is further strengthened,
Will we ever see the end?

There's a culture of corruption
That is global in its scope.
And until we end that culture,
For a better, is there hope?

We can see the children troubled,
We can see the children spoiled.
But can we see the reason,
And why our labor's foiled?

The quick and easy answers
Are often not the truth.
The reasons may be simple,
But you've got to find the root.

For we adults, we are troubled,
And we adults, we are spoiled,
Though there's many, who may labor
And be saddened this is foiled.

The forces, strong, of commerce,
They have made, of virtue, vice –
And so, of vices, virtues.
So the city isn't nice.

Our values are degraded,
Our honesty is fled.
And lies – and those who're liars –
They're ruling us instead.

We are all in need of money,
But this surely can't be all.
For the simple act of nurture
Makes a culture rise or fall.

When we're racing for the money,
When we're harnessed, blinkered, then
The sanity is squandered
And the cruelty is "Zen".

I have labored and I've acted,
But the time is growing nigh,
With my strength and wisdom failing,
For retirement, with a sigh.

So I doff my hat to workers
Who have time to organize.
And I hope that they're successful,
And that some of them are wise.

Is there wisdom in acceptance?
Is there wisdom too in zeal?
It is heart and sight and conscience
That will tell you how I feel.

When the cheaters are the wise men,
When the zealots are in league,
When it's money that is speaking,
Does it matter, how we feel?

We are stranded in the shallows,
As the nonsense keeps us there.
Beware of what is peddled.
To challenge peddlers, dare.

We need wisdom, we need courage.
We must listen, we must speak.
We need action, where it matters,
As we steer towards the deep.
  
2014 June 15th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
* Michael Bloomberg, former three-term mayor of New York City, and Andrew Cuomo, current governor of New York State, moved strongly to curb whatever was left of union strength in New York, while maneuvering, fairly successfully, to keep compliant union leaders from coming out strongly against them. 
   
Bloomberg and Cuomo, along with the owned mainstream media, have worked to further the interests of the affluent and powerful elites of the financial institutions and other large corporations, with support from the federal (currently, Obama) government.  They also have the backing of the political right, the "center", and those who are on the left on "social" issues (such as gay rights) but not on issues that might lead to giving workers a voice.
   
Unfortunately, many workers have been brainwashed into divisions along ethnic, class and occupational lines.  Divisions have also been created between workers in the private and public sectors.  And so we have been conquered -- at least for now. 
 

The Vampires Are Our Lords

    
The Vampires Are Our Lords

You have reached to me for succor,
For a tune to soothe the heart.
Yet the only thing I offer
Is a great, resounding fart.

Should a toad be prized for beauty?
Should a murderer mind your child?
Will we gift the evil ogre
With a visage meek and mild?
  
You had asked me if the illness,
That we see afflicts our race,
Is a sign of human madness.
Are our rivets out of place?
    
I may try my best to answer,
In a manner long or terse.
Yet I cannot cure a cancer
Or a pox by writing verse.

Since there isn't goodness only,
Since there's much that's really bad,
There are men who wander lonely,
There are women driven mad.
    
If your conscience was awakened, 
If your duty beckoned you,
For the times that you have listened,
You'll have paid the tax that's due.

There are havens still of kindness
In a universe unkind.
There are shelters in the tempest.
These are places hard to find.

For the fortunate who've found them,
These are blessings from on high.
But the ones who are without them,
They will suffer till they die.

There is chance and there's endeavor. 
When we're lucky, these may join.
But our labor may be joyless, 
And our pay – in worthless coin.

There are those who shirk from effort,
There are those who labor long.
But the ones who are the winners
Are the ones who play along.

When we're trained to do what's honest,
Then we suffer, in our times.
We can shelter in religion.
We can soothe our wounds with rhymes.

We can choose to be unbending –
Or can sway as tempests blow.
We can do what conscience tells us 
Or can simply dance the show.

We can rail against injustice, 
We can fight for what is right.
But when we're not an army,
Is there victory in sight?

Where's the heart in one who's callous? 
Where's the water in a stone?
What we all must do together,
Can a loner do alone?

How many are the nations
That have gloried in their kings!
Of whom is it that Homer,
In his blindness, duly sings?
  
We have lifted up our brigands,
So the vampires are our lords.
The workers, we have humbled –
And have made, of devils, gods.

There are things that make us happy, 
But there's much that makes us sad.
We can try our bestest, chappy,
And be slowly driven  mad.

There are feeding chains we're part of.
It's time for you to see.
There are eaters, there are eaten –
Including you and me.
   
2014 June 10th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Two Beings

 
Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)
  
Two Beings
  
When all the madness of my “working day”
Has ended and I step outside the school,
I breathe the air that blows in from the sea
And see the trees against the evening sky.
And so my jangled nerves are set at ease,
As all my scattered parts are gathered slow.
And drinking in the evening’s beauty, I
Am whole again – and homewards, tranquil, go.

In every season, as the heavens change,
I watch the skies and see the clouds and stars,
The light that slants upon the autumn leaves
Or sets afire the tender ones of spring.
I see the dogs, the cats, the ones like me
And little birds that fly to roost in trees.
And as I walk, I’m filled with wonderment,
As tense fatigue gives way to sanity.

******

And though I trundle home a heavy load,
It often happens that it lies till dawn.
And when I wake and sally forth to work,
My head is filled with buzzing puzzlement.
But then my “workday” at the school begins,
And close to forty years of work kick in.
I see the children, one by one, come in,
And I teach my classes five, as others do.

In all my work before I started this,
I worked my miracles, however small,
And after joining as a teacher, I
Saw yet more wonders as I taught at school.
But many arduous years have passed of this,
And more and more, I find myself a fool,
As all my instincts, all my heart and soul
Rebel – at what no mortal mere can do.

2014 April 1, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)

Related:  Signs of Spring (March 30th), We Call for Spring (March 9th).
For earlier poems, please type in the word "spring" in the small search box in the upper right corner of the blue top-menu bar (visible if you scroll up). Then press the "Enter" key on your keyboard.
 

Relativity – II (Jo`e Bangla)

  
Relativity – II (Jo`e Bangla)
 
When lapsing into pity for myself,
Which seems to happen frequently of late,
I remember those I saw, when young –
The pavement-dwellers on my city’s streets.

Remembering this, and father’s photographs
Of famines, riots, men and women shot
When Britain ruled and Indian troops used guns
Against their own, I shake my silly head.

And then, I can’t feel sorry any more
For one like me, who’s working at a job
And so gets paid and so can pay the rent,
And even finds the time to type out verse.

And I remember how I once was stuck
In exile from this land and from my own.
And so, I'm glad that I’ve a place to live,
Without the fear of knocking at the door.

And I remember too – the ones who'd fled,
The stricken eyes of those who’d walked for days,
Whose feet had sores with pus I could not treat...
“Joy Bangla!” was the cry they uttered then.                \1

And then, although I’ve had my share of knocks,
I stir myself to do the job at hand.
And though there’s much that I perforce neglect,
I still can wring my satisfactions small.

The world is full of madness.  Who escapes?
The lots of some are endless misery.
But yet we live, and do what we can do,
So when it’s time, we’ll leave with less regret.

The victories we eke are transient,
And one by one, come more and more defeats.
But still, there's true and false, and right and wrong.
And still there's love – and duty's quiet call.

And so, at end, the hardest thing to bear
Is when there's conflict in our consciences.
But even this, the war within, we learn
To live with, as the outer wars proceed.

2014 March 13, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
   
1. "Victory to Bengal!"
-------------------------------------------
 
See also:  Relativity
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/relativity.html 
       

The Harder Route

The Harder Route
  
When we have labored, tried to do our best,
And yet we know that even more remains,
Then what is left for us to do but breathe
And take a moment for ourselves to rest…

We each have conscience.  Some may pay it heed
And others not.  And who are we to judge?
And yet, we know that when the stakes are those
Of life and death, for conscience, there is need.

So what of when it’s future lives at stake,
The lives of children, those we teach at school,
Or those we counsel, when they need support?
We then can choose to either toil – or fool.

The rich make rules we workers then obey,
And even when they test our hearts and sense,
So many choose to do as they are told,
That one, who doesn’t, falls, to strictures, prey.

So when we’re in a time and place where scams
Are so accepted that our honesty
And all our labor brings us punishment,
Then should we say, “It’s all a travesty?”

And so be like the rest, or still resolve
To do, what conscience clearly asks of us,
Whilst knowing, all our work will not suffice,
Nor all our wits, to tangled problems solve?

There’s surface and there’s depth in all we do.
By habit, we can choose between the twain.
The easy route is that of looking good,
The harder, that of toil – and danger too.

2014  January 16th, Thu., 8:26 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  

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 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

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.