Resolve

  
Resolve
 
How hard it is to leave our comfort zones
To face the full and harsh realities. 
It's so for each of us, within our lives,
And so for groups that shy from verities.
 
And yet, for each of us, there's no escape.
And so it is for groups and nations too.
It's better to resolve to face the truth—
For each collective, as for me and you.
 
How often can one see, in retrospect,
How daft, misguided, one had been.
So also, groups and nations lose their sense
And stoop to actions lethal and obscene.
 
******
 
The angels and the devils live within
Our “foes”, our “friends”, and also you and me.
The monster and the saint are both in us—
And this is what we often fail to see.
 
We cherish those we love—and that is good,
But often draw a circle that excludes
The others, whom we tend to then perceive
As aliens—or even demon-broods.
 
And so, deluded, dulled by myths we’re taught,
We’re snared and fashioned by the liar’s art.
Accepting then the endless lies we’re fed,
We lapse in sense in both the mind and heart.
  
****** 
  
The “races”, tongues, and cultures mix and so
They make the mixtures that we humans are.
And yet we puff with pride and hiss with hate
Against our fellows—while we wage our wars.
 
The soldiers, who are led to kill, be killed—
They follow orders as they’re trained to do,
But if by chance they met the other side
In peacetime, each might share a meal or two.
  
So much of caring humans give—and take,
And yet they’re led, by blinded fealty,
To senseless mayhem. Fathers, brothers rage,
As mothers, sisters cheer their cruelty.
  
****** 
  
Let’s wake, oh humans, turn from bondage, so
We open up our hearts and minds and eyes.
Let’s seek the truth, however hard that be;
Forsake our comforts, false, in easy lies.
  
So many lies, repeated endlessly,
By those who’re shameless, freed of ethics, laws,
Inclined to evil, ruthless, sparing none,
They feed the children, too, to Mammon’s maws!
  
Discern these monsters, understand their ways—
Relearn the history that’s been buried deep.
Resolve to work to bring some light again
To darkness, smiles to those who wail and weep. 
  
****** 
  
The angels and the devils live within
Our “foes”, our “friends”, and also you and me.
The monster and the saint are both in us
And this is what we often fail to see.
  
How hard it is to leave our comfort zones
To face the full and harsh realities. 
It's so for each of us, within our lives,
And so for groups that shy from verities.
  
And yet, for each of us, there's no escape.
And so it is for groups and nations too.
It's better to resolve to face the truth—
For each collective, as for me and you.
   
2025 October 18, 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 

Cars and Cannons-Mars and Mammon

 
Cars and Cannons / Mars and Mammon
 
Tweedledum and Tweedledee 
Are running neck to neck.
And Tweedledum says Tweedledee
Is out to ruin and wreck
The nation. Tweedledee, in turn,
Repeats the selfsame charge,
Saying, “Everything will burn
With Tweedledum in charge.”
 
We’re forced to choose between the two
Or find a better third,
Or simply sit and sadly rue
The spectacle absurd—
As Mammon sits on high and laughs,
And Mars conducts his wars,
And Venus smiles beguilingly
To sell us those—and cars.

******
 
The lies go uncontested by;
It’s all about the show.
The Tweedledums, the Tweedledees—
They come, they strut, they go.
We're so distracted by the games,
As Mars and Mammon thrive,
That those surviving what these do

Are sorry they’re alive—

For no one cares, as weapons flow,

Like water does, to wars,

And profits flow, in torrents too,

As Mammon rides on Mars.

So children, women, scream and die

Or silently depart—

As some are buried, some are burned

And others blown apart.

******

 
So those, who’re better off, advise,
“Go pour yourself a drink!
Or go and buy an SUV.
It’s time you paused to think:
The indices will rise and fall,
And millions more will die,
As those who seek and tell the truth
Are humbled by the lie.”
 
The gods of War and Commerce rule
As all of us bow down,
And she who stands is thought a fool
And run right out of town
Or suffers fates much worse than that
As the kings of new do battle,
While bowing still to the ruling gods
And herding us like cattle.

******
 
So cars and cannons still are sold
And we can hear them roaring.
The prices of their shares and stocks
Will yet again be soaring
As Tweedledees and Tweedledums
Distract, yet more, the masses,
And all of us remain as sheep
Or bray with pride like asses.
 
And some are worse, some better, yes.
We choose the lesser evil,
While plants can only yield to both
The locust and the weevil.
One eats the whole; the others snacks
On sap and seeds and leaves.
We humans? One, who reasons, smacks
His head, as one believes. 
 
2024 July 5th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
 

Xotto-mitther o'dol-bo'dol-সত্য-মিথ্যার অদল-বদল

.
সত্য-মিথ্যার অদল-বদল
.
মিথ্যে কথা, শুনে শুনে,
‘সত্য’ ভাবা হয়।
সত্য, লুকোনো রাখার চোটে,
মিথ্যের সাজা পায়।
.
মিথ্যের ওপর যত নির্ভর,
ঝামেলা তত, সত্যের।
খোলাখুলি দেখা দিলে,
লাথি খেয়ে বিদায়।
.
******
.
অন্যায়, যখন ঢাকা থাকে,
ব্যাথা দেয় না মর্মে।
জঘন্য আহার, সুস্বাদু ভেবে,
গিলে নেওয়া হয় হেসে।
.
সবাই কি অসৎ, মন্দ? তা নয়,
চোখ যে বহুদিন বন্ধ।
মিথ্যের ঘুমের নেশায়, আরাম।
সত্যে, পীড়ন, দায়।
.
******
.
বিধ্বস্ত, লুণ্ঠিত দেশে, যেখানে
অগণ্য মরেছে পীড়ায়,
সেখানেও, যারা স্মৃতি তোলে,
বারে-বারে হয় ব্যর্থ।
.
‘দৃষ্টির বাইরে, মনের বাইরে’।
আমরা সেটাই ভালবাসি।
আমাদের করে-কেনা বোমা-বর্ষায়,
দূরে, লোকে পুড়ে মরে।
.
******
.
তেতো সত্যটাকে ঘেন্না করে,
মিষ্টি মিথ্যে টাকে চুষে খাই।
তাই, দেখো, অনাথ শিশু কাঁদে,
বাকিদের লাশের মাঝে।
.
জীবন এগোয়। উৎসব, তামাশা চলে।
যেনো সব-ই ছেলেখেলা।
ক্রূর কাণ্ড চলতে থাকে।
লজ্জার চিহ্ন নেই।
.
রবিবার, ১৬ জুন, ২০২৪ খ্রি.  
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া
৭ই জুনের ‘Inversion’ কবিতার অনুবাদ
 .

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

On Schools and Fools-As Satan Sings

On Schools and Fools /
   As Satan Sings
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
******
 
We humans, we are clever! We
Aspire to be as gods.
And at my age, we celebrate
At beating, still, the odds,
As beatings harsh are handed out—
And often still with rods.
 
In churches, mosques and mandirs, humans  ¹
Offer gods their things
Of substance or of spirit, while
They dream of angels’ wings—
As Mammon smiles at balance sheets
And Satan softly sings—
 
And often not so quietly,
As planes and cannons roar
And beings burn and bombs explode,
With science turned to whore—
And we can hear then Satan's song
And know that there’ll be more.
 
****** 
 
It would be wrong to just pretend
There was once a golden age,
When virtue ruled us humans, who
Were then as kind and sage
As Buddhas. This was never so.
We had vice at every stage—
 
And some were strong and others weak.
The stronger ruled the others—
Even in the places where
We tended fathers, mothers
When these were old or ailing and
Hailed all as “sisters, brothers”.
 
So there was liberation too
When villages were left
For cities, where we learned the truths
Of which we’d been bereft.
In cities, cultures interact—
And schooling too has heft.
 
******
 
We go to school and there we learn
To read and write and add—
And these are surely needed for
The modern lass or lad,
But who will guide, within the home,
Their sense of good and bad?
 
It’s there within us, yet in some
Who’ve learned of “yours and mine”
And daily act upon that sense,
It slow to rise and shine.
They only think about themselves
And feel that this is fine.
 
We learn, from watching others, more
Then hearing what they say.
If parents both are working or
Are absent through the day,
Then who will children learn from, in
The matters crucial, pray?
 
******
 
The teacher comes, the teacher goes.
The period starts and ends—
The term or school-year too, in time,
And yet, the seer pretends
That this is all that children need—
To learn—and this, defends.
 
In modern times, alas, we see
That content too, is slighted.
“It’s process! That is all that counts.”
Has been the cry, benighted.
Yet content too must still be crammed
At a pace that leaves us blighted.
 
There is a place, of course, for school—
In Ranchi as in Rome—
As there’s a place for the Internet
That has shoved aside the tome.
But tell me, truly, can a school
Replace, in whole, a home?
 
******
 
“It takes a village”, it was said,
“To educate a child.”
In Africa—and everywhere—
This wisdom, deep yet mild,
Was practiced—yet, in later times,
It came to be reviled.
 
And why? Because the villages
Were emptied—and the towns
Were crowded full—and townsfolk saw
The villagers as clowns.
And soon enough, the parents yielded
Offspring to the crowns.
 
Crowns? The ones of empires—those
With thrones and then with banks.
So children line up now, at schools,
As soldiers do—and tanks—
In peace—that never lasts for long—
And war—with all our thanks!
 
******
 
For soldiers fight and die, so we
Can go to school and learn
Those useful things, so factories
And offices can turn
Out all the stuff and services—
As fields and forests burn.
 
But right and wrong? We hear of these
In speeches, not in schools.
They’re put to use by clever men—
And women—used as tools—
To make us work—and buy—and pay
Our taxes—since we’re fools.
 
So parents slave to pay the bills
Or even to survive,
With hours long and lethal stress
That jointly can deprive
Them each of sleep and peace of mind.
So how can children thrive?
 
******
 
Fools? Perhaps I’ve overstepped—
Or overstated things.
Our words can take us far away,
As phrases take on wings.
So cleverness can lead us all
To hell, as Satan sings.
 
We should not have the schools dictate,
To children, right and wrong.
It’s back within the village calm,
And not the city’s throng,
That we should seek the quiet that
Can stop the Satan-song.
 
But there isn’t land enough that’s left
To farm, for all of us—
And agribusiness feeds us all
And frees us from the fuss
And labor of the fields, so we
Advance—as humans must!
 
******
 
“Salute! Salute the flag”, we’re told,
“And sing the anthem loud!”
Oh nation great, of thee I sing
And it’s of thee I’m proud!
The “nation” now competes with “gods”
And draws the biggest crowd.
 
The strongman grins and shakes his fist.
He jabs, with force, the air.
He’s now the hero of the crowd.
For rants, he has a flair.
A demon has been found! The blame
Is shifted. There’s the snare.
 
We fall for it, because we’re fools,
Forgetting right and wrong.
So “history” is handled well
To please, again, the throng.
No deeper, please! Nor wider!
Let the Satan sing his song.
 
******
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
2022 September 27^th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 
Notes
1.      mandir: Hindu temple
 

Does Money Rule?

   
Does Money Rule?
 
“Money rules the world that ‘men’ have made.”
And who among us can resist its sway?
And yet, does money have a body, mind—
Or sense of self? It's truly men who rule—
Along with women—in proportion less
By far than what their even share could be.
 
So men (and women—some) with money rule.
The rest of us are “subjects” of these kings
(Or queens, at times)—and subject to their wills.
The pound and rifle, dollar teamed with bomb—
And now perhaps some other pairings too—
Are instruments by which our masters rule.
 
******
 
Are poorer people richer than the rich
In virtue? Do the rich have more of vice?
That's hard to say. It could be true—or not.
Wealth and power—these go hand in hand,
Magnifying vice and virtue, both.
The rich have potence that the others don't.
 
No matter. Money does not rule the world;
The ones with money—they're the ones who do,
For better or for worse. The issue is:
No ruler could exist without the ruled.
In this, we've mostly been completely fooled.
So kings were deified—as magnates are.
 
2022 August 26^th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
 
 

I, Coward

 
I, Coward
 
From seeing what addictions do to men
And women, I had stayed away
From many things that draw us humans in—
But now I peck and stare at bright-lit screens.
 
******
 
I'm caught within a world I did not make,
Except at times by following the trend—
I thing that I'd resisted all my life,
Despite the lures of “going with the flow”.
 
I've held to my convictions and my code,
Not making prime the interest in self
And self-advancement that has long prevailed—
And this had helped me in my course of life.
 
I'd viewed the world, it seemed, with clarity,
And so made choices based on “what was right”—
Although I knew the limits to my sight—
Or learned of it, with due humility.
 
To “swim against the tide” is hard enough—
But even harder when there's turbulence.
Exhaustion and confusion drain one's strength.
I once was brave but now am filled with dread—
 
******
 
For when the conflicts in my inner self
Began, as duties clear became opposed,
I could no longer act with a conscience clear
And bear the consequence as I had done.
 
So those decisions, that involved a choice
Of leaving either one or other kin,
I could not make—and so was paralyzed
Until compelled to choose—with a heavy heart.
 
And ever since, I've been so anxious, tense—
Whenever conflicts rose or could be seen
Arising on the road ahead that I
Would lapse again to depths of cowardice.
 
“A brave one dies but once; a coward dies
A thousand deaths”. And this, I've realized—
As every day, I wake—not touched by hope,
But fear instead—as dawn brings deeper night.
 
******
 
What remedy is there for cowardice—
When basic discipline has broken down?
I wish I knew. I’ve tried to face the fear
And live with it—as I have done so far.
 
But how much longer can I live in dread?
And how much longer can I put on hold
The acts of living, as I’ve done for long?
And what, for others, is the consequence?
 
In all my years, I’ve had my share of woe,
Have suffered losses, wept and smiled again,
Have labored, struggled, savored small success—
But now, for twenty years, I've dug this well.
 
******
 
And more and more I now distract myself
With things that seem of little consequence—
And so avoid the acts that dredge up all
That makes me panic. So the tension builds.
 
2022 Aug 15, Mon.
(on the 75^th anniversary
of India's independence)
Berkeley, California
 

Freedom-2022-05-05

Freedom
 
Freedom is a vital thing
That’s dear to young and old.
Freedom is a precious thing
That can’t be bought or sold.
Yet freedom can be snatched away—
Or taken bit by bit.
When freedom’s lost or threatened, then
It’s time for actions bold.
 
There’s servitude, to those who wield
The whip, the rod, the gun;
Indenture, too—to those with snares
And webs of debt they’ve spun—
And labor, for the wage that’s earned
On terms befitting serfs.
And then there is dependence on
The beneficent one.
 
These all are forms of slavery.
To varying degrees,
We each are captives, happenstance,
Or humbled, on our knees,
To those adept at trickery
Or playing on our fears.
Arise, arise—to liberty,
So tyrannies may cease!
 
The tyranny of masters, be
They private or the states;
The tyranny of lenders, who
Extract usurious rates;
The tyranny of doctrines,
Administered by “priests”—
It matters not. Beware of those
Who “own” the others’ fates.
 

If Fortune gives you fortune, friend,
Or if you're fortune's earned—
Do use it humbly, kindly—
So your fortune then is turned
To that of others. If instead
Your fate is that of labor,
Then give, to others, service that
Will surely not be spurned.
 

The “owners” and the “workers”: both

Have rights—and both have faults.
Be fair, be just, in what you do—
With service—as with vaults.
Open up your eyes and heart.
Be wary—yet be kind.
Be neither slave nor master. Taste
Of freedom’s vital salts.
 
But wait! Beware, my patient friend,
Of those who say they act
In freedom’s name—and boast of this,
When what they do, in fact,
Is in pursuit of power, wealth—
But cloaked in freedom's garb.
Do not be fooled by merchants. Keep
Your soul—and sense—intact.
 
2022, May 5^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Reasons Why

In several ways, this must be one of the worst (or at least strangest) poems I have ever written.  But please read it to the end, if you are able.
.
The format may be distracting, but the content is even more disturbing.  That disturbance may be needed, however, to see our way out from a trap of our own making. 
------------------------------------------------
.

.
Reasons Why 
.
In places far, the soldiers die,
And what can kinsfolk do but cry?
When more are sent to kill and die,
Who dares to ask for reasons why?
.
The soldiers are trained to just comply
And not to ask for reasons why.
And so we send them out to die—
Too often, to support a lie.
.
So Nation A and Nation B
Send humans out, like you and me,
Who could be friends—except, you see,
They think they’re serving A and B.
.
But is that sacrifice deserved
By those, whose wealth is well-preserved--
The ones, by ardent soldiers served
Or those, for "martyrdom", reserved?
.
******
.
They meet, those dons from A and B—
The ones who rule both you and me
And soldiers too. But can’t you see?
They’re using those like you and me.
.
They sit and chat and laugh and drink,
As humans should. And then they wink
And make their deals that link, unlink
The fates of those who’ve ceased to think.
.
In every nation, it’s the same.
Another nation gets the blame—
Along with those, who’re set to shame
And silenced—those against this game.
.
And so we are distracted and
We fail to see and understand.
The years go by like flowing sand
And soldiers still are in demand.
.
******
.
If only those, who don their suits
And walk on marbled floors, wore boots
And then were sent in those pursuits
That soldiers are—we’d see the fruits!
.
Then wars might cease—and peace prevail.
We might be rid of this travail.
But still—we do not see, and hail
The one that hammers in the nail.
.
And so we each are crucified—
And soldiers most, who’re deified,
But only when they’ve glorified
This game. We should be mortified.
.
A soldier dies a “glorious death”
And so the need for more is met,
As others join the ranks and get
Their meager pay—and pain and death.
.
******
.
Without the film-crew, where’s the star?
Without the worker, where’s the car?.
Without the soldier, where’s the war?
Till robots rise, that’s where we are.
.
When soldiers die, we do not care—
Except when lights and sirens blare.
And then it’s far too much to bear.
We seek revenge as our rightful fare.
.
A soldier is portrayed as brave.
In truth, he’s molded to a slave—
Too often, bowing to a knave.
Obedience is what rulers crave.
.
The one religious wakes and prays.
The one who isn’t marks his days.
But neither stops to see the grays.
The order comes—and he obeys.
.
******
.
But who’s he shooting, beating? Ask!
And should he question then the task?
“It doesn’t matter! Don the mask
And like a robot do the task!”
.
And so we all are robotized.
This quality is highly prized.
We might, as humans, be disguised.
Our freedom, though, has been excised.
.
What freedom is left for an employee?
A slave to a wage, she will always be.
And that's how it is for you and me
In the land of the brave and the home of the free.
.
And that's how it is, in every land—
In nations small and in nations grand.
It's been this way since we've tilled the land—
As our lords and masters understand.
.
******
.
Our work is measured by their gauges.
So soldiers earn, with gore, their wages.
Mammon’s clerks have scribed the pages.
The cage is sealed. The battle rages.
.
So dogs and roosters fight and shred
Opponents. Floors are smeared with red.
With blood, the blood-lust must be fed.
The cheers resound, when one lies dead.
.
We count our wins and bear our losses.
We carry, each of us, our crosses.
We catch the ball the captain tosses
And run with it. We bow to bosses.
.
So soldiers too must daily do.
They’re humans, just like me and you.
They're trained to pull that chariot too—
That juggernaut of this circus-zoo.
.
******
.
So many soldiers take their lives
And leave behind their parents, wives
And children too. Our love revives
When bombs explode and none survives.
.
They died together, blasted, burned.
The wages that their service earned
Have ceased. Will widows’ pleas be spurned
For pensions—or for lessons learned?
.
The funds and arms for death were sent
By those, on wreaking mayhem, bent.
A superpower long had lent
What’s needed, taking lives as rent.
.
But why? Go ask of Mammon and
Of Satan. They’ve had motives grand
And petty. But the fronts are manned
By those who must not understand.
.
******
.
A nearby nation once had burned
And tactics practiced there were turned
To uses here, by those who’d learned
To murder, maim—for credits earned.
.
Such schools exist, for ardent sons,
Who there are trained, perhaps with guns—
Or else without—for they’re the ones
Whose bodies burst like searing suns.
.
They don’t have planes and missiles, so
They use their feet, however slow,
And going where they’re told to go,
They then deliver there the blow.
.
So soldiers once again will die
And others too. The limbs will fly.
The bodies, torn and charred, will lie.
And who will ask for reasons why?
.
******
.
So thousand-pounders do as well.
They turn a town into a hell.
But who is there to see and tell?
Those stories aren’t fit to sell.
.
When suicide bombers kill a score,
It’s a heinous crime like none before.
When missiles daily kill far more,
That’s war—and who is keeping score?
.
The bombers circle once again
And drop their bombs like falling rain.
And beings burn and cry in pain,
But Terror doesn’t fly a plane—
.
Except that once—that we remember—
On an autumn morning in September,
When our homeland too received an ember
Of the fires we’ve set—that some remember.
.
******
.
And soldiers shoot civilians too,
Who aren’t armed—and I and you
May hear at times of one or two,
As armies do what armies do.
.
A thousand pellets, flying fast!
The boy had ducked. They speeded past.
The girl could not.  She sees her last.
And so the daily die is cast.
.
So many children, walking blind!
The captain says we should not mind.
A better means is hard to find.
Our use of pellets shows we’re kind.
.
And still, we see the flying stone
That flung with force can break the bone.
That’s all he has. For that alone,
The thrower may, for long, atone.
.
******
.
These bullets now—as you can tell--
Are ones the pelters know too well.
They pulverize the bones. They sell
Because they make, of life, a hell.
.
But this again is seen as kind
Or justified. We should not mind.
In every nation, some will find
That “kindness” has been redefined.
.
Seventy thousand listed dead.
A street that’s often bathed in red.
The youths are now, by zealots, led.
The ones, who reasoned, long are dead.
.
That demon that is Blind Religion—
That plague that’s ravaged every region—
Has mounted now on that of Nation 
And whips us on towards damnation.
.
******
.
But Faith and Nation need their stash,
So see—how deep they bow to Cash! .
And lo—it turns this world to trash,
And all that’s precious, serves to smash.
.
And so the spiral turns and turns.
The children cry. The village burns.
The vultures wait. And what returns
Is ash, perhaps, in plastic urns.
.
A thousand miles. The widow weeps.
A little bit of ash, she keeps.
But where he served, another leaps.
The Reaper, yet another reaps.
.
How many humans more will die?
How many orphans more will cry?
How many bullets more will fly?
And who will pause to question why?
.
******
.
A story has its bends and twists.
Their weapons could be arms and fists,
But all we’ll ever see are lists
In which the slain are terrorists.
.
That woman and that child as well?
Those aren’t things on which we dwell.
There’s no one with a voice to tell
“They’ve turned our home into a hell.”
.
But where is “home” and who are “they”?
That home’s unseen and far away.
Who orders this? I cannot say.
But soldiers listen and obey.
.
It could be at a barbed-wire border.
It could be for the sake of order.
It could be by the forest’s border.
But soldiers must obey the order.
.
******
.
A girl is slain. Her parents sigh.
But should her siblings only cry?
So tens of thousands more will die.
And who will ask for reasons why?
.
2019 February 19th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
.  

The Lord of Deception

The Lord of Deception 

How many the flags, how many the songs!
How often the nations have hidden their wrongs
And pointed to those of the others, as flags
Were raised to the skies, with salutes and with songs!

There’s a chord within humans that is struck by these things,
So our eyes—they may water as the lead singer sings
And the words of the anthem and the fluttering flag—
They can lift up our hearts as our spirits find wings.

There’s a music that's martial that is truly an art—
With the swirl of the pipes, and the drums at the heart.
It can set our hearts pounding, as schoolchildren race
To see all the marchers, before they depart.

If only the virtues of citizens could
Be uplifted by flags and by songs as they should,
We might smile at these follies and not weep at the thought
Of the evils our Master has sold us as good.

******

The sister, she suffers; the brother, he dies.
The widow remembers her husband and sighs.
The orphans, they weep for the parents they lost,
As nations and empires are built upon lies.

Oh love, with your being, your land and your clan!
Be strong, like a woman!  Be brave, like a man!
Be a seeker of truth and a giver of love,
But turn from deception, as much as you can!

The truth is not simple—and yet it is true.
It’s waiting for me and it’s waiting for you.
Uncover the truth and discover its layers.
What’s right, by your heart and your reason, then do.

You aren’t a label—a religion or state.
Be mindful and turn from the madness of hate.
We were born from the stars that are burning on high,
But it’s we who are turning to decide on our fate.

******

Let us turn towards reason, let us turn towards love.
Let’s release, from its prison, that captive—the dove.
With peace in our hearts, let us see that our fates—
They are chosen by humans, not the stars up above.

How many, the hours that a parent has labored
For the children, with whom they in youth had been favored!
How hopeless, the feeling, at the death of a child,
Whose life, in its fullness, will never be savored!

How many—the parents, who have toiled and have grieved!
As the fruit of their labors, what have they received?
How many, the soldiers and others who’ve died—
By the slogans of empires and nations deceived!

Let the death of a friend and the death of a foe
Be equal—in that there should never be more
That are needlessly caused by the madness of sin
And the lies that are layered on the lying before.

******

Let nations and empires be things of the past.
Let us turn to our essence, from madness, at last.
The roar of the mill and the din of the war—
They’re the voice of the One, who from heaven was cast.

And here, on this planet, He’s been telling His lies.
For each that believes Him, another one dies.
He’s the Lord of Deception—and the flags and the songs
He has turned to His use—as we perish like flies.

And the sins we’ve committed, with falsehoods in mind,
Ensure that we’re damned—and with death we will find
We are trapped in the hell that we made for the others—
That they might have escaped, if we’d thought to be kind.

His name?  It is Mammon.  But His faces are many.
He is inked on the note and He’s scribed on the penny.
We march to His orders, not knowing they’re His.
If we beg Him for truth—He never has any.

******

The Lord of Deception?  A title, a name—
A way of describing the source of our shame, 
A personification, like Mammon, of all
That has led to this hell that is played like a game.
 
Our Master?  Our masters—for there isn't just one—
They are making us play at this game that they've won
Again and again, and will win, till we see
That we lose even more, the harder we run.

The nation?  A deity, not fashioned from clay,
But rather from that which is current today—
From symbols like flags, and with borders on maps, 
And armies—and taxes for funding the play.

But it's Mammon that's driving the engines of war
And is making us less than the beings we are.
So bow not to Mammon or others on high!
It's love, and not hate, that will carry us far.

2019 February 5th, Tue. &16th, Sat. 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
  

The Most Malignant Star

The Most Malignant Star

The ways of men and women aren’t free
Of vices that are praised as virtuous things.
We listen, look around and hear and see
The devils fly about on angels’ wings.

And if we dare to say that things are not
The things that they’ve been long proclaimed to be,
We then are targeted and left to rot,
As each is hung from each convenient tree.

******

The labels that we use are weapons too
And so are potent, just as bullets are.
For sticks and stones can injure me and you,
But words alone can start or end a war.

So when a virtue is condemned as vice
Or vice versa, this can ripple far
And then, no matter what the sage advice,
The hordes obey the most malignant star.

************

Ahuras and asuras are the same
And dewas, devils may be twins as well.
So one gets credit and another, blame,
Although they both, within the other, dwell.

The black and white and all the shades of gray
Are captured in the photographic frame.
And yet, some only hark to yes or nay
And label all with one or other name.

******

Who renders certain proof of distant things
Or certifies what happened in the past?
Was that a bird or a bat that flew on wings
And vanished as the light was ebbing fast?

And so it is that humans fashion feints
To make, of what was first, the very last.
So scoundrels sit in palaces, while saints,
For all their labors, are in dungeons cast.

 

2018 August 8th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

Reality

Reality

Do pardon us for holding up
Our hands at yet more pukes.
Denuclearize? Let's start with those
Who have the most of nukes.

WMD's? Who's got the most
Of these? And has used them too?
So why this game of make-believe
That lulls both me and you?

And why is that pundits rant
When leaders try for peace?
They did it to Obama. Trump
Is getting now his piece.

Fanatics? Who’s been backing those
With funds and arms and more?
How many lives have been destroyed,
How many nations more?

Democracy?  Is that our aim
In ventures far away?
Or is it power and money?  Who
Has guts to rise and say?

2018 August 3rd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Angel’s Wings

Angel’s Wings

The monster of the west takes off its mask
And bares its demon face for all to see.
And now the deeds it did in darkness are
Exposed to light for those like you and me.

But does the public in the homeland flinch
At seeing that their nation long was ruled
By those of devilish heart and mind, who yet,
That public, with their call for “freedom”, fooled?

What freedom was it then, as it is now?
The liberty to ravage lands afar?
The freedom granted then, and vaunted still,
To crush resistance with the force of war?

Alas! The public now is split indeed,
But mainly, from the news we get, between
The ones who’d crush a country A and those
Who’d bomb a B for reasons most obscene.

And still those reasons aren’t fully shown.
What’s said in private, in the central rings,
Cannot be heard by those more distant, who
May think their devil still has angel’s wings.

And so we race towards apocalypse,
With minions cheering as we near the brink.
The hounds of horror, scenting mayhem, bay,
As those who fed them hear and nod and wink.

The hunt is on, across the globe, for those
Who still may dare to try to curb the beast.
The monster of the west has bared its face,
And who can stop or slow it in the least?

2018 April 30th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------------
 

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