T'akar khe'la-টাকার খেলা

 
টাকার খেলা

শ্রমের চাপে, কৃষক-কুলির 
শরীর ভেঙে পড়ে। 
ধনিক জনের সঞ্চয় বাড়ে।
গরীব ভুগে মরে।

জীবন ধরে, বেদম খেটে, 
শ্রমিক খোড়ে গর্ত। 
খাজনা-সুদ-মুনাফায় বাড়ে 
পুঁজিপতির অর্থ।

সব ক্রিয়াতে টাকার খেলা, 
কৃপার ঘোর অভাব। 
‘শান্তি’-কালেও যুদ্ধ চলে। 
মহাজনের লাভ।

লোভের থেকে, হিংস্রতা,
লুন্ঠন, হাহাকার।
সহ্য করলে, মৃত্যু ধীরে।
লড়লে, শীঘ্র বার।

জনসাধারণ বন্দী থাকে 
ধূর্ত ঠকের ফাঁদে। 
অন্যায়-অত্যাচারের জুলুম।
অনাথ শিশু কাঁদে।

 বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.
And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.
And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.
But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  
The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,
They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,
as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.
For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 
The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.
But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 
And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?
It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 
Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.
We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.
  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Ever Changing Sky

The Ever Changing Sky

The moon was shining as I swept the yard—
A gibbous moon that hung there in the sky.
Its lantern light, from time to time, was dimmed
By fleets of clouds that floated swiftly by.

I swept that moonlit backyard free of leaves,
But when the shadows came, I looked on high
And watched that act of light and dark within
That play that is the ever-changing sky.
 
How many eyes have watched that circus-stage
Yet never seen an act that was the same
As one before?  The hours and seasons ride
A horse that none of them can tame.

In darkness and in silver light, I swept
The driveway through—and ventured in the front,
And there was struck by light from LED’s—
The city’s streetlights, given to affront.
 
And next I swept the sidewalk and the yard
In front, till all my bags were filled up high.
That done, I paused to take a little break—
To breathe and look up at that changing sky.

I saw the clouds were streaming close, in force,
And threatened then to overwhelm the moon.
A breeze was blowing, shaking branches, so
I knew my work would be negated soon.

I shivered, as the night grew colder and
The moon was hidden by the crowded fleet.
So Priam, as he gazed at Grecian sails,
Could well have done, from fear of Troy’s defeat.
 
2016 October 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Love’s Labor Lost? – II

  
Love’s Labor Lost? – II
   
How many poets, in how many tongues,
Have written verses, squeezing into lines,
That fit within a page, the wisdom, grief
Regret and joy they'd gathered, each, through lives
That soon would end?  How few are known today?
How many precious notebooks thrown away?
 
How many theses, labored on for years,
Reside in folders, doomed to dust, decay?
How many painters never sold a piece?
How many Einsteins couldn't get their chance?
How much of labor and of beauty lost?
How much of truth that never saw the day?
  
And yet—a labor is its own reward:
A poem or a a painting, done, fulfills
A need no praise or payment ever can.
A shelter, in an attic or a ditch,
From all the ravages of peace and war—
Plus time—are all a being asks for this.
 
A parent or a teacher, nurse or aide
Can spend a life in caring and in toil.
The worker in the mine or factory,
The peasant who must labor for his lord,
For all their work, receive a recompense
That rarely matches what the labor's worth.
  
What enterprise or government could do
Without the labor that the beings do—
Employed, enslaved or doing of their own
What can't be set to rules or supervised
Without reducing it to lifeless form—
The labor of the dead that's dull and dark.
  
The spirit that is calling us to work—
Be this to feed ourselves or far beyond—
It functions, in constraints, in spite of these.
But those who seek to tame it never will,
For it's by nature wild.  It lets us give
What can't be got by pay or punishment.
  
2016 February 21st, Sun. 4:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
---------------------------------------------------------  
Related:  

• Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day   ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/02/loves-labor-lost-broverbs-for.html )
• Broverbs of Pain 
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/broverbs-of-pain.html )  

Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day

Love's Labor Lost?
(Broverbs for Valentine's Day)
    
We can sit and scribe our verses
From now until we die,
But who, if asked to read them,
Will find a reason why?
 
We can sow our seeds of wisdom--
And weep, that all our toil
Was wasted, since the seedings
Were all on barren soil.
 
We can spend our waking lifetimes
In struggles, pay the cost
From what we left neglected,
Yet see our labors lost.
 
We can teach and we can nurture;
We can fuss, as carers must.
We can build, with patience, structures--
And see them turn to dust.
  
****** 
  
So when we're in the twilight,
With darkness drawing near,
We then might slow from slaving
And pause to shed a tear.
  
But then it's time to wipe it
And wistfully to smile,
For if, with heart, we labored,
It was surely worth our while.
 
And if some satisfaction,
Some pleasure in the task,
For a year or for an instant,
Was ours--what's left to ask?
 
Let's leave what's past to others,
And what's to come to fate.
The present time is precious
And not for waste in hate.
  
****** 
  
There's joy in our creations,
However small they be.
We bring them through gestations
And then we set them free.
 
Like children, they may flourish.
Like seedlings, they may die.
How many are our hatchlings--
How few will live to fly?
 
We seek for recognition.
A smidgen should suffice.
We warm our hands with praises--
For soon, we'll meet with ice.
  
Our children may be stolen.
With broken hearts, we cry.
But if we know they're tended,
With souls content, we die.
  
******
  
We labor for the joy of it.
We labor for our bread.
We labor for the smile we get,
From duty and from dread.
  
And when we shirk our labor,
We're often in torment.
Some say they live for pleasure,
Yet rarely are content.
  
Our lives are often muddles.
What hubris, then, to say
It's pleasure, love or duty
Or work that clears the way.
 
We can live for just this instant;
We can live for what we lost;
We can live to build the future.
In each, there's always cost.
  
******
 
And those, who're truly humble,
Of their virtues, might be proud,
But equally, of those failings
That they rarely speak of loud.
 
For those, who see no failings
In themselves, are surely blind,
And those, who see them clearest,
Are souls of deepest mind.
 
A vice that's partly conquered
Is like a foe defeated;
It's best to leave it extant,
Lest hubris be repeated.
  
The greatest pride of humans,
We're told, is that of pride.
Yet pride, in honest labor,
Is a lion each can ride.

****** 
 
In all things, there's a balance;
There's yang that waits in yin.
Too little--and we're tortured;
Too much--and we're in sin.
    
What's savored best at leisure
Is rarely sensed in haste.
Who never knows of hunger,
Can scarcely know of taste.

So too, a length of failure
Lends flavor to success.
And each is best, not scanty
But neither in excess.
   
Let's take what we are given--
And that, with gratitude.
Why pine for what was owed us?
We owe, in plenitude.
 
2016 February 14th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

A Season for Retreating

 
A Season for Retreating
 
If you’re punished for your labor,
Should you cease to do what’s right?
If it’s truth that you’ve uncovered,
Should you hide it from the light?

When you’re harried for your caring,
Will you then no longer care?
When you’re hammered for your daring,
Will you then no longer dare?

You can think about your answer,
You can answer fast or slow.
But until you’ve lived to know it,
You will never really know.

You may think that you’re a fighter,
That you’ll never yield your ground
When the stakes are truth and justice,
Though the foe be all around.

But the years can take their taxes
And the blows can wear you down.
And there’s little point in fighting
When it’s you against the town.

There’s a point in every battle,
There’s a time in every war,
When you know you’ve been defeated,
No matter who you are.

There’s a season for advancing,
Another for the pause.
There’s a season for retreating,
No matter what the cause.

For your causes may have merit
And your logic may be sound,
But when lies have you surrounded,
Then it’s time for ceding ground.

2015 January 11th, 12:31 pm
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Worker’s Dawn

    
The Worker’s Dawn
 
I saw, in dreams, a land of innocence,
Where folk were honest, simple in their ways,
Where labor set the value of our work,
And those who labored got their share of worth.

But then I woke and saw it was a dream,
And went, with disappointment, out to work.
The little birds were chirping at the dawn,
And hope was rising in the human heart.

And so, although the thoughts of future, past
Intruded on the present as I walked,
I drank of early morning in my stride,
And went to face the day that had begun.

2014 September 6, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Comfort

   
Comfort
 
It’s strange – and sad – that some may spend their hours,
Their days and months and years – and even lives –
In labor – that of duty or of love,
And yet – have only scars to show for this.
 
For when in luck, they then were left alone,
When not, they earned their reprimands and worse.
And as they worked, they came to bear in mind
That punishment could follow labor hard.
 
Discouragement is practiced, as an art,
By some, who "supervise" the ones who work,
Who’re punished, not for callousness or lies,
But for adherence to the truth – and heart.
 
But others might survive and even thrive
By doing as they’re bid, not questioning.
They mind their business – or they claw and climb.
They know the price for deviance is high.
 
So some might find what I have written strange,
But others, who have labored, felt the lash,
May recognize the things of which I write,
And find some comfort then in company.
 
2014 July 27th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

If I Had Children

   
If I Had Children
 
If I had children, I would want, for them,
A world that’s different from ours, one
In which there are no masters and no slaves,
No bosses there – no workers ordered there,
No generals – or soldiers marching – and
No men or women who are cogs upon
The gears of our machines.

I don’t have children, more’s the pity, yet
I still would wish for all the children that
The world I spoke of comes to be.  And this,
I also wish for puppies, colts and more.

Although we’ve bred the species for our ends
And even made ourselves our subjects too,
That wish I have may yet be realized,
If only children hear and make it so.

2014 April 26th, Sat. 9:55 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Job

A  brief preface to this can be found at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
   
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part I

  

The job I do, it pays my rent and more,

it gives my life a form – and when at work,

I see a village there, of which the kids,

the teachers, others and myself are part.

Although I know it’s just a fantasy,

this fills the emptiness and gives a why,

a reason to arise at dawn.  The work –

it’s filled my life for close to thirty years,

and it is endless, overwhelming, yet

it’s better than the walls and emptiness

with which I’m left on those rare times

when I have done what’s needed to be done

and so there’s space.

And yet, for all the sustenance it gives,

the job deprives me too of sanity.

For all those years, obsessed with doing right

what can’t be done, left little space for else.

And more and more, I see how mad it is,

this job I do – and my insanity.

And so, when there is space, there is regret,

and not for what I did, with all my heart,

but for all I never had a chance to do,

the duties that were lost to distances

and this, the job that I and others do.

2014  April 17^th, Wed., 6:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part II

We work to pay the rent, to feed ourselves,

our kids.  But in our times, with workers flung

apart across the continents, our labor

may become, for some of us, the thread

we daily weave that strings what’s passed, the now,

what’s coming, into one.  So what to do,

when all our work is seen as meaningless?

And as the pressures mount on those who work,

we work yet faster, more. The workday spills

and washes over evenings, weekends, more...

And so it is, that some of us may find

that holidays are spent in catching up

with all the job-work that we couldn’t do,

while working, daily, at the job we do!

And so, we seek escapes, from all this work,

and some may find more healthy ones than some.

And others yet are good at what they do,

efficient, even, one may sometimes think,

as were the ones who burned the Gypsies, Jews…

But that’s unkind.  Let’s tip our hat and go.

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:14 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part III

We learn from our mistakes and those we see

that others make, who might not care to see.

Be slow to judge what others seem to do.

For each may walk upon a path, and each

may think that that’s the only path there is.

But paths are myriad, and the walkers too.

But never run, although they force you to.

For that’s when kindness ends and cruelty

begins.

“Oh yes,” you say, “that sounds all well and good.

But when the bulls stampede, who dares to pause?”

Well run then, for your life, but try to slow.

If speed is catching, isn’t slowness too?

The worker in the line must work at speed.

She’s caught, like soldiers are, who’re sent to kill.

But wars are madness. So are human mills.

The mills are not what we or those we teach

Are destined for.  It’s up to me and you,

and not the ones who order, pass decrees.

If not for all our students or for us,
then for the students and their teachers next,

let’s bring a little meaning back to school. 

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:33 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The Job – Part IV

The savvy know, what counts is packaging.
For who has time to open up and check
the innards of what's marketed and sold?

And yet, when it's our child that sits at school
or it's our mother, in the hospital,
who is it then, that then becomes the fool,
and why the wailing at the state of sin?

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 1:43 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Please see also the brief preface to this, at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
    

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.
 

Ethics

       
Ethics
   
Some spin the globe and frown or smile and say,
“I think I’ll try out Singapore today.”
And by the afternoon, they’re flying high,
And only they know well the reason why.

But others you might see, who race to catch
The train or bus, or just a minute snatch
To run, when they’re allowed, to sit and pee.
How many, short of sleep, we daily see!

While both are captives of the juggernaut,
One rides above. The one below is caught
Among the horde that draws the chariot’s wheels.
One wields the whip – the other, whipping feels.

And yet, observe – how few are slacking off.
They pull and push, and though the path is rough,
They persevere.  So pyramids were built,
While pharaohs watched, without remorse or guilt.

For whips cannot procure our diligence,
Nor tap our conscience or our common sense.
The habits learned in youth, we still display
While duly working, every working day.

And as they work, the ones who work the most,
Are also those who very rarely boast.
And if they raise their voices to complain,
They quickly learn how surely this brings pain.

It’s natural to ask for reasons why.
But these are answered with the usual lie
That changes with the seasons, though the same.
Why question those, who show no trace of shame?

The lessons, from a life of labor, learned,
Are like the brands, upon the cattle, burned.
And these remain with us until we die.
The humbled, quiet, watch the braggarts lie.

How many schemes, by those of means, are spun?
How many ventures, gamely lost or won?
The worker has a job – and if that’s lost,
What else remains?  Who dares to pay that cost?

And yet, in labor, even slaves take pride.
Who still has legs, does not another ride.
With mouths to feed and bodies small to clothe,
To whore herself, a woman still is loath.

They say,
“The middle class has morals, not the rich.
The poor have none – they don’t know which is which.”
That's half a lie.  Although the rich are rotten,
The poor degraded, right is not forgotten.

The middle classes bow before the rich.
And some, for more of affluence, may itch.
But what they still, of ethics, may retain,
Has roots in that, which once for all was plain.

2014 March 9th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Lion Dance

Lion Dance
  
I hear the distant pulsing of the drums.
And as I near, the sound grows louder.  Soon,
I find that I, along with prancing kids
Who strain at mothers’ hands and skid on ice,
Have synchronized my steps.  I glide along –
And even climbing ice-hills at the curbs
Is effortless.  It seems we gain in strength,
When martials make us dance – or march to war.

The young man strikes the drum with rhythmic force.
The leather, taut, responds to every blow.
In music, there is often scent of sex,
Which we, as children, did not care to know.
But being male, and so of warrior-gene,
The pipes and drums beguiled me as a boy,
When every year, upon a certain day,
I heard the fascists marching up the street...

I pass the drummer and the dancer and
I enter in the Chinese restaurant.
And soon enough, they’re there. The drummer stays
And beats his drum outside, upon the street.
The lion enters, dancing, with his back
And tail supported by his trailing friend.
No room for two to be the lion’s legs –
The place is busy, with the tables filled.

They stay awhile beside me, near the door.
The tail instructs the lion, who’s half-blind,
To walk towards the gods, in an alcove red,
With plastic lights in lieu of votive lamps.
 And there, the lion bows to the bearded ones
And towards the goddess of compassion too.
And when the bows are done, he walks the floor
And then returns, to bow to gods again.

I glimpse his face, with glasses, grimacing
From all his effort, walking weighted, bowed.
His mouth is open wide, as if in pain,
And though it’s cold, I know his sweat runs wet.
The Han enjoy their new-year's lion-dance
And dance-of-dragon too.  In China, they’ve
A fortnight off – but in Hong Kong, three days…
And here, they work – or take a day sans pay.

And when I ask, I’m told this dance – and all
The bows the lion-boy did, while bending deep,
Towards the gods and goddess – these will bring
The owners fortune, luck, prosperity…
And so it is, that every year, we hear
The drums that rouse the streets – and see
The lion and the dragon bow and dance,
As Montreal or Rome becomes Canton.
  
2014 February 9th, Sun.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

7 pm, January 31

7 pm, January 31

The end of the working day – and week and term.
And yet this laborer has labor left –
A bundled load he’s trundling home tonight.

He’s left the school.  It hulks behind his back.
The football field lies white behind its fence.
But on the sidewalk, by the tree-trunks dark,
The sullied snow is melting by degrees.

He looks ahead and sees a magic sight – 
A silver train on high, with lighted cars…
It slows and pauses for its station-while –
And then – shazam!  It roars and vanishes…

New Utrecht Avenue.  He turns towards right.
He’s walking homewards, towards the waiting sea,
Which still is distant.  Here is tar, concrete –
With streetlights casting shadow prison-bars…

He walks beneath – and overhead, the trains
Come roaring by.  They drown out thought and speech.
And yet, in all of this, he finds release.

2014 January 31st, Fri, 8:30 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
This describes part of a walk home from New Utrecht High School in southwest Brooklyn, along 80th Street and then along New Utrecht Avenue.  The D and M trains run here above the second road, on an old track supported by rusted iron columns.  These trains end their runs from Manhattan through Brooklyn at the Coney Island terminus.
  

The Harder Route

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kaler Phondi

Kaler Phondi

Nodir dhare, chaeae boxe, jhilik dekhechi jo`ler,
Bo`rxa kale, xunechi dure kalo megher dak.
Karkhanate korechi cakri, xunechi go`rjon ko`ler.
Jo`njale xexe ahar khu~ji, t’hokrae kager jha~k.

Dupur be`lae, gache ut’he, per’echi peara, am.
Pata bhenge, xu~khechi to`khon brikkher xugo`ndho.
Xo`horer base, xu~khechi po`re dizel dhoa, gham.
Pulix theke pet’ani khe-e, karagare hoechi bo`ndo.

Cher’echi ga~e, poe`xar kho~je, xo`kol poribar.
Pe-echi cit’hi, ke~dechi dukkhe, roechi kajer bondi.
Pat’hiechi t’aka, maxer xexe, khet’e khet’e protibar,
Hariechi tobu, xo`bare ami – ei to kaler phondi.

Moner dukkhe, baki kichu t’aka d’obai xexe xo`b,
Pagol hoe, kajer xexe, nexae khu~ji mukti.
Nexar ghume, mrito priyo exe ko`re ko`loro`b.
Nexa cher’e, matha khure, xuni xei ba~car jukti.

******

Mone po`re bar-bar, jo`nmo jekhane.
Trene-base bhabi kal phirbo xekhane.
Bhexe jae maxgulo, boe jae bo`chor,
Kho`motar bhat’a axe – mojdur kator.

Ja kichu, gheme, kori tao rojkar,
Co`le na tate ar, kho`roc ajkar.
Ki kori, hae!  Phirbo ki dexe?
Chai hoe, nodi die phire jabo xexe…

Ei bhebe, cher’e di cakri o maena.
Tao dekhi, xo`b cher’e, xanti-t’a paina.
Gho`r theke rastae – bhik mangi khidete.
Khali pet’e durbo`l – xue pori mat’ite.

Pulix exe lathi mare, mare jore d’and’a.
Har gulo ge`lo bhabi.  Rat bo`ro t’hand’a.
Xonar ei banglae, hirer juger cihnno –
“Kaj kho~jo!” bo`le e`k, do`ea-maea bhinno.

Xombar, 30e  D’isembar, xo`kal 3:10
Benso`nharst’, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
 

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

What Still Remains?

What Still Remains?

Whatever be your credo or belief,
At times, you'll need some solace, some relief,
For that, on which you based your hopes and dreams,
Might be, in time, your aspiration’s thief.

For who can live for long without a loss,
Or never, racked and torn, tormented, toss?
Whenever we may think we’ve mastered life,
It turns and swiftly shows us who’s the boss.

The very things for which we’ve labored, fought,
Have focused on and all the rest forgot,
Those things, as life unwinds, may turn to dust,
And all our strivings then be set to naught.

And what remains, when all appears amiss,
When we, who’ve labored long, are still remiss?
Remember then, there still remains the dawn,
And in the darkness, smile and blow a kiss.

And when a faker, in a tie and suit,
Demands accounting, in his mad pursuit,
Then bow and hand to him a chit, on which
It says, “We’ve quit the race, so all is moot.”

For when our life’s account is drawn and closed,
Then what remains, of all we once supposed
Was worth the life we offered as its price?
“This question,” we are told, “is poorly posed.”

What then remains is still the work we did,
Though this, with time, will be in cobwebs hid –
But more than that, and lasting still a while,
The love we offered, though we weren’t bid.

Though falsehoods live, while truth appears to die,
And most accede, and few still question why,
And though the cause appears as hopeless, still
The truth remains the truth, and not the lie.
    
Let all coercion and compulsion be
Dissolved by that, which lives within a tree
And lets its branches, in the sun, delight,
That joy that makes us each, for a moment, free.

So in the valley deep of sorrows, sigh,
But never, to your courage, say, “Goodbye.”
There lives, in us, the stillness and the fire,
And these will live, though you and I will die.

2013 December 6th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Our Business Cannot Fail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2013 Nov. 21st, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

The Small and Easy Lie

            
    The Small and Easy Lie

Of all the means that are employed
    To render workers slaves,
The lie is used, most commonly,
    By each new crop of knaves.

But sadly, it is workers, who,
    To falsehoods, then accede.
And every time we do, we let
    The master-knaves succeed.

For when a job's impossible,
    The shortcut then is used.
This sets the stage for tragedy,
    As lackeys watch, amused.

For conscience is an organ, which
    Will wither, when suppressed,
And gains in strength, when what it says
    Is followed or expressed.

So when we use, in what we do,
    The small and easy lie,
We then should know, the truth begins
    To suffer and to die.

"But facts are facts!" you may declare,
    "And truth is truth." maintain.
But when awareness, memory
    Have faded, lies remain.

And when we've built a structure on
    A base that's clearly false,
That structure is a jail-house, which
    Imprisons, till it falls.

And workers then will toil and strive,
    Not knowing history.
And when they fail at what they do,
    It's not a mystery.

But failure too will then be used
    To sell yet more of lies.
So be aware, for every lie,
    A bit of freedom dies.

And good intentions, too, are vain,
    When sight is so obscured
By lies, unchallenged, mounting up,
    That illness can't be cured.

The jungle we are in will clear,
    When each perceives the truth,
And then proceeds to, one by one,
    The tangled lies uproot.

The fog that we are in will clear
    When each confronts the lie,
And tells the truth, in private and
    In public, lest it die.

    2013 October 26th, Sat.
             Brooklyn