Showing posts with label Insanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Insanity. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 27, 2024

Grace and Strength

 
Grace and Strength

The rogues and rascals rise and rule.
Some cheer—as others weep.
Some say, “It's always been this way.”
Some search for reasons deep,
And others say that might is right—
And so enjoy their sleep.

We watch the scenes, on TV screens, 
Of horrors far away,
And wonder when these things will end—
And lo—it’s break of day—
But not the dawn of hope that brings
The peace for which we pray.

And here, and where I first saw light,
The time for polls is close.
Some lead the others by a mile
And others by a nose.
But whom to choose, among the rogues,
Is something no one knows,

Who’s taken time to see, to read—
To delve a little deep.
The more we learn, the worse we feel,
The more we’d like to weep!
But never fear—and persevere—
Until the final sleep!

For every three steps forwards, there
Are two steps back again.
And so we struggle now, as did
The ones who struggled when
The generations past had fought 
Their battles—but in Zen—

For when we lose that inner sight,
We also lose our way,
And so are led where rascals lead 
Us—more and more astray.
Inhale, exhale, and smile to greet—
The grace and strength of day.

2024 March 27th, Wed.
Berkeley, California 

Sunday, January 28, 2024

Sanity

 
Sanity

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

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

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

******

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

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

******

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

******

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

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

2024, January 28, Mon.
Berkeley, California

Sunday, October 2, 2022

The Madness


The Madness

We humans think so highly of ourselves—
And yet we trap ourselves in madnesses 
Of various sorts—and some are recognized 
And others not—as each in turn is praised

And then reviled and cast aside—and then
Revived, in force, to blight our lives again. 
We recognize a body's illness, but 
Ignore or serve collective madnesses. 

****** 

The quest for money drives the world we’ve made.
It rules our lives and colors all we see.
Our minds are trained to function through its rules—
And those who can’t or won’t are seen as fools.

To question this pursuit is heresy.
Some shed religion, only to adopt
This faith in money. Mammon rules on high
And governs what we think and say and do.

****** 

And who can blame the ones who play the game
And find in wealth and all it yields no shame—
Or those, for whom the cash they slave to earn
Is what sustains their selves and those they love?

But could the rules and so the play be changed 
To ease the lives of humans under stress—
And save our species from the fate that we
Have sent so many others to, in haste?

****** 

The world of Nature isn’t filled, we see,
With love and peace alone; these do exist—
Along with predators that stalk their prey,
And parasites that feed upon their hosts.

We humans are a part of Nature, so
There is, in us, a mix of all these things.
We still have power, though, to bend our lives
Towards what is sane—or towards insanity.

****** 

Some say, “The world is what it was and is—
And always will be. Let it go its way
And mind your business. Tend to self and kin
Or find your peace by seeking what’s within.”

But others say “The tides that rage and flow
Are made by humans, who’ve been led astray.
Unless this madness ends—this wild stampede—
Our kind, like others, will be swept away.”


****** 

The ones who halt—or slow too much—within 
A charging crowd are trampled under foot—
Until awareness spreads and one by one
We slow the race and so the spreading blight.

I’ve found no answer to the issues raised,
Nor any means to ease the plight we’re in. 
I only ask that humans recognize
This illness grave—that blights the world we’re in.

2022 October 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Nation States







Nation States

A country, like a town or province, is
a thing we humans make to fill our needs.
The things we cannot do by just ourselves,
we let the city, province, country do.
Towards these tasks, we pay our taxes and
elect the folk who manage these for us.

So it should be, in sober viewing, yet
we have exalted this and have imbued
a country with the qualities we once
reserved for deities—or kings who claimed
to be appointed by divine decree.

How foolish that appears, and yet we see
our politicians thumping on their chests
and seeking to be kings—and pouring scorn
on anyone who seeks to question this,
as hails and fists are raised for hero-kings.

If these were only carnivals, we then
could simply shrug, as some of us may do
at other spectacles—like all the games
where sport and commerce vulgarly combine.

But hatred, bigotry and all that flows
from human vices—these are tapped, released.
And violence follows swiftly, mounting more
as lies are spread and can’t be questioned, so
we see a spiral that descends to hell.

******

The nation states are birthed and bred in blood,
as empires are—and mass religions too.
And this is so in almost every case—
as each “exception” shows, when opened up.

And yet we yield to tribal impulses
and swear allegiance to a flag and state,
as soldiers march to beating drums, saluting
those who send them out to slay and die.

So also, lines are drawn that may divide
a province or a city.  Families flee,
as sorrow turns to anger, then to hate—
and neighbor turns on neighbor in revenge.

What started this and what sustains it still?
At base: survival; economics; those
who strive for power; vice; and ignorance.
One could say more, but let this here suffice.

******

When a person’s life is threatened, then
the person acts and so defends the self.
When he or she is verbally abused,
mistreated or exploited, then again
the “I” awakes and reasserts the self.

And so it often is with nations—these
arise as concepts when oppression reigns
that victimizes humans based on things
that they are born with or acquire in youth—
the marks of races, cultures, which they then
perceive as common and as threatened, so
they band together to defend themselves.

But then in turn, if people then succeed
in overturning orders, so that they
are now within the group that reigns, they then
may often push yet others to despair—
and so another nationhood is born.

And that’s a story that’s repeated, though
it’s hardly all there is to nation-states.
For that, you’ll have to read the books, because
the things we've written here are just a sketch.

So you can read of Europe's wars of sects
that lasted centuries, what issued thence—
and more, to puzzle out yourself the curse
that makes us battle those who're much like us.

******

We humans seek some others, whom we blame
for all the problems that we humans face.
By doing this, we shift the blame and then
rejoice in meting out the punishment.

So all our baser urges then are vented,
as we “unite” against this “proven enemy”.

And knowing human nature, those who strive
for wealth and power utilize these things,
as idiots gather in their mobs and rage
and wars break out—in this and every age.

So also, wealth and power, threatened, seek
deflection of the threats.  A foe is found,
perennial or new, that then distracts
the lumpen masses and obscures the truth.

******

The love of the land and people of one’s birth
or domicile is natural.  Love is good—
and even better when it is informed,
so knowledge and compassion both are guides.

But blind obedience and belief can lead,
like willful ignorance, to all that’s cursed—
and these together breed the troops that greed
and zealotry require to do their work.

Ambition in a man or woman is
at times a good thing.  Often, it is not—
for those of great ambition tend to climb
on others as they drive yet others on,
not heeding all the harm that hubris brings.

******

The tribal folk knew well their tribes, but we
belong to nations that we do not know,
because they were created recently
or are too large for us to know with ease.

Let’s get to know the country where we live—
the land, the peoples and the histories—
for we will find there’s more than one of each.

Let’s learn the names of places, plants and beasts
and speak the tongues in which the people speak.

Let’s sit with common folk and share their food,
the joys and woes that beings always have—
and let us do this, not for just a part
or portion of the land and people, but
as great a fraction as our lives permit.

And if indeed we truly do these things,
we then will surely find there’s much to like—
and also things we might be leery of.

And so it always is, with everything.
 
******

And if we do this, we will find the lines
that mark the borders—those are meaningless,
for genes and cultures both have flowed across,
as tends to happen when we humans meet.

And so within us are the genes of those
we’re told to view as foes—as enemies.
And in our tongues we find the words as well
that made the journeys over distances.

And so in food and music, so in clothes
and so in arts and crafts and sciences.

So does this mean that passports, visas will
now disappear, along with fences and
the armies and the wars that nations wage?

If it only it were so!  But yes—in time.

The cities of a country do not war,
and neither do its provinces—and so
in time the humans of the world will see
a country is the place they chance to be.

******

A city may have quarters, if it’s old—
or even new, where different settlers live.
This should not mean that people do not mix
and over time create such citizens
as view the city as their quarter true.

What mayhem there could be, if one declared,
“Brooklyn is for A’s, Manhattan B’s,
the Bronx and Queens and Staten Island—they’re
reserved for C’s and D’s and E’s.”

Yet that’s the basis for the “ethnic state”—
the worst thing that a nation-state can be.

******

Beware the empire in its red advance.
Beware its reign, with even more of blood—
and know that blood will flow at its collapse.

Resist the empires. These have drained the lands.
But do desist from building blinding walls.

Beware the madness of the nation state
that takes a fiction and creates a tribe—
and even more, beware the state that marks
the “self” and “other” with the stamp of tribe.

Let's love our countries as we do the earth,
but know we share the overarching sky
that sees us insects crawling down below
and claiming this or that as theirs, as if
we ants could own it, through our ignorance.

There is no virtue that a nation owns.
There is no vice that only is a tribe’s.

We’d see the blood on every nation’s hands,
if only we could read the histories
that lie unwritten by the ones who died.

2019, April 6, Sat. 
Brooklyn, New York
  

Saturday, February 16, 2019

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  
  

Saturday, November 17, 2018

Greedy Fools


Greedy Fools

If not for what we “human beings” have done,
The air today would be as fresh as that
Which humans breathed a thousand years ago.
The waters would be just as pure as then
And all the soils would be as free of taint
As when a beggar could be called a saint.
 
But now a beggar is a “bum”—no more—
Reviled as useless, hardly fit to live.
The soils are poisoned and infertile—dead.
The streams and lakes and oceans too are filled
With toxins, sludge and floating plastic waste.
The air is fouled and bears an acrid taste.

The myriad stars of night are seen no more,
As cities spread their squalor, glare and haze.
The myriad species melt away like snows
And continents are cleared of humans too.
And this is "progress", hailed and taught in schools—
In nations led by greedy, grabbing fools.

2018 November 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Saturday, September 8, 2018

The Silent Yelp


The Silent Yelp 


Of all the droughts with which we deal,
The ones within are worst.
These dry the well to which we turn
To slake our inner thirst.

We’re weakened by this thirst within
That leaves us parched and dry.
So those who once had strength collapse,
Without the tears to cry.

So what to do?  I do not know.
There’s Nature, work and love.
Some turn to help the ones in need
And some to gods above.

******

Of all the battles that we wage,
The ones that rage within
Are hardest, since we also lose
The battles that we win.

These rob us of our inner peace
And so disturb the mind
That what we once could fetch with ease,
We now no longer find.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Some brave the inner battle
And others shy from this and yet
Are slaughtered then like cattle.

******

When fear and anger dwell within
And will not go away,
We then are turned from grace to sin,
As flesh and mind decay.

So many sorrows have their roots
In anger, fear and greed,
As envy, hatred grow from shoots
To trees that spread their seed.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Our disciplines might help
But when these each have long dissolved,
Who hears the silent yelp?

******

So there it is.  The ones who wage
The wars they base on “facts”
Have demons they have nursed within
That guide their outward acts.

And those who crave yet more of wealth
And disregard the cost,
In lives of humans, beasts and plants,
To demons, long are lost.

So what to do?  I do not know.
To a demon, we may turn
And say, “How are you then, my friend?
I see how much you burn.”

******

We each must face our devils and
It’s better if they’re friends.
Instead of wars, we then can work
In peace, to make amends.

How many friends and kin are lost
From lack of eye and ear?
How many loves have been dissolved
And turned to rage and fear?

So what to do?  I do not know.
I wish I were a sage.
I pray that you’ll be wiser and
Have fewer wars to wage.

2018 September 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Murkho Manux-মূর্খ মানুষ-We Foolish Men


This post consists of the following, in descending vertical order:

  • four lines in Bengali (মূর্খ মানুষ)
  • a Roman transcription (Mūrkha Mānuṣa) from http://translate.google.com;
  • a voice recording of the Bengali;*
  • a Roman transcription (Murkho Manux) as described at Bharot Xadhin;
  • an English translation (We Foolish Men).
------------------------------------------------

* A reasonable, prosaic voicing can now also be heard by:

  • copying and pasting the Bengali-script text into the left panel at the Google link given above (after selecting Bengali as the input language);
  • and then clicking on the speaker icon below that left panel.
------------------------------------------------

মূর্খ মানুষ 

হায় ভগবান, হায় আল্লাহ, 
হায় গৌতম, চৈতন্য!
মূর্খ মানুষ হয়েছে পাগল, 
নিজেকে করেছে অন্য৷

মঙ্গলবার, ৪ঠা মার্চ, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
-------------------------------------

Mūrkha Mānuṣa

Hāẏa bhagabāna, hāẏa āllāha,
hāẏa gautama, caitan'ya!
Mūrkha mānuṣa haẏēchē pāgala,
nijēkē karēchē an'ya.

Maṅgalabāra, 4ṭhā Mārca, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka
---------------------------------------------

Please click on the rounded triangular play-button on
the right to hear a voice recording. In some browsers,
you may have to click a second time. This might not
work on cellphones.  Adjust the volume on your device
as needed.


Record and upload voice >>
---------------------------------------------
Murkho Manux

Hae bho'goban, hae alla,
Hae goutom, coitonno!
Murkho manux hoeche pagol,
Nijeke koreche onno.

Mongolbar, 4t’ha Marc, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
------------------------------------------

We Foolish Men

Oh god, with all your many names,
Oh dear, departed brothers!
We foolish men have lost our minds,
And see ourselves as others.

2017 April 4th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Slowing Can’t Be Right

 
Slowing Can’t Be Right 

How much of all our suffering is due
To speeding when we should be going slow?
We work and eat and couple now at speed
And rarely notice all the harm we do.

So some can thrive, with sense and conscience stilled,
While others suffer from their actions or
Perceive the things that go unheeded while
We're busy rushing through our hectic lives.

******
 
We live our lives of loneliness and fear
And seek our consolations where we can.
The sun may rise, the little birds may sing
And yet we sleep or go to work in dread.

We live in isolation, torn apart
By all the tempests blowing through our lives:
The storms of Nature and the works of Man—
What others do and what we do ourselves.

We’ve lost the arts of tolerance and fun.
We turn away from relatives and friends
And seek our entertainment and our worth
In things and places distant from our earths.

We learn to race, forgetting how to slow.
We spend our lives acquiring knowledge, things—
While losing wisdom and that freedom true
Of living like the ones still human do.

You’ll find them in the forests and the hills,
In regions far removed, on arctic ice
And in the places of the scorching sun,
Beleaguered now as they are pushed to die.

They do as belly and as conscience bids.
They live and die in goodly company.
They have no money. Their possessions, they
Can carry on their backs as lightest weight.

They pay no rent to landlords or to banks.
They answer to no bosses, being free.
There is, among them, neither “high” nor “low”.
They’re born, they smile and weep, and then they go.

And some might say that I romanticize
The lives of those that dwell in poverty.
But I reply, “What wealth could ever buy
The gems of love and of sincerity?”

And others still might say, “We disagree.
We would not trade our lives for such as these.
Besides, there isn’t room, upon this Earth,
To live as once we did, in misery.”

So each may view the grass that’s distant as
Of greener hue or less than that beneath.
And we might say, “The world is changing, so
We cannot now remain as once we were.”
 
But should we then surrender to the flow
That takes us where some others want us to?
Or should we say, “We still are beings free,
Who choose our lives to be as they could be?”

******

The one that halts, when all around stampede,
Might well be trampled on—and even die.
But when the wiser start to slow and turn,
We slowly could return to clarity.

The question is, “Will sanity prevail
Before our madness breeds catastrophe?
And some might say, “We’re told that’s happened, yet
We do not slow, for slowing can’t be right.”

2015 August 30th, Sun., 3:28 pm
(first two stanzas added Sep. 2nd, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Crushed


Crushed     

    
When faced with all the madness of our times—
the racing, debt and isolation, some
succumb to fear and then are paralyzed—
or else they run, bewildered, through their years. 

But others, savvier, can learn the game
and play it shrewdly to attain their ends.
And these become, quite often, those who herd
and drive the others, stepping up the pace.

******
  
Until we free ourselves, we’re doomed to be
as cogs upon the wheels of fear and greed.
But when we try to struggle loose, we find
we’re crushed—as would a cog that’s not of steel. 
  
It’s only when the juggernaut is slowed,
as one by one we see and we resist—
it’s only then that we at last can be,
from this, our ceaseless whirling bondage, free.

2015 August 6th, Thu. 6:15 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------------

Note:  Three pictures follow.  You can click on any one to see all three in a gallery.  The second image will be enlarged, the third even more. Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to the post.

At the end of the post are links to some clips from the film "Modern Times", in which Charlie Chaplin's character attempts to fit into the industrial age.  I might add more as I find them.
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Time
https://www.eskimo.com/~recall/bleed/0911.htm


Joining the Labor Force
http://www.newstatesman.com/sci-tech/2014/08/new-luddites-why-former-digital-prophets-are-turning-against-tech


Chariot Wheel, Konarak Temple, Orissa, India.   Patrik M. Loeff, 2008
https://www.flickr.com/photos/bupia/2320134539/in/photostream/

Clips from Chaplin's movie Modern Times

1) a short clip (14:43) with excellent clarity of picture and sound:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfw0KapQ3qw
  
2) a very short clip (1:49) on a central episode in 1, with picture quality not the best:
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1sgls_modern-times-1936_fun 

3) Modern Times (1936)—the full movie (1:23:17)—but with speech dubbed in French:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jLHVT0-GgM
  

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

A Space for Life

   
A Space for Life  


Boat on a Lake / New Day
http://xomnhiepanh.com/doi-thuong-streetlife/ngay-moi/309366.xna
  

Of all the madness in the world, the worst
could be the juggernauts that Man has built.
For all the rest allows a space for life
and even beauty.  What we’ve made does not.

And now we learn there have been volunteers,
as private enterprise extends its reach,
who'd spend their days as colonists on Mars
and so could not return to lives on Earth,

Perhaps in time they'll build the mines and ports,
so commerce then can reach towards the stars.
The universe awaits the gods that we
presume to be, whose presence greens this Earth.

******

A husband writes, defending what his wife
has chosen for herself.  She’ll go to live
in hutments built upon that distant orb.
Their grownup kids and he will stay on Earth.

And some might ask, “Would you then bar a wife
and mother, but allow her man to go?”
I answer, “What’s disturbing is the fact
that even mothers now are not immune.”

Our cities are like sores upon the Earth
from which the pus and putrid fluids flow
that then infect the humans who go mad
and do the bidding of satanic minds.

******

Life feeds on life and all the slaughter is
forever with us.  Is that spark divine,
that gives a being life, the Devil’s gift?
I do not know, and so I ask you this.

And you will answer in your silences
and I in mine.  I walk beside the sea,
beneath the sky—or in the wooded hills—
and seem to breathe the tranquil air of peace.

And yet, within that sea, and in those woods,
there’s life devouring life—and ceaselessly.
And Man has built his world of factories
that spreads its ravage and its ugliness.

******

There still is beauty, kindness, love and more.
Could that be still the Devil’s handiwork?
I do not know, but if indeed it is,
we might forgive the evil he has wrought.
 
We’re like the leaves that live for just a while
and then return to that which does not live.
But leaves retain that beauty and that grace
which we alas have lost in our disdain.
 
A space for life—and also, space for that
which does not live—could that be granted still?
I do not know.  The one I know to ask
is Man—who’s none at end but you and me.
 
******

I pray that human minds and hearts return
to what they were when we were more like apes.
We still had evil and had madness then,
but there were spaces left for sanity.

To whom then should we pray except ourselves?
Within us dwells a better nature yet.
What stress was it that caused its twin to rise
to spread the evil and the ugliness?

It’s sanity that curbs the madness that
aspires to rule the planets and the stars.
Let Mars repose in barren majesty.
Allow the healing of afflicted Earth.
     
2015 August 4th, Tue., 6:18 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
  
Boat on a Lake / New Day
http://xomnhiepanh.com/doi-thuong-streetlife/ngay-moi/309366.xna


Sunday, June 21, 2015

The Crowd That Thinks

   
The Crowd That Thinks

When honesty is seen as stupid and diligence is seen as vice,

Then what remains for us to say, to those who still might seek advice?
For if we say what we believe in, and with this they then agree,
We know the fates they’ll suffer then—the tortures to the third degree.

So should we then mouth platitudes or tell them what they need to know,

So they can then survive, succeed, by sailing with the winds that blow?
Or should we sadly close our mouths and shake our heads and go away,
As what we see as darkest night is greeted as the dazzling day?

When cynics lead and others follow, in the places Mammon rules,

Then those who aren’t cynics suffer, being seen at best as fools.
And they can pray to Saraswati, sing Athena’s praises, yet,
For all their labor and devotion, we can tell what they will get.

When falsehoods are enthroned as truths, what point is there in more oration,

Proceeding from the lies for which the priests demand our adoration?
It’s better then to flee or fight.  But fighting can’t be done alone.
The revolution comes when each decides to lift and throw the stone.

Oh shatter now the edifices, set afire the palace grounds!

It’s time to wake the crowd that thinks and then proceeds to do its rounds.
Spare the gentle and the weak.  Rouse the humble and the meek.
Let the ones of hubris shudder.  On the cynics, havoc wreak.

Beware of joining, though, the mob that does the work of cynics still.

Obeisance and rebellion both have caused, on Earth, no end of ill.
There are no substitutes for sight, for wisdom, for the heart and head.
When these are there, then sense prevails—and virtue, to success, is wed.

There is a crowd that’s not a mob.  It thinks.  It feels.  It questions too.

There is a crowd of those that do what none of us can singly do.
That’s the crowd that listens, looks—whose words and actions both are slow.
That’s the crowd that rises and that quietly says its “Yes.” and “No.”
   
2015 June 21st, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

Friday, October 3, 2014

The Madness

    
The Madness
  
What still is left of sanity within the human race
Is threatened now by sickness that we’re told is glowing health.
So “Money, money, money!”  is the chanting of our times,
As Mammon is exalted in the mad pursuit of wealth.
 
But more and more, there rises too the murmur, “God is great!”
And all the ancient zealotries arise and walk again,
As brother says to brother, “You’re the infidel to slay!”
So avarice and zeal compete in doling out the pain.
 
The diktats of the secular, the dogmas of the zealous –
They both result in misery. The suffering is great,
But those who see are powerless to halt the cycles vicious.
And even in the U.S.A., the workers say it’s fate.
  
“That’s how it is!” we each declare, and do as bosses order.
We turn on one another as the “owners” rake in cash.
We blame the ones who’re poorer or the ones who cross the border.
In ignorance, we're duped to pay for dark adventures rash.
 
So those who are sincere are robbed of sleep and peace of mind.
They see the way we’re headed and they sense the mad stampede.
But if they try to slow, they find they’re shoved aside or crushed –
For punishment is sure, for every heartfelt word or deed.
 
Even in the midst of wars, there still was once the peace – 
In clamor and insanity, the quiet and the sane…
But now, within our families, and in our halls of study,
There’s falsehood and ferocity – and all the traits insane.
 
And yet we see the wheelers, who appear to be at peace,
With hearts immured to suffering, expedient, coldly wise.
And these are now our rulers, in their trademark penguin suits,
Our dealers in insanity, who market pain and lies...

Will sanity be ours again? Will madness ever ebb?
The fever rises still, the patient shivers in her bed.
And what is it that ails her? Is it this or is it that?
A doctor says it's zealotry – and greed, to which it's wed.
 
2014 October 3rd, Fri., 6:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Those Who Will Not Think

     
Those Who Will Not Think
  
When prejudice is rampant and blinkered views are rife,
Then foolishness, in ardor, takes ignorance as wife.
And from their dark coitus, there issues forth the child,
From knowledge free – and reason – and prone to notions wild.
  
So how can there be wisdom, or remnant trace of light?
The day has long been ended – and all that’s left is night.
So you’ll not find forbearance or nuance or respect.
The puerile, mixed with madness, is what you’d now expect.
  
So what is there to do now, except to sit and weep?
When driven in the shallows, what hope of currents deep?
And so our ships will founder and so we know they’ll sink.
Why bother with the subtleties with those who will not think?
  
Our arguments may lengthen – or grow, with honing, short.
But when we’re with the yahoos, why carp on rule and tort?
Be silent, lest you beckon, by your speaking, yet more ire.
You’ll see, for comprehension, there’s simply no desire.
 
2014 September 20th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

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
    

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Vortex

 
Vortex

We near the precipice and hear its roar,
And yet, the madness of the rush proceeds.
And even though one says, “Is that a scream?”
The others shout, “Go on. It’s just a dream!”

So lemmings, we’ve been told, may die in fjords,
And humans perish, as we’ve seen, in wars.
The ones of narrow vision rule our herd
And goad us on, upon this whirling earth.

In truth and kindness, though the saints believe,
This world is ruled by cruelty and lies.
In most religions, peace is valued most,
And yet, it’s war of which the nations boast.

So those who follow conscience now are doomed,
As they are punished and their ventures fail.
For virtue now is only seen as vice,
And he or she succeeds, who isn’t nice.

If I believed in God and Satan, then
I’d see a world that’s headed straight for hell.
And though I’ve tried to steer to what is right,
The fiery portals are what loom in sight.

Salaam, shalom, and shaanti, peace…
So men beseech the spirit, everyday.
And yet, the demons, that infest the mind,
Their newest means of endless torture find.
  
How many are the traps and vortices –
The snares and whirlpools that devour our souls...
And all around us, swirls the great cyclone,
Yet in its eye, we sit – and psalms intone.

How many are the myths by which we're led...
How many are the prisons built by men...
From deep within, the captives call, in pain.
But few can hear them, as they call in vain.

There was a time when I could view the world
And all its madness with a tranquil eye –
Observe its wonders and its horrors and
Attempt, with mind and heart, to understand.
  
But having fallen in the vortex, I
Have lost, alas, that clear, untroubled sight –
For all the conflicts of the world are fought
Within ourselves – where sanity is not.

And yet, in night's despair, the hope persists
That there's a day that will, with time, have dawn –
That deep below the shallow storms of self,
There's still that calm, to which we turn for help.
       
2014 September 13th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
      

Saturday, June 21, 2014

With All the World Aflame

        
With All the World Aflame


 
  

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

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

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

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

2014 June 21st, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York



  

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Trouble

    
Trouble
   
I was sitting by myself today
And thinking this and that,
When thoughts that weren’t mine came by
And struck me as I sat.

And how I knew they weren’t mine
I find it hard to tell.
I  know my face, I know my voice –
I know my thoughts as well.

“It’s strange,” I thought, about my thoughts
(Which weren’t really mine),
“That I can think another’s thoughts
As an actor reads a line.”

And so I sat and thought those thoughts
That came there, floating by,
Will thinking too, about those thoughts
And how they came and why.

And what those thoughts might be (or were)
I really can’t recall,
For as they came, from nowhere, so
They vanished, one and all.

But while they stayed with me, they gave
Me cause enough to worry.
I feared perhaps I’d stolen them,
For which I might be sorry.

What would I say, if someone came,
Demanding their return?
And might I then be hauled to court,
To face a judgment stern?

“I  find you guilty, Joseph Shmoe,
Of stealing something precious!
To a kennel, I do sentence you –
With angry pit-bulls vicious!”

How many levels could there be
Of thinking about thinking?
And could a mind be drowned by this –
From such a burden, sinking?

The more I thought about the thoughts
That filled my weary head,
The more my worries grew, until
I wished that I was dead.

But then I thought, it could well be
If I, that instant, died,
To thinking about thinking, still
My mind might then be tied.

And so, for all eternity,
In a kind of thinker’s hell,
My blameless soul unjustly might,
Alas, forever dwell.

“Oh here lies he who thought some thoughts
(Not his), one sunny Monday,
And so expired, his mentem crushed
By pondus cogitandi.

“And since he still was thinking when
He left our mortal world,
To hellfire, that of thinking, he
Was then, by demons, hurled.”

This epitaph could well be mine,
Inscribed upon a stone.
For purloined thoughts, I might perhaps
In a fiery hell atone.

And were perhaps these thoughts (not mine),
A snare, by devils, set?
Oh, like a fish, I’d swallowed bait!
The hook and line, I’d get!

And thinking this, I panicked and
I bolted from my seat,
While thinking that, by doing this,
Those demons, I could cheat.

For I had heard that predators
Prefer a seated prey.
From one that swiftly moves about,
They tend to shy away.

And so I hopped about – and then
I twisted and I jerked,
While hoping, by these tactics, I’d
Get rid of thoughts that irked.

And I recalled that I had seen
A dog, beset by a flea,
Behave exactly as I did –
As mad as a man could be.

I thought, perhaps I’d better flee
The confines of my house.
It’s said that sunshine is a thing
That irks the flea and louse.

And who should then come strolling by,
As I ran out my door,
But a neighbor, who was known to spy –
And to gossip, even more.

She watched me hop and jerk and twist,
And her mouth was open wide.
I saw her hand was over it,
Her tonsils, so to hide.

“Oh walk along!” I cried to her.
“It’s just a doggone flea.
I think it came from a passing bitch,
Which you, perhaps, might be!”

I saw her  eyes then open more
And stare at me in shock.
I bolted back then, through my door,
And  loudly turned the lock.

But when I heard that solid sound,
I felt a strange elation.
For lo – those thoughts had left me for
Some other destination!

I wondered whether she, who’d stood
So still, as I was moving,
Was now the latest victim of
The demon, fiercely roving.

The pestilence had passed – perhaps
To her, who’d stood and gawked.
If so, it served her right, I thought,
Who gossip sought and hawked!

“Oh joy!” I thought, “I’ve rid myself
Of thoughts that weren’t mine.
To think my own thoughts once again –
Is truly quite divine!”

How pleasantly I pass my days,
Unburdened of that weight!
How hellish life must be for her,
Who spared me from my fate!

I sometimes feel a little twinge
Of pity – but no more
Than would that minstrel of the dark,
Our Edgar Allen Poe.

2014 May 19th Mon & 20th Tue
Brooklyn, New York
 

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Chips

  
Chips
  
Oh don’t be frightened, little child!
Let squirrels do what squirrels do.
He likes the nuts – and though he's wild,
That squirrel won’t be biting you.

Oh yes, I’m old, as you can see.
And these are chips – for young and old,
But not for you and not for me.
And there’s a story to be told.

You want me to tell you the story, dear?
The story then it‘ll have to be.
So sit over there, where you can hear
And listen quietly to me.

No, no!  The chips are not for us!
Do listen. Then you’ll find out why.
I don’t like kids who make a fuss.
So sit.  And chase away that fly.

I met a statue in the park.
I asked him how he came to be.
And as the sky was growing dark,
This is what he said to me.

“I once could walk about like you.
But there were  times when I was glum.
I wondered, what I then should do,
Until I met an old-time chum."

What's 'glum'? It's when you're feeling sad.
And 'chum'? A chum's a pal, a friend.
And some are good and some are bad.
Some friendships last – and others end. 

But listen – listen till the end!
Listen, as he heard his friend.

“He whispered in my ear, ‘My friend,
Chips are better when they’re fried.
And now, your sadness, it will end.
I know – because this cure, I’ve tried.

“ ‘So hasten to the park. You’ll see
A cloud on high, and that’s a sign,
And then, a tall and spreading tree.
A squirrel, next.  And you’ll be fine.’ "

What's 'hasten'?  That's to hurry, run,
Like when you've got to catch the bus.
Now listen quietly, little one!
I don't like kids who make a fuss.

“I hurried to the park in haste.
I wondered if I’d see the cloud.
I wondered too, how chips would taste
If they were fried.  I wondered loud.

“The elders in my way, they stared
And gave me then a wider berth.
But younger folk were there, who dared
To point and then express their mirth."

What's 'berth'? It's this. And 'mirth'? It's when
You smile and laugh. The kids, ahem,
Were smiling, pointing, laughing then.
And why?  They joked and laughed at him.

But let us continue. He said, 

“But little did I care. I neared
The park, and saw a patch of sky.
And sure enough, within that blue,
A little cloud was sailing high!

“I cracked a smile when I saw the cloud.
I smiled yet wider at the tree.
The squirrel made me laugh out loud.
With which of these could I disagree?

“And when a bird did doo-doo on
My head, I rolled around in fits.
And who then murmured, “He is gone.”?
The ones, who thought I’d lost my wits."

What's 'fits'? That's when you do like so.
What's 'wits'?  That's sense. We all need more
Yes. It's funny. You can giggle.
But listen. Sit – and stop that wriggle!

“I did a handstand, waved my legs,
Did a cartwheel ‘round the park.,
Saw a pigeon, brooding eggs,
Heard a puppy try to bark.

“The more I saw, the more I heard,
The more I laughed, until I cried.
And this I did, when I got word
That chips are better, when they’re fried.

“ 'They taste much better, fried, than raw!
The smell is better too, you’ll see!'
These things, I shouted.  Then, the law
Appeared.  And they were after me.

“But I was clever, I was fast!
I zoomed around the park, I zoomed!
But woe!  My freedom did not last.
They called in jaybirds.  I was doomed.

“But one of those was known to me.
He perched upon my shoulder and
He whispered. “Like a statue, be.”
And so I did, and so l stand.”

On hearing this, I shed a tear,
And wiping it, I blew my nose.
And in that statue’s hand, my dear,
I left a red and thorny rose.

So you have listened, understood.
See the cloud? And see the tree?
And there’s your squirrel. You’ve been good.
And there’s the statue. Can you see?

Now come with me and we will find
That statue there, with rose in hand.
These chips?  I hope you do not mind.
But they’re for him.  You understand?

He likes the chips, that statue there.
I’ve heard he likes the children too.
No, not for eating!  No, his fare
Is chips.  He’ll munch on those, not you.

What’s wrong – and why do you run away?
The kids today are really weird!
They’re frightened, in the light of day,
By those like me, without a beard!

2014 April 12th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

    

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Two Beings

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

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

******

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

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

2014 April 1, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York


Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)

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