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
  

Orphan-2025-02-18

Orphan
 
I heard a distant wailing,
A moaning from afar.
I found an orphan crying,
Abandoned, in a war.

I found an orphan crying—
A little child, alone.
The sound was of a sobbing—
And then, at times, a moan.

I had heard a distant wailing,
A moaning from afar.
I had found an orphan crying, 
In the carnage of a war.

******

I went up to the orphan.
She looked at me in fright.
I bent to lift the orphan
As the daylight ebbed to night.

I lifted up that orphan.
I held her to my chest.
I saw her tears were shining
As the sunset lit the West.

I had found a little orphan
In the wreckage of a war.
I had found an orphan crying
In the madness of a war.

******

I looked for parents, siblings.
I found them, one by one.
A grandma lay there, dying.
Said, “Save the little one.”

I told her I would do that,
But did she understand?
She breathed her last and left us,
As I held her feeble hand.

******

How many little orphans?
How many children slain?
How many burned and crippled?
How many wracked with pain?

Whence—this cruel madness?
And why—these blinded hearts?
Go ask this, then, of “humans”,
As the light of life departs.

She once had loving parents—
But now was all alone.
Go ask them for the reason—
The ones whose hearts are stone.

******

I held that little orphan.
I held her to my chest.
I heard her growing quiet
As I walked towards the West.

I had found that little orphan,
Abandoned, in a war.
I saw a light was shining—
The brightening evening star.

I looked towards that planet
As it rose and shone above
The bodies, lying scattered,
That each was born of love.

2025 February 18, Tue.
Berkeley, California

No Verses

 
No Verses
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
******
.
The dawn that once brought hope now brings despair
As tens of thousands die—or wish they could—
As those who live are filled with grief and pain—
And most, who witness, now have understood
.
That evil often triumphs, laying waste
To all that’s good and precious: tenderness
And quietude—and love and due respect—
As Mammon grins and profits from duress. 
.
****** 
.
How many are the ones who've died in waves,
As lands were conquered or were laid to waste, 
As guns and bombs replaced the clubs and swords,
And Greed and Fear infected all with haste?
.
I hear the children laugh; I hear them weep.
I hear the dying, burned and blasted, moan.
I fear departure, leaving those I know
To fend for selves, with others, or alone.
.
****** 
.
But who among us chooses time or place
To enter or to exit from the stage
On which we walk and act and say our words—
And then depart—at ripe or tender age?
.
The dusk, descending, whispers now of night,
And I will venture out, beneath the stars,
To breathe and try to find a passing peace,
As all around delight in distant wars.
.
****** 
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
2024 October 3rd & 5th.
Berkeley, California
.

Peace-2024-08-09

 
Peace-2024-08-09 

How many months of rapes and lynching mobs?
How many lame excuses, twiddling thumbs?
How many years of bombs and genocides?
How many peoples more dismissed, erased?

Our species, which has come to reign on earth,
Dispenses death in cruel, wanton ways.
We loot the lands and waters, foul them both, 
Pollute the air and act like cancers do, 

Forgetting we are part of a greater whole,
As beings, caught in frenzies, often do—
Destroying all, and so at end themselves.
The wounds and scars are visible from space.

 ******

The forests—they are felled or turned to ash;
The hills are leveled, seeking coal and ores;
And everywhere, the fields and forests yield
To roads that spread the ever-growing blight.

How precious is a life—and yet we take
The lives of others, even of our kind,
As if their worth were nothing, slaughtering
The ones perceived as foes or “lower beasts”.

How often little children recognize
The sanctity of life, have empathy
For other beings, yet, as adults, seem
To lose this sense—or choose to shut their eyes.

****** 

In each tradition, there is talk of peace
And even greetings that repeat its name.
And yet, in thoughts and words and deeds, we move
So swiftly towards our wars—and feel no shame.

Will humans ever, in our lifetimes, turn
Away from madness, veer from evil deeds?
We each are trapped, and yet we still can strive 
Towards sanity—and sow, not evil’s seeds

But those of reason, those of peace and love—
Return to quieter ways, desist from all
Compulsions, pause, give room for thought 
And space for silence—past my spouted words. 

2024 August 9, Friday
Berkeley, California 

Tides

 
Tides

The rhythms of the skies and seas,
The cycles of our lives,
The beats within the lines I write,
The pulse of breath and blood…

As women feel, in their fertile years,
Their monthly rises, ebbs,
So we each can sense the beating heart,
The in and out of breath…

******

The days and nights—they alternate.
The moon—it waxes, wanes.
The seasons come and go and then
They come and go again.

We're carried by the tides that surge 
Around us and within.
So life proceeds, with birth and youth—
And then with age and death.

But these—the seasons of our lives—
They never will return
Within a generation, yet
Will rise and ebb in turn

For others, just as they have done
For generations past.
So let us breathe and be in peace 
Until we breathe our last.

******

But where we see there’s sorrow, should
We choose to look away—
Or strive instead, with every breath,
To ease the weight of pain?
 
For how can we remain at peace
As others suffer, die—
And truth itself has been dispatched
Or hidden by the lie?
 
******
 
The tides of justice turn in time
But not without our aid.
However small we are, we still
Can help to turn the tide.
 
Together, we can try to turn
Towards sanity and peace,
So justice, long denied, is served,
And manmade sorrows ease.
 
2024 Aug 3rd, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

Jot'ilo'tae murkho-জটিলতায় মূর্খ

  
জটিলতায় মূর্খ
 
কত শিশুর কান্না শুনি, 
কত মায়ের বিলাপ। 
কত বাবার দুঃখ, নিরব।
পাপের ওপর পাপ।
 
দয়ার গীতি গাইলো কত 
ভক্ত, সাধু, পীর।
ঘুমের থেকে জাগলো কত 
বুদ্ধ, মহাবীর।
 
তবুও বোমা, তবুও তোপ।
হত্যা, হাহাকার।
প্রাচুর্যের পাশেই আজও
তৃষ্ণা, অনাহার।

******
 
এই জগতের শোকের মাঝে, 
তুচ্ছ আমার ক্লেশ। 
নেই গো কোনো জাতি আমার, 
নেই গো কোনো দেশ।

******
 
কোনো দলের পক্ষ নিয়ে 
করবো কেনো মান?
যেথায় যখন চেতন জাগে, 
সেথায় তখন স্থান।
 
অন্যের সুখে খুশি আমার,
অন্যের পীড়ায় দুঃখ।
এই টুকু, ভাই, জেনে আমি
জটিলতায় মূর্খ। 
 
ইতিহাসে, বিজ্ঞানে,
কত কিছু আছে।
সরল মনে থাকি তবু
মানবতার কাছে।
 
শনিবার, ৪ মে, ২০২৪ খ্রি.  
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া 
 

Be Open

 

Be Open

We’re driven not by reason but

By instincts and by feelings, yet

Our reason helps us on our way

And guards us from the snare and net.

And how can instincts, feelings work

When hearts have hardened or are dead,

And eyes and ears are closed to all

Except the comfort-views we're fed?

******

And how can caring, justice thrive

When hatred makes us deaf and blind,

Ignoring pleas, believing lies,

And shutting down the heart and mind?

Question, question what you know,

And turn away from comfort-news.

Resist the laziness of mind.

Be open, yes, to facts and views.

******

Beware the call, resist the urge

To demonize or deify—

To make supreme a god, a race,

A culture or to glorify

A nation or a class, or lift 

On high religion, custom, creed, 

A system of economy,

Or justify the wars of greed.

******

Do recognize what evil is.

Resist the call to turn to hate,

To cast the others down, despise,

Subdue, oppress, exterminate.

No god needs help from humans and

No creed needs other views suppressed,

Except the god or creed that fears

What might, by humans, be expressed.

******

We tend to worship those “above”

And spit upon the ones “below”.

Beware the virus that infects 

And leads to thoughts of “high” and “low”.

Beware of leaders! Be not led

Except by sanity of head

And purity of heart. Be open.

Live, until you're truly dead.

2024 March 14th, Thu.

Berkeley, California

Tuccho, apon be'tha-তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা

 
তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা
 
 দুর্ভাগ্যদের দশা দেখি, দুঃখ-ভরা মনে।
চোখের কোণায় কান্না আসে, বুকে লাগে ব্যথা।
 
রাগও আসে, জোয়ার-স্রোতে, ভাটার টানে যায়।
কি করা, ভাই, কেবল ভাবি। দেখছি শুধু, হায়!
কিছুটুকু চাঁদা পাঠাই, কিছু পাতা লিখি।
বুঝি, সব-ই ব্যর্থ শেষে। শিক্ষা, কঠোর, শিখি।
 
এই টুকু তাও ভরসা দেখি—আলোর ঝিলিক, কোণে।
আত্মা, নিজের দুঃখে হাসে। তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা।
 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

Circles

 
Circles

We all admire compassion,
Except when it's expressed
For those that we've excluded
From the circles we have drawn. 

So should my care be only
For the persons or the beings
That fall within the circle
Or the sphere I call my own?

That circle that surrounds me
Can shrink or grow in size—
A measure of capacity 
Of body, heart and mind.

******

So many fellow humans
Are struggling to survive.
And yet, among the poorest,
We find the heart that smiles.

We see the one that’s weeping
At another being’s plight.
We note the one that ventures 
To even risk his life.

That faith we’d lost in humans
We find revived again.
The circles, dense with darkness,
Are seen to spread with light.

******

We hail the acts of courage.
We join the helping hands,
Remember those who’ve perished,
Been injured, robbed, bereaved.

The Buddhas and the Jinas
Had seen through maaya’s mist
And sensed that every sentient 
To each and all is kin. 

And each, by simply pausing
And seeing straight through sin,
Can clearly sense that oneness
That clears the circle’s line.

****** 

Whenever hearts are hardened
And dreadful deeds are done,
The circles drawn have shielded
The ones who then are blind.

Dissolve, dissolve that circle
And look beyond that sphere.
Extend that edge so humans
Are always each within.

But do not stop at humans.
There's pleasure and there's pain.
There's happiness and sorrow.
What's left to then explain?

2024 January 23rd, Tue.
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

 

Wisdom-II

Wisdom-II 

When I was young, l always yearned
For knowledge.  Now I understand
That knowledge, needed though it is,
Needs wisdom as its guiding hand.

Around us, we can plainly see
That knowledge is a needed tool.
And yet, what use is knowledge when
It’s used in service to a fool?

And even if our bosses had
The knowledge that they often lack,
Without the needed wisdom, they
Can act in ways that set us back.

If wealth and power are the aims
Of those who buy the knowledge needed,
Then wars and famines are their games,
As those who’re dying go unheeded.

Our primal goals are always set
By instincts and by feelings, so
Our knowledge and our logic then
Can merely tell us how to go.

But where and why?  Such questions need
Some wisdom and humility.
If hubris and expedience reign,
The harvest is futility.

There is a wisdom of the heart—
An organ that is in the mind—
That balances what’s in the head
And steers us towards being kind.

Is wisdom knowledge in gestalt?
That could be so.  It cannot be
Divided into parts, no more
Than that which tethers you to me.

There are more things, as Shakespeare wrote,
Than in our neat philosophies.
The mess that can’t be analyzed
Is life itself, not just disease.

Get rid of it, and life will end.
Analysis has a rightful place,
But when we love, we do not wait
To analyze the heart or face.

There is a balance that is sensed
Between our logic and our heart.
And that’s a thing that can’t be taught
As science.  It’s a deeper art.

To err is being.  Our ideal
Might be a thing that does not err.
But such a thing cannot create.
And that’s a theorem I infer.

2018 July 19th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------
 
Related:
https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/04/for-me-and-you.html

https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/ignorance.html

Entropy and Empathy

Entropy and Empathy

The alchemists had tried, by various means,
to turn the cheaper metals into gold.
They failed. But doing so, they surely saw
that shining iron turns in time to rust.

We do not see the old grow sleek and lithe;
instead, the glow of youth is dulled by age.
   
So order turns to chaos by itself,
as there is ever more of entropy.
So all our plans and years of effort fail
to keep our loves and selves and treasures safe.

So reason too is dimmed and virtue fades,
as passion, teamed with vice, prevails.
So sanity and peace are massacred,
as madness wreaks the mayhem that is war.

******
 
When all our good intentions and our work
have led us deeper into tragedies,
and we are faced with darkness and despair,
what light remains—what hope, to give us strength?

What comforts us, when conscience tells the soul,
“You sunder things, but cannot make them whole.” ?

How easily is innocence destroyed
and trust betrayed!  So all that’s precious then
dissolves.  Suspicion, rancor, hatred rise
to take the place of empathy and love.

If we could take the shattered glass and join
its pieces seamlessly or mend the heart
that’s broken, then we could, with truth, proclaim,
“We’re graced in being skilled at such an art.”

 *******
 
But who is there among us to repeal
the laws of Nature and the ways of Man?
In every sainted one, those flaws exist,
that others, not so sainted, proudly flaunt.
 
We’re told that there are beings that are wise,
that know the future as we know our past.
 
But we are mortals, so we err and we
are limited in what we can achieve
or even comprehend.  So why then lash
ourselves—and add yet more to misery?

We do what we are able. Things may turn
out wrong despite our efforts, yet we should
remember what we did, what others too
have tried to do, be grateful—and forgive.

******

We might have smiles and presents for a friend,
but who can give these to an enemy—
to one who's wounded us and brought us woe?
Is there such love, in full sincerity?

In peacetime and in war, we rape and burn.
The orphan cries. The widow holds the urn.

When we can see that he who harms us is
within us each, we then can truly see.
And seeing this, we each can then be healed
and find again that peace that dwells within.

We each in time will face dishonor, death,
and each of us will eat of ashes, yet
we still can cleanse our selves of all our sin
and all that others did in heartlessness.
   
2016 October 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York  

  

The Green Balloon

  

The Green Balloon

  

A green balloon had fallen to the ground.

Its color glowed as the daylight changed and ebbed.
  

Its string was sticking to the rain-wet road.

With every little breeze, it seemed to fight

to free itself—to fly beneath the vault  

of rain clouds racing in the somber sky.

  

On looking at that green balloon, I felt—

There lies a one that’s much like you and I.
  

2016 August 21, Sun

Brooklyn, New York

Kiwi and the Little Frog

  
Kiwi and the Little Frog

Kiwi and the little frog

 














In a country far away that yet is very near,
There lived a girl called Kiwi who had vision sharp and clear.
And once, when she was walking, she saw, upon a tree,
A little frog was sitting – and calling out in fear.

“Oh what is it you’re fearful of?” asked Kiwi of the frog.
“Is it Mew, the kit-cat?   Or is it Woof, the dog?"
“Oh thank you!  It is neither.  I climbed upon the tree
To see how I could get back to my home that’s in the bog.

“But where that bog is hiding, I’m afraid I cannot see.
I’ve looked to west and eastward and south towards the sea.
And in the north there’s mountains.  But nowhere is that bog.
And I’m afraid of falling from high upon this tree.”

“Oh don’t you worry, little frog, whose name I do not know.
I know just where that bog is – it’s where it was before.
It’s there, behind the trees there.  I’ll climb up on this tree
And bring you down.  And then, from here, your way to home, I’ll show.”

So Kiwi climbed upon the tree.  She showed no trace of fear.
She brought that little froggie down, she’d seen with vision clear.
And then she showed the way for it to hop towards its home.
“I’m Kiwi.  You?”   “Oh thank you!  I am Ngaak – and you’re a dear.” 

So Kiwi helped that little frog called Ngaak and went her way.
And on the path she’d shown him, Ngaak then hopped and hopped away,
Until at last he neared the bog and heard the frogs there croaking.
“Oh there you are!”  His sister said.  “I’ve looked for you all day!”
  
2014 December 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Softer Voice

 
The Softer Voice
 
Be it chicken, pig or human, or a fish that swims the seas,
There’s an eye in every being, that’s recording what it sees.
And the record of the ages is a tale of endless woe,
And the promise of the future is of sorrows, even more.
 
And we glorify our species, and we name it “man the wise”,
But our history is bloody, though it’s hidden by our lies –
Horror heaped on horror, through the eons since the flood,
On us humans by us humans, in a world awash in blood…
 
Are we angels, are we devils, are we somewhere in between?
We are surely born of demons, for our actions are obscene.
But in babies as in puppies, and in grasses growing green,
For the eye that knows to see it, there’s the essence soft, serene.
 
There’s the pup that softly whimpers, there’s the little kitten’s mewl.
There’s the girl in class who’s ailing, but who follows still the rule.
There’s the leaf that’s sadly drooping and that soon will die of thirst.
There’s the gentle voice that’s calling, in a world with deafness cursed.
 
Should we go about our business, should we hurry even more?
Should we speed upon the highways, should we shun the byways slow?
There’s that softer voice that’s calling, there’s the silence of the stars.
We can choose to see and listen; we can choose to end the wars.
 
In the stillness of the sunset, in the quiet of the dawn,
In the trusting eyes of children, who were here but now are gone,
We can sense that there’s a heaven, in the midst of all the hells.
For there’s such a thing as healing – and there’s still the love that wells.
  
Forgive the ones who slaughter, forgive the ones who slay.
They know not what they’re doing, as their demons, they obey.
But don’t forget the slaughtered; have them ever in your mind.
As you go about your business, remember to be kind.
 
2014 December 17th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Homo Sapiens

   
Homo Sapiens 
 
I had traveled over continents and crossed the oceans wide
To then settle on this island, by the swift Atlantic tide.
And here, I’ve made a living and have duly paid the rent –
But on looking back I wonder where my time and labor went.
 
For the joy I had in learning and in teaching what I’d learned
May be extant still, but muted, from the lashings that I’ve earned.
And the ebb and flow of seasons and the passing of the years
Have left me worn and weary, as my time of ending nears.
  
For though I’d flown across the globe, my travels since that time
Have mostly been to work and back – the worker’s tiresome rhyme.
And though this had a rhythm, like the whip on rebels brave
Or on men or beasts of burden, it has made of me a slave.
 
Should the men, of Earth begotten, and the women, side by side,
Have the Sky they claim as father watch his offspring still provide
The flour for the ovens that their humankind may make
And the fire, in which humans, yet other humans, bake?
 
Though all my life, for workers’ rights, I’ve carried high the torch,
I wonder what my thoughts will be, while gazing from a porch,
Retired from work at factories, if lucky – or, if not,
While blindly slumped upon a chair and by the world forgot’.
 
I walk to work and back each day, and though the work I do
Might give me bread to eat and more, I quietly say to you,
“Let not your son or daughter grow to work within a mill,
For that might rob your child of joy and even break the will.”
 
And what you would not have your offspring do, I’d ask that you
Should not expect that others do.  To conscience, then, be true,
And ask, what humankind can do, to free itself of fetters –
So no one issues orders, nor aspires to join their “betters”.
 
Let’s rid the world of pestilence.  Let’s start on it afresh.
Let no one call another “boss”.  Your mind and soul, refresh
In waters pure of dignity, so all can rightly claim
There lived a race of beings wise – in truth, not just in name.
  
2014 November 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Dua, Insaan Ko–दुआ, इनसान को (A Prayer – to Mortals)

  
The Hindi-Urdu text below (in Devanagari script) is followed by a loose translation into English and then by a transcription into Roman.  As my Hindi and Urdu are both weak, any corrections or suggestions would be welcome.  -- Arjun

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दुआ, इनसान को
 
इस्लामियत को ढूंढ़ते हुए,
इन्सानियत को खोना मत।
 
हिन्दुत्व को गढ़ते हुए,
मानव-धर्म को तोड़ना मत।
 
यहोवा या यीशु के नाम से,
खून-खराबी करना मत।
 
पैसे या नाम का धन्धा मे,
सचाई और दिल को भूलना मत।
 
शनिवार, २५ अक्टूबर २०१४ ईस्वी
ब्रुकलिन, न्यूयॉर्क
  
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A Prayer – to Mortals
 
In search of an Islamic state,
Do not, a being’s rights, negate.
 
With Aryan yearnings in your mind,
You still have reason to be kind.
  
In the name of Yahweh or of Jesus,
With murderous evil, do not smite us.
 
To fame or fortune, while en route,
Remember still the heart – and truth.
   
2014  October 25th, Sat.
(translated November 1st, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York

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Dua, Insaan Ko
  
Islaamiyat ko d'huun'r'hte hue,
insaaniyat ko khona mat.

Hindutva ko gar'hte hue,
maanav-dharm ko tor'na mat.
  
Yehova ya yiixu ke naam se,
khuun-kharaabi karna mat.

Paise ya naam ka dhandha me,
sacaai aur dil ko bhuulna mat.
      
xanivaar, 25 akt'ubar 2014 iisvi.
bruklin, nyu yo`rk
  

Darkness and Light

  
Darkness and Light
 
“Forgive them,” said Jesus, “for they know not what they do.”
Or so the gospel says he said, two thousand years ago,
Across the seas, where Asia met with Africa and Greece.
 
And further back and further east, the sutras say Gotama,
Meditating, woke to truth and called us to awaken,
Who walk through life as if we dream, as captives to illusion.
 
The misery that we create, the madness we engender –
This lives, although we pass away, to plague the generations.
So vision stays beclouded and the nightmare still goes on.
 
But also, when we find our peace and turn towards the truth,
Our acts of kindness leave behind a little patch of calm.
And so there’s still the hope we’ll see and know what we have done.
 
Within the tempest, as it blows, in peacetime and in war,
Within our hearts, amidst the greed, the anger, fear and hatred,
There still remains the sanity – and memory of love.
 
“Forgive them,” Jesus said, “for they know not what they do.”
In hubris, men behave like gods.  Like Icarus, they fall.
And misery breeds misery, as wretches move in thrall.

And heeding Jesus, we forgive and let the burden go.
We pray that madness dissipates, that we regain our sight,
And that the darkness of the world gives way, at last, to light.

But prayer will not right a wrong or bring the dead to life.
It cannot heal a mortal wound or turn the night to day.
And so we pause and ask ourselves the reason why we pray.
 
Is there a need for suffering?  Is there a place for sorrow?
Perhaps it gives us more of depth, and humbles those of pride.
For who has not known sorrow may not truly know compassion.
 
We need the sunshine of the day, we need the dark of night.
And so perhaps the dark within is needed, so we see
And value more the sanity – and cherish more the love.
 
And there are shades of darkness too – there's sorrow and there's grief.
And both of these may cleanse the soul – but there is madness wild
And all the smaller devilries that cloud our hearts and minds.
   
And these are what obstruct our sight and so pollute our souls.
And what can clear away these things, I truly do not know.
But those of wisdom say to breathe and turn towards the light.

And so we only pray for peace, the peace within ourselves –
For courage when the fear is great, for calm when all is roiled,
So humbly we may lead our lives – and smiling, turn to die.
 
2014 September 20th Sat, 3:24 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
    

The Last Defeat

 
The Last Defeat
 
Since highways serve to smooth the workers’ rides,
Who still takes rougher roadways anymore?
Amidst the rushing and efficient swarm,
What place is there for those who pedal slow?

There comes a time, when we admit defeat
And merely hope to cease from further strain.
But even then, we might be forced to stay,
Where work’s reward is even more of pain.
 
A life consumed by labor might result,
At journey’s end, in greater sorrow yet –
For those departed, while we labored, grief,
For all our fruitless years of work, regret.

But could there still be consolation, when
Our efforts turn to blowing dust and sand?
When men are robbed of satisfaction, hope,
Could there be things, they then might understand?

In isolation, emptiness, we taste
Of striving’s bitter, acrid ashes – yet,
Although we know our lives have been a waste,
We feel for those, whom others might forget.

And so, when we have nothing left to give,
And weariness, discouragement is deep,
It’s time, perhaps, to wake to light and dark –
And all the grays ignored by those asleep.

In blissful ignorance, we might have thought
Our fellows better than they truly are –
But then we see how truly hard it is
To staunch the tides of craving and of war.

However hurtful that awaking is,
We then might chance to see the subtle grain –
And seeing this, lift up, again, our heads,
Accepting, even grateful for the pain.
       
Some paint the world in colors hopeful, bright –
And others use the dark and somber hues.
But then, the hills and valleys of our lives
Reveal to us the wider, deeper views.

The hopeful dawn gives birth to light-filled day,
And then there’s dusk that brings the dark of night.
The light and colors change with every hour,
And sadness isn’t absent from delight.

For every joy, in measure, there is pain.
For every sorrow, there is pleasure still.
We take the cup of life, we drink of it,
We set it down and wait for it to fill.

And when at end we taste the final draft,
It might be bitter or it might be sweet.
But we’ll remember those we drank before,
And smile, perhaps, before our last defeat.

2014 September 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Gentle God

The Gentle God
 
The tongues and faiths of men and women are
As myriad as our faces.  Each of us
Is born, by chance, in one or other tribe.
Yet over this, we build our heaps of fuss.

We’re riven by religions, languages,
By “races”, classes, occupations, more...
We raise our fences, barb our borders and
We’re never done with all our ruthless gore...

Our families are sundered by our strife –
Our clans dispersed – our tribes, by tempests, blown…
We meet the “strangers”, know that they are us –
And yet pretend that they are not our own...

The nation-states and empires work their ruin –
Our inner demons turned to genies great,
As you and I express our discontent
By heaping blame on those we love to hate.

We humans still have satisfactions small –
But these appear no longer good enough.
Ambition, ego, greed and worse demand
Yet more acclaim, achievement, power, stuff…

There’s Nature, wondrous, bountiful and yet
At times enraged or sullen in her moods...
Then all of our entreaties are as naught,
As death and sorrow mark those interludes...

But then, we’ve men – and women, not outdone.
They've grown in hubris and in violence,
With empires, corporations, warrior-states –
Their mobs and armies and their borders tense...

Our minds have opened up the universe,
Wrung secrets from the stars and atoms, yet
Our wisdom lags, as men create such things
As even devils wish they could forget.

From fear we murder, and from greed we die –
And vice versa, as the wheel revolves.
And yet we claim that this is not a lie –
That humankind, towards betterment, evolves...

Among the gods to whom we turn to pray,
Is there, perhaps, a god of gentleness –
Or goddess of the same – of tranquil ways –
Who’ll answer yet our pleas to end this mess?

Is there a god or goddess, who
Can whisper in a tyrant’s ear, can soothe
The raging mob, can softly touch a heart
Or make a furrowed brow, with a gesture, smooth?

Alas, the gods are our projections too.
Divinities are limited in scope.
Their knowledge, power hardly cover all.
A lesson there – perhaps a bit of hope…

The gentleness within us waits to speak –
But when it does, it speaks with silences.
For when we feel it fill and heal our hearts,
We’ve no more need for all our sentences…

The gentle god is there in all of us.
The gentle goddess – she is smiling too,
As tears are flowing down her cheeks, for she
Is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jew…

2014 August 3rd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York