Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls (and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

So many wars that will not end!
So many products still to vend!
We’ve murdered people, murdered whales.
We’ve raised the stocks and boosted sales.
What’s left of fabrics still to rend?
And who can hope to heal and mend?
We’ve birthed the storm. So hear the gales,
As hammers pound on coffins’ nails.

How many left, who still are sane,
And not in jail or judged insane
By those who dance as puppets do,
While saying, “Dance!” to me and you?
And if we don’t, we suffer pain,
And find our efforts are in vain,
For labor must be service too,
To those who reign, as masters do.

How sad that this, our human race,
Must serve as serfs, with each in place
To work, produce—and buy, consume,
And all those qualities assume
That are expected, while we race
And vie for each coveted place.
We work—to fly and to consume
And then return—and jobs resume.

For now, vacations too are sales.
Our kids are swayed by seller’s tales.
They buy the gizmos, clothes and cars,
Cosmetics—even buying wars.
As elders quaff their wines and ales,
So youngsters guzzle sodas, sales.
As long as we are buying cars,
We also will be starting wars.

Who knows of science and history
And is intrigued by mystery?
Who dares to think and question why
We come to live and work and die?
We learn, in schools, our “history”,
But truth remains a mystery.
We lack in patience and in depth,
But not in hubris or in debt.

Where patience can be judged a vice,
There nasties rule, and those who’re nice,
Are seen as useless, worthless fools,
Who can’t be fashioned into tools
That aid those, who, ignoring price,
Would make decisions in a trice.
But who, we ask, are more the fools—
The slow—or those who serve the ghouls?

A few may feast on human flesh,
But others do on labor, fresh.
Our role, for them, is just to work,
To never raise our voice to irk
Their majesty, or rip that mesh
In which both France and Bangladesh
Are trapped. They view us as a quirk,
And squash us, as they smugly smirk.

Our role is labor and consumption,
Paying taxes, lacking gumption,
Lowing, bleating with the herd,
Being redneck, worker, nerd,
Being conditioned, drained of passion,
Trained to follow swings of fashion…
Injustice?  If we’ve ever heard,
We’ve learned to flush it, like a turd.

The cannons boom, the bombs descend,
The drones deliver and ascend.
The helicopters dive and strafe.
And who, from all of this, is safe?
The fighters die, the migrants wend
Their way—and souls and bodies vend.
From poverty and death and rape,
They flee—but find there’s no escape.

Where capital, at speed, can flow,
There labor follows, stressed and slow.
The money drains from villages,
As those who did the tillages
Must find their ways to cities.  So
The workers, to the anthills, flow.
But both in towns and villages,
The ghoul is there, who pillages.

He feeds on interest and rent,
And bribing is his special bent.
He views the worker as a chump.
He shows his underlings his rump.
The migrants, to his mills, are sent.
For a nickel’s work, he pays a cent.
And yet, if he is Donald Trump,
On migrants, he can take his dump.

“They’re rapists, murderers!” he cries.
And many chumps believe his lies.
And who is there to counter Don,
To  ask, “What planet are you on?”
Why, there’s Obama, gals and guys,
And Hillary, who tries and tries.
But Wall Street says, “No Sanders- Warren!”
She bows and curtsies.  She’s no moron.

2016 July 24th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Karma – Part II

   
Karma – Part II
   
If only we were free to live the life
that’s there to live, without the stress and strife
unneeded, wrought by humans wanting more,
we’d live in grace – and still in grace, we’d go.
  
From thought arises word, from thought comes deed.
Be mindful then, of stuff on which you feed.
There’s no accountant up there, keeping score,
but every action leads to actions more.

And actions, words, in turn, engender thoughts –
and so the spirals, built of endless naughts,
proceed.  So blessing and damnation flow,
as eons, lives and seasons come and go.
    
Our thoughts and words and actions make a nest
or make a snare, in which we’re caught or rest.
And when, around us, ignorance accrued
has built a prison, then we’re truly screwed…
   
There lived a trader once in Brooklyn, who
of much that’s done, around the planet, knew
to raise the shares – and work the fields of woe,
and yet, he daily took the train, to hoe.
   
But when, one day, he saw the plume that rose
from Mammon’s isle, to which the tribute flows,
he murmured, thinking back to profits’ boost,
“Alas, the birds are coming home to roost.”
   
“Alas – and yet, at last.” he stood and said,
As karma did its work of darkness dread.
He then resolved to leave his woeful toil
and sow instead the light, in blighted soil.
   
And so, he turned to teaching children then
and found in this, awhile, a bit of zen,
until he saw that there was nowhere left
that wasn’t, of what’s sacred, quite bereft.
   
He could not raise his hands to a god and cry,
“Not even here!  Oh tell me – why, oh why?”
He thought of all that he had come to know –
and then decided it was time to go.
   
He walked that evening to the river wide
and stood in darkness by the current’s side.
He almost dove, but then he heard a voice.
“There's kindness still.  Remember – and rejoice.”
   
2014 November 22nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Karma--Part I
  
For a prose preface to Karma--Part II, please see Thanksgiving Thoughts -- On Turkeys, Teachers, Soldiers and Conscience.
   

The Theft of the Commons

      
The Theft of the Commons
 
We have a duty, in the public sphere,
To do what's right – the common good of all.
And it's our duty to defend this space
From those who seek to "own" it for their ends.

If "ownership" is what they seek, we say,
"What's public still is 'owned' by all of us.
It can't be sold or bought.  It's like the air,
The sun and all that we and others share."

And yet there's value in what's shared – from work
That citizens have done, from taxes paid
And from the value that we put on things
We hold as dear, as heirs with legacies.

So when the public tills are used as troughs
From which the lazy or the clever feed,
It's only right that some should raise a cry
And to such thieves, the public's trust deny.

But equally, when magnates seek to grow
Yet richer from the government's largesse,
Procured by tools the affluent can wield,
To such as these, should we, our treasures, yield?

What once was shared by all, the common space,
Is now partitioned, walled – and we are told
By hired guards that we have no access
Or only what is doled and limited.

What public labor built is cheaply bought.
It's sold and rented out as "property".
And so, across the world, the billionaires
Grow richer yet, with workers turned to serfs. 

Our years of work, the toils of those before
Are stolen, used to profit only some.
If foreign troops arrived to conquer, would
We then defend, what we have given up?

The light, the air, the water and the land
Are shared by all of life. Our sustenance
Is drawn from these. Who dares to "own" them or
Despoil, by thoughtless plunder, sanctity?

The burglar and the con-man are condemned,
And those who try to rob the banks are chased.
But who will rise and point towards the ones
Who steal our labor and our heritage?

2014 June 27th, Fri.
Brooklyn
   

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. 
 

Beware, the Planes!

 
Beware, the Planes!
   
And some now fly in jet-planes through the sky,
While others labor closer to the dirt.
And surely none would either space deny,
But who does more of harm to this our Earth?

Some fly across the continents and oceans
For reasons every human understands.
But others fly, as part of world-elites,
To propagate the ills that plague our lands.

Yet these, who fly in arcs across the blue,
Are adulated by our pundits wise.
There may be sky enough for pundits too,
But is there oil enough – as waters rise?

“The wealth-creators” is the term that’s used
For flyers high – they make, we’re told, the wealth.
Yet one more term, in ignorance, abused!
Do tell us, why we still should worship stealth?         \1

The theft of labor – that is nothing new.
On that was built the empires of the world –
But never on the scale that now proceeds,
As all the planet is, in hellfire, hurled.

We each were one among the myriad,
As person or as species, part of a whole,
With all our conflicts, still in harmony,
And playing, each, an individual role…

For each has senses – so that each perceives
What’s best for each and for the others too.
If a cell or other being does not care
To listen, then – it's deafness, it will rue.

Can this, our world, bear such an overrun
By one deaf species, maddened, cancerous?
And does this species have, as destiny,
This lunacy? For what’s become of us?

We have the financiers, the ones with cash,
And those who serve them, in their penguin suits –
And then the masses, laboring for bosses –
And then, there’s jet-planes, bombs – and marching boots.

For who can stand against the megatons?
And who can down the devil-drones that fly?
Omnipotent, omniscient are those
Who fly above – while village orphans cry.

The brigand kings, their lords, the emperors,
And all the ruthless feeding chains below,
Were gone, we thought, with “rights divine” and worse.
But now we’ve more, to whom we all should bow?

The empires gave, to each, a place, indeed,
In which, at rung on ladder, each could toil.
A few could climb, on others, towards the top,
While most, near bottom, worked the planet’s soil.

But now our emperors are globalized.
We’re cogs in gears, within their great machines.
And where’s the place, where we can flee their reach
Or hide our children from their venal schemes?

Our kids, corrupted by what’s marketed
From all around, ignore the words we speak.
They eat of fire – so they each then burn,
And in their turn, yet more of havoc wreak…

So classes new are born and take their place.
They toil, consume – as profits rise, like cream.
What’s left of cultures, profiteers deface,
As missiles, guns and jails enforce this “dream”.

Whichever nation tries to dam this tide
And so survive, however small its bay,
Is flooded, by the dollar, as the plane
That flies on high ensures that all obey.

A state that tries to sing a different tune
Is quickly crushed – or suffocated slow.
It's demonized – until we all agree
That states like it should bleed to death and go.

Its leaders, pressured, may then means devise
To stay in power – means of brutal force.
And this adds powder to our media’s guns.
Our leaders stay upon their ruthless course.

For what they do – or what our allied states
May do – are not revealed to us.
Who bulldozes the shelters that are left
Or bombs from high – except the goons we trust?

And there’s resistance – here and there, we see
The workers, peasants or the tribesmen rise.
And then they’re crushed, with hammer-blows, while we
The sorry truth, but rarely might surmise.

We scarcely know, what happens down the street,
Much less, what occurs in another city.
So when the flyer makes his distant deal,
Who’s there to watch – or those, who suffer, pity?

Our minds determine what we humans are.
Who captures minds, directs what humans do.
And so are media used to start a war –
Or make us work to buy a product new.

For guns and bombs alone do not suffice.
Along with fear, they’ve yet more tools to use.
For every human virtue, there’s a vice
That works – to capture, weaken and abuse.

And seeing their societies rot, we see
That some, alarmed, for reasons right or wrong –
To privileges, rights, as case may be, preserve –
Have grown suspicious of the siren song.

So there’s resistance of another kind,
That rears its head and howls with ancient fury.
To violence, it answers loud in kind.
A “holy book” is made the judge and jury.

Go read the Torah, Bible or Koran.
Hear Krshna weasel Arjuna in rhymes.                   \2
Of what was lauded in those ancient texts,
You’ll hear the echo then, in present times.

In our Manhattan, as the workers toiled,
The towers rose in grandeur in the skies.
And then they fell. But others rise again.
So who has won? A widow softly cries.

In the autumn sky, a plane that arced and dove.
And Sodom then it was, in Mammon’s city.            \3
So zealots here repeated, as they did
In Bamyan, an ancient, sorry story.

But it was wealth that challenged wealth that day
And does – across the globe, as angels dark
Do battle, as the people cringe and die.
Beware, those streaks that through the heavens arc!

2014 January 18th, Sun. &  25th, Sat. 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

1. The word "stealth" has been used here in its original (now archaic) sense.
 
2. The reference is to the Bhagavad Gita, in which the god Krshna persuades a reluctant warrior, Arjuna, to try to slay, in battle, his childhood mentors, relatives and friends.

3. Bamyan, in Afghanistan, was where the huge statues of the Buddhas stood, until they were dynamited by the Wahabi extremists, not long before they successfully attacked the Manhattan towers as well as the Pentagon.  The fierce monotheistic zeal recorded in the old Hebraic texts survives and manifests itself in this and other ways. This zealotry is also utilized, as always, to reach towards worldly ends.   

Please see also:
  
The Wealth Creators  

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-wealth-creators.html


 

Genghis Khan Has Come To Town

             
Genghis Khan Has Come To Town
                                 
Awake, oh citizens of the ancient city,
When you were sleeping, waiting for the dawn,
A horde had gathered and, before the sun,
Had entered this, your city, as the gates
Were opened by the gatemen, they who saw
The army stretching to the distant north…

Awake, oh citizens, awake and see
The Mongol horde is here, with all the rest.
And many are their tongues -- but they are one,
United in their lust for conquest, loot,
For women that they’ll rape or take as slaves…
Awake, for Genghis Khan is in your town!

And when you see the soldiers, look away,
But when you see their lordlings, then bow low.
We have survived invasions, plagues, before.
So to this tempest bend, and it will pass,
And then we’ll nurse our injured, bury those
Who gave their lives – and carry on.

But sing the praises now of conquerors.
In Mongol, sing – for I will show you how.
We all will sing, as we had done before,
We’ll sing the praises of our conquerors.
We'll imitate their ways and learn their tongues…
Sing now, “Genghis Khan has come to town…”

2013 November 24th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

Our Business Cannot Fail

     
Our Business Cannot Fail
  
We’re getting tired of parties,
And the local food is shit.
This isn’t what we’re here for,
So we’re getting tired of it.

We can see you like to grovel.
It’s your culture, we are told.
But it isn’t what we’re after
And it’s getting kind of old.

You can bow or you can curtsy,
You can give our hand a shake.
But we really would prefer it,
If it’s profits we could make.

For we’re here to do some business,
Get some business – get our drift?
If we do not get that business,
Then there’s going to be a rift.

So it’s you and us together --
And you’ll sign and we’ll depart.
For it isn’t, for you, healthy,
If we’re forced to move apart.

For it’s you and us together,
So you live to tell the tale.
Or it’s you against our business.
And our business cannot fail.

Yes, it’s business that we’re after,
And it’s business that we’ll get.
If we do not get our business,
It’s this bullet that you’ll get.

You can show your teeth or glower,
And our hands, you needn’t shake.
For to break your teeth, we’ve power,
If our profits, we don’t make.

So here it is.  Now sign it.
And it’s time you start your hustle.
You had better get them working,
For you know that we have muscle.

You had better get them working,
So they’ll earn for you, your dollar.
We can make you rich, eh, partner?
We can also make you holler.

You’ve got to drive the workers,
You’ve got to make them work.
You’ve got to show the shirkers
That they simply mustn’t shirk.

It's time for you to hustle,
And it's time for you to please.
So quit your smiling, buddy,
For we're here to give the squeeze.

We gave you what you wanted
And we’ve waited for a while.
But all that you’ve delivered
Is your oily little smile.

But we’re here to do some business
And it’s all about the cash.
And if you can’t deliver,
Your noggin, we will bash.

2013 Nov. 21st, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

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  
   

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 
 

Homo Moderni

   

Homo Moderni
              
Bereft of reason and of virtues, filled with much that's vile,
With ancient humors each replaced by substitute of bile,
A prey to all the vices old and host to evils new,
The modern human stands and even struts for us to view.

And all the subtleties that marked the one of “culture” are
Now vanished.  All that now remains are crudities that war.
Yet all the innocence of one who's “primitive” is gone,
With gentle arts replaced by those in cataclysms born.

What once belonged to Nature, just as much as does a flower,
Is now possessed by devilry, and fully in its power.
So songs that issued forth in melodies are now replaced
By screams as only lunatics might voice, with madness faced.

Where was once had pulsed a heart, the metal pistons loudly stroke,
And where there once was mind, we only find a tragic joke.
For garbage fills the hemispheres and excrement now flows
Through vesicles.  And when it speaks, its inner state, it shows.

For surely, “it” is all that's fit for such as human is,
That's been transformed by factories to such a state as this.
And though compassion rises, hesitation follows soon,
For if such products would depart, would not that be a boon?

And yet, this is a human, kin to all the beasts and birds,
And still a child of Nature, yes, despite our vicious words.
And so, to that one spirit that we still conceive as good,
We pray that evil should depart – or we've misunderstood.

2013 September 14th, Sat.
Brooklyn

The Daily Poet

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.
  

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

This may be of particular interest to those from the Indian subcontinent.

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

Part II – A Rant

If truth be told, the peasant, tilling land,
Has often fared no better and no worse,
When those who'd ruled from 'Pindi were replaced  \1
By those who ruled from Dhaka in their stead.

What matters it, if the Queen of England reigns,
Or mughal, maharajah?  It's only when
The Company had squeezed the golden goose         \2
To close to death, that sepoys did revolt.

To Brits, it was rebellion.  Natives saw
A chance for liberation from the yoke.
But the old colonials long have left and yet –
The brown sahibs remain.  Another joke!

If there's a choice, between the local big,
And one afar, it may at end be this:
The one at hand can only squeeze so far,
And where he drinks, he also, there, needs piss.

******
< start of explanatory portion, added Aug. 26th,  for stanza directly above >

So landlords buy, of what the artisan
Produces, and they also hire, at times,
The ones who're seeking work, to dig a pond
To stock with fish, or build yet one more house.

But when a cousin of that landlord builds
A factory, in Howrah, then the cash                         \3
From sales of grain to the city then will go
To earn for him the promised interest.

And so, in turn, some peasants too will move
To work in city factories or build
The quarters there for better-offs -- or join
The beggars on the footpaths or the slums.

So local wealth departs, by labor earned,
And workers follow, seeking then for work.
But if the city isn't far away,
Then hope remains that some will still return.

But when the wealth moves further, even out
Beyond a country's borders, fencing men
But not the flow of cash, to far New York
Or London, then it is forever lost.

And sons of landlords follow, daughters too,
And even more of cash is sent abroad,
So they can study and then settle there,
As native country bleeds yet even more.

And yet, with workers who are peasants still,
Remembering the ones they left at home,
Some capital may flow, from all their toil
In lands of oil and sheiks, to green Sylhet.            \4

And so do trickles continue to flow
From cities in the U.S. to the south,
Where villages, deserted by the men,
Are living now on cash that comes by mail.

And so it is in China, in the north,
As only old and children there remain,
And even in old Mexico, you'll find
The plateau's air is fouled by city's breath.

And what do cities, even capitals,
Pretend to know or care about the hicks?
Where there's a vote, with pesos it is bought,
Or with rupees. Where carrots fail, there's sticks.

So summing up, the local brigand is
A better bet than one who's far removed,
Who neither spends his wealth on local fare,
Nor cares what local men may think of him.

You say the Syrians slaughter now their own,
The Congo's been a place of genocides --
And that may be, and you can shine a light,
But stay away with bombs and troops, I pray.

Our governments have done, in places far,
What they would never do, in present times,
In their own capitals or places where
They still might be accountable.

< end of explanatory portion added Aug. 26th >
******

There's balance  – and a circulation, which
A Dilli or a London or D.C.
Escapes.  How long was it, before
Our bombs abroad were echoed in New York?

How many millions died, in fiery hells,
In nations far, who'd never done a thing
To harm a hair on blond or auburn head?
How many lies were told, that still prevail?

The soldier, like the teacher in the school,
Is blamed – or else the generals.
The ones, who sent them into combat, live
At ease, with both the dead and living mute.

Who dares to say the battle's lost – or war?
We click our heels, salute and go to teach.
Who cares that men are dying, needlessly?
We're paid to do.  Let those, who're jobless, preach.

There is no lack of problems, in a land,
The foreigners will never understand.
Nor does it lack that class of lords and lackeys,
Who'll take the bribes and side with global bullies.

A superpower, in a land that's torn,
Is like the bull within the china shop.
So Soviets were, in high Afghanistan.
And so were we, as Khmers saw rain of bombs.

How many Indonesias, Vietnams,
How many troubled lands of east and west!
How many more of Lebanons, Iraqs,
Before we let the tortured nations rest?

It's time to let them live and fight it out,
If not for moral sense than for ourselves.
The oceans will no longer serve as dikes.
What's done afar affects us, in the end.

We have our troubles too, no end of them.
Our wars distract us from the matters here.
It's only when we truly see, that sense
Prevails, dispelling myths – and greed and fear...

I'd tell the ones, who've suffered from our bombs
And constant meddling in their land's affairs,
“Remember this – the more you bicker, fight
Among yourselves, the longer we can stay.

“And if you have to choose, between a lord
Who is corrupt, or is a zealot, then
Prefer the first, for he may rob and reign,
But does not seek to rule your mind and soul.

“But better yet, dispose of both of them!
You need your kings and presidents and worse
As much as farmers need their lords of land,
Or deer depend on wolves for wherewithal.”

But who am I to tell or to advise?
The ones afar are caught in struggles fierce,
That are connected deeply with our own.
They'll struggle through, without my glib advice.

Enough! I woke, with mind and soul disturbed,
And plainly wrote, whatever came to mind.
I leave this now, for readers to peruse
And find me mad – or put to future use.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
(stanzas 5-17, within the dividers “******”,
inserted to explain or illustrate the 4th stanza,
added August 26th, Mon.)
Brooklyn

A Ramble and a Rant -- Part I  

Notes

1. The capital of Pakistan, following its independence in 1947, was initially Karachi, the large port city on the Arabian sea, near the mouth of the Indus river in the southern province of Sindh.  With the increasing dominance of the Panjab, the capital was shifted first, in the early 1960's, to 'Pindi (Rawalpindi) in the north, where the Panjab plain meets the Himalayan foothills, and what was then the NWFP (North West Frontier Province), inhabited by Pathans (Pashtuns/Pakhtoons)) and others.  Around 1966, it was moved to the neighboring, newborn, planned capital city of Islamabad.  So Islamabad was the official capital at the time of what was essentially a military coup, in March of 1971, against what would have been the newly elected government led by Mujibur Rahman's Awami League, which had its base in mainly Bengali-speaking East Pakistan, separated from W. Pakistan by well over a thousand miles by the width of the Republic of India.

The brutal crackdown by the Pakistani army, starting in March of 1971, in that eastern wing of Pakistan, the stirring up of religious animosities, and the ever-present scarcity of land and resources in the fertile but overpopulated delta region, led to a great number of hapless, frightened, malnourished and footsore refugees streaming across the borders into neighboring states in India (which I witnessed first-hand as a relief worker there) and quite a bit of local resistance, including from a lightly-armed guerrilla force, the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Army).  Most of the Awami League leaders, however, those not arrested along with Mujibur Rahman, fled across the border to Kolkata. The final full-scale war, involving the Indian army, that led to the creation of  Bangladesh, occurred at the end of 1971.

Although Islamabad was then the capital of Pakistan, I have referred to 'Pindi in the verse line, as that was where much of the W. Pakistani army headquarters and generals were centered.  The two cities are situated, I believe, cheek to jowl.  I gathered then, from talking to many of the refugees (mostly Hindu, but with a fair number of Muslims as well) that the lot of ordinary peasants, especially the landless ones, might not change that much if and when the W. Pakistani rulers, reigning from Islamabad-Rawalpindi, were exchanged for Bengali ones ruling from Dhaka, just as the departure of the British had, at least at that time, left much of the peasantry unaffected all over the subcontinent, still subservient to, indeed, effectively enslaved by, the feudal landlord hierarchy that had been established since before the Mughals. 

For me, this was a revelation, which I might not have had had I not journeyed, in the summer of 1971, full of youthful idealism and misplaced Bengali nationalism, 900 miles southeast by train with a Gandhian group from Dilli to Bongaon, a small town on the Ichamati river, which separated the eastern Indian state of W. Bengal from what was then E. Pakistan.  But after talking to the refugees (many of whom had received their only organized help, on their own side of the border, from the Communist Party and the National Awami Party) and after rowing surreptitiously across the Ichamati, as cannon boomed, to visit a badly shelled and nearly abandoned village, where we met a few remaining aged inhabitants and some wary youths who were part of the local Mukti Bahini, I came to this conclusion, which was, at the time, a rather sad and life-changing one for me.  I hoped then that I would be proved wrong.

2.  The reference is to the British East India Company, and to the Uprising of 1857 in the subcontinent, led by the native sepoys (soldiers) employed in the Company's army.  The rebellion was brutally suppressed.   However, the British Crown then took direct control of India, making it a centerpiece of the British Empire, taking a slightly longer view and  shrewdly reining in, to some degree, the rapacity of the colonial enterprise there.

3. Howrah is a suburb of Kolkata (Calcutta), in the state of W.Bengal, India.  It houses the main railway station and is linked to Kolkata by the Howrah Bridge, built in British times across the Hooghly river, a broad local estuary of the Ganges, navigable by ocean-going ships.

4.  Sylhet is a north-eastern district of Bangladesh, bordering the Indian states of Meghalaya, Assam and Tripura.  It is a lush, hilly region, with tea, oil and gas being major industries. Sylhet, like a few other parts of the subcontinent, has long had a large expatriate population, many of whom work in the U.K. and in the Gulf states, sending remittances home.