Till We Die

.
Till We Die
.
So “science” is placed upon a throne that gives
It more of title than of power, while 
In vassalage to commerce and its drives,
With human wit and industry subsumed 
By all the cash that builds up capital.
.
This puts us on the roads of noise and rush—
The paths that lead us more and more away
From quiet observation—being one
With all existence—and our reverence
For life and all of Nature's balances.
.
Our sense of right and wrong, a sense innate
That judges what is fair and feels the pain
Of other beings—this is dulled, obscured
By distance from the acts that we defend
Or those about which we are ignorant.  
.
Afraid of depth, afraid of painful sight,
We close our eyes and ears and so our hearts, 
With minds and senses jaded, scoffing at
The ones who bring attention to the wrongs
Or struggle hard to change what isn’t right.
.
This mass retreat to dwell in shallowness—
Is this from age—and  all the buffets borne
Through years of struggle to subsist, survive—
To do what’s right in even little ways—
To find that even these were scorned and blocked?
.
Or is it from the long-accustomed ease
Of “going with the flow”, “not making waves”—
That most of us have followed through our lives –
As evils grew—with our acquiescence—
With basic ethics leashed and pegged in place?
.
I do not know—but see this in myself 
And others of my age and even those
With many years remaining in their lives.
It is as if we all have given up
On even seeing past our small cocoons.
.
So hopes of changes for the better lie, 
Along with youth, within our garbage cans,
And even younger folk are blinded by
A loss of sight as more of us are turned
To serfs that sell our labor for a wage. 
.
And yet, we still have senses left to use—
To know and try to understand the world,
However poorly, yet with diligence, 
With patience, inner sight, humility,
And courage still to question and rebel.
.
And doing this may often cause us pain,
With scorn from others when we speak of things
They do not wish to hear. And yet there is
The truth, perceived, that undercuts the lie, 
That each can softly whisper, till we die.
.
2024 July 3rd, Thu.
Berkeley, California
.

Thugs and Crooks

  
Thugs and Crooks

You’ve been a model student, and you’ve done what was expected.
You’ve come to class on time and done your homework as required.
Your teacher and your classmates, you have humored and respected,
And while in class, you’ve done your work – and furthermore, enquired.

You’ve asked me questions, seeing that I’m older and a teacher.
And I will try to answer them, as is, indeed, my duty.
But some things, that you ask, are deep.  If only we could reach her,
The goddess, if she knew, might speak, in words of truth and beauty.

But I am just a mortal, who was born, like you and others,
To live my life – to wake and sleep, to work and then to die,
And like yourself and others here, their fathers and their mothers,
And those, whom you might bring to life, I’ll never know the “why”.

I came to my awareness on this planet that we’re on.
I do not know from where I came or why I’m here today.
I haven’t figured where I’ll go or whether I’ll return.
And yet, despite this ignorance, I still have lots to say.

On many things, I can expound, and do so endlessly.
I went to school and read in books, and even paused to think.
So I can tell you of the earth, the heavens and the sea,
And how it is that icebergs float – but ships that hit them sink.

And though I wasn’t there and so it all could just be fiction,
I still can tell you tales of times of very long ago.
I’ll even speak of what will be, when you and I are gone,
And tell you why you need, at times, to say to others, “No.”

So sit right there and listen – when you’ve finished with your notes.
And I will tell you what I know – and you can ask me more.
And I may ask you questions too, to write below those notes,
And you can tell me what you know – and question even more.

But do excuse my ignorance, on all that really matters.
They didn’t teach that at my school, it isn’t in the books.
And that is why, I cannot, truly, give you all the reasons
That schools and all the rest are often run by thugs and crooks.

2014 August 31st, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Who Profits?

             
Who Profits?
        
In the mathematics, that we learned at school,
We could be sure that two-plus-two was four,
And when we measured, in the physics lab,
The strength of “g”, we found that it was so.

But in our lives, and even more in what
We read and hear – and even watch on-screen,
There seems far less of certainty.  Indeed,
We couple true and false in ways obscene.

How simple is the sly and easy lie,
How facile are the ones that lead to war!
Our falsehoods, oft repeated, stand as truth.
Homo mendax – that is who we are.

So how can we then disentangle facts
From all the myths in which they tangled lie?
I do not know, but this I surely do –
For every falsehood, there's a reason why.

And for the sake of brevity, let's say,
Before believing what we haven't seen,
“Who profits from this 'fact' and our belief?”
Let's ask – so we're not led to where we've been.

But should we then be cynics in all things?
The things we see for selves, before our eyes,
We can believe, if we have eyes to see.
All else is suspect, often being lies.

But then, there's heart, which now is ridiculed.
And some have hardened theirs and some have not.
With senses, heart and logic we proceed.
For in the end, that's all that we have got.

But as we learn yet more disturbing facts,
For which we often have no strength or time,
The picture takes a shape we draw ourselves,
That's closer to the truth than all my rhyme.

2013 December 15th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, 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  
   

My Dream

My Dream  
                        
When I grow up, I would like to be
The man who picks up the garbage.

Early in the morning, when everyone's asleep,
I would ride on the back of the garbage truck
And would hop off to pick up the garbage.

I would lift up the bags and throw them,
I would bang on the metal cans.
And some of the sleepers would wake up
And some would mutter and curse.
And the smell of the rotting garbage
Would fill up the morning air.

And then I would call to the driver –
And the truck, it would move with a roar.
I'd hop on that truck.  To the next one,
With that noise and that smell, we would go.

And that is my dream, Mr. Teacher,
The dream that you asked me to write.
I hope that you'll give me a 100.
What you gave me before wasn't fair.

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To join with the garbage men.
I've heard that they're paid good money,
And the smell washes off when they shower...

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To be a garbage man.
But I'm told that it it isn't easy.
I really hope I can.

The jobs nowadays aren't many.
My father's unemployed...

I hope that I'll get a paycheck,
And be married too, with kids...

Do you think, if I do all my classwork,
And my homework, every day,
And I pass all those tests you give us,
My dream will come real, one day?

2013 August 16th, Fri.
Brooklyn
 

To Our Gary (to Gary Brazel)

To Our Gary

There's satisfaction left in teaching yet,
As may be seen, in some who've lasted long.
Amidst the madness of the endless race,
We still have islands left of silent peace.

There is the labor that is endless, yet
Is done with care to smallest filigree –
No declarations loud, no evidence
Except what may be found by eyes that see...

We saw you Gary, heard you as you worked,
Although you labored unobtrusively.
How many children entered, every year,
Those wondrous rooms, whose doors you opened wide...

We'll miss you Gary, miss that space you filled,
Your silent presence that was comforting...
Your students, they will ask, when you have left,
For you – and we'll, for once, be silent then...

But then, we'll say, perhaps, that you've retired,
So you can do those others things you loved,
To travel far, perhaps, with family –
To walk in wooded hills – in joyful peace...

Your classroom, where you taught, will still be filled,
The desk, where you had sat, still occupied.
And teachers young will come, as we retire,
And some will use the work you've left behind...

So teachers come and work for many years –
And teachers leave, and others take their place.
But each, who gives of labor and of love,
In ways unique, we never can replace...

You left the race that we have had to run,
Creating quiet worlds for those you taught.
We wish that we could emulate your work,
But know there'll never be a new Brazel.

Your name may be forgotten, when we've left,
Except by all those thousands that you taught.
Your work will live in them, our quiet friend,
Whom we'll remember as we age and end.

Perhaps you'll write a book that some will read,
With all those things in it they did not know.
So humans learn and then they pass it on.
And some are there, who take and add to it...

So knowledge grows within our species, yet
There also grows that great forgetfulness...
So madness rules, although the hope remains
That sanity and sense will yet prevail.

2013 June 13th Thu., 3:26 am
Brooklyn