The World Wide Web-2025-10-20-22

  
The World Wide Web
 
We’re now acquainted with the “World Wide Web”,
But keep forgetting there’s another one
That spreads its filaments across the globe
And snares us insects for the spiders’ meals.
 
As long as we are trapped within the webs
Of Mammon's spiders, spun with wage and tax,
With real estate, insurance, lease and rent,
And shares and interest, we will all remain,
 
Except for some who’re fortunate or “smart”,
The captive slaves of those who spin the webs
That all together serve to trap the rest,
However much they struggle, each in place.
 
******
  
But how to extricate ourselves, I ask,
From lifelong bondage? Each of us are part
Of this, the system, which, in peace and war,
Exploits the workers, trapped by how they earn
 
Their sustenance. We’re subject still to whims
Of bosses, markets—just as serfs had been
To all the “lords” who rode upon their backs
And fed on all the endless work they did. 
 
I do not know, for others tried and failed
Whose strength and knowledge far exceeded mine.
I only know the path we’re on is that
Of needless bondage and of endless pain. 
 
******
  
Let’s wake and rise and educate ourselves
On all the struggles past. They were not in vain:
So much of courage, labor, sacrifice—
So many lessons, which we need to learn.
 
The wizards weave their spells and lo, we see
The miracles the sciences and crafts have wrought.
And yet, for bare essentials, we depend
On systems dark, as all is sold and bought,
 
Including those elected, not to serve
The voters but their funders. Let us strive
For truth and justice, work to disregard
The cynics and refute the endless lies.
 
2025 October 20, Mon.
(last three strophes added  Oct. 22)
Berkeley, California
 

No Verses

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

Cars and Cannons-Mars and Mammon

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

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

Are sorry they’re alive—

For no one cares, as weapons flow,

Like water does, to wars,

And profits flow, in torrents too,

As Mammon rides on Mars.

So children, women, scream and die

Or silently depart—

As some are buried, some are burned

And others blown apart.

******

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

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

Biden’s Bombs-War and Money

.
Biden’s Bombs / War and Money
.
Biden’s bombs, Biden’s bombs—
Two thousand pounds apiece—
They blow the kids to smithereens, 
And serve to keep the peace.
.
If Trump returns, he’ll send more bombs 
To Israel and say,
“We’ll send them to the Saudis too, 
If they agree to pay.”
.
And hearing all the folk who shout
That this is genocide 
And fearing that in politics
This might be suicide,
.
Biden, Blinken both declare,
“We need to end the strife.”
But keep on sending bombs and planes
To end what's left of life.
.
******
.
War and money, war and money—
Whatever be the weather—
You’ll find that each provides for each. 
They always go together.
.
We've made our zones of peace, within
Their circles wide or small,
Where business booms. Outside the zones,
We find the free-for-all.
.
And that is where our bombs are dropped—
And conflicts are inflamed,
As money drives the wheels of war, 
And “terrorists” are blamed.
.
Wealth and power, wealth and power,
Unabated greed:
Death and dread and suffering—
These are what they feed.
.
******
.
Religion and democracy—
It’s not about that stuff.
It’s all about the land, the oil…
We’ll never have enough.
.
So don’t believe the evening news;
It’s sadly filled with lies.
When eyes and minds and hearts are blind,
Then truth, with justice, dies.
.
“Why should we care for Palestine
And people far away?
But Israel is different!”
Is what the people say.
.
But Biden's bombs are ours too. 
Our taxes pay for those.
The Congo, Yemen, South Sudan?
They aren't far. They're close.
.
2024 May 22nd, Wed.
Berkeley, California
.

Lokkhi bo'nam Xo'roxxoti-Ixxo'r hok ba bap-লক্ষ্মী বনাম সরস্বতী-ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ

.

লক্ষ্মী বনাম সরস্বতী /

 ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ

.

বাবা আমায় বললো, ‘বাছা,

দুঃখ লাগে দেখে—

বইয়ের ভারি ঝোলা বয়ে

চলছো পথে বেগে’।

.

‘পড়াশোনা করেও কেনো

এমন গোটা হাদা?

পিঠের ওপর ব্যাগ চাপিয়ে,

হচ্ছো ধোপার গাধা!’

.

‘এই বিদেশে এসে, লোকে,

কালের রীতি মেনে,

রোজগারে বেশ ধন জমিয়ে,

গাড়ি-বাড়ি কেনে’।

.

‘তাও যে দেখি, কাঙ্গাল হয়ে

রয়েছো দশক ধরে।

নেই গো গাড়ি, নেই গো বাড়ি!

বোঝাও ব্যাপার, মোরে’।

.

******

.

মাথা চুলকিয়ে জবাব দিলাম,

কয়েক মিনিট ভেবে।

‘তোমার কথা শুনেই আমার

নেই যে কড়ি, জেবে’।

.

‘পুঁজিবাদ যে মন্দ, অশিব—

সম্পত্তি, মূল পাপ—

এসব কথা বলতো আমায়

শ্রদ্ধেয় নিজের বাপ’।

.

‘ছোটবেলার থেকে শুনে,

শিক্ষা মনে রেখে,

রয়েছি, বাবা, দূরে সদা

ব্যবসা, সুদের থেকে’।

.

‘সরল ভাবে জীবন যাপন,

ধনের থেকে দূরে—

এ পথ থেকে বলছো এবার

চলতে হবে ঘুরে?’

.

‘বিলম্বে যে বলছো এখন,

এত বছর পরে:

“সরস্বতীর চর্চা ছেড়ে

লক্ষ্মী আনো ঘরে”’।

.

‘দুজন দেবীর সেবক, সমান,

হয়তো হওয়া যায়।

এই প্রথাটার শেখার সময়

গেছে চলে, হায়!’

.

******

.

আমার জবাব শুনে, বাবা

বললো, ‘বাছাধন,

গরিব হয়ে থাকতে যদি

তৃপ্ত তোমার মন,

.

এই ভাবেই কাটাও জীবন,

ক’রো না বাদে বিলাপ।

দোষ দিও না অন্য কাকেও—

ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ’।

.

মঙ্গলবার, ২১ মে, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

.

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

Does Money Rule?

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

Our Turn

Our Turn

There is right and there's wrong—and then there's the dollar.
It comes with a leash and it comes with a collar.
It comes with a biscuit and a ride on the ark,
And when bidden, we'll bite and when bidden we'll bark—
But not at our Master.  We're fed by his hand.
His kicks, we will take, as you all understand.

We can smile and spin.  We can twist and shout—
But the truth, in the end, will always out.
It might take a year or a thousand more,
And there isn't a god who is keeping score,
But we know in our hearts that the truth is this—
We quaked and we crapped at the Serpent's hiss.

For the sake of the silver, as Judas had done,
We sold out our honor, and the Devil has won.
When our Master decrees that a nation should fry,
Then who has the gumption to stand and defy?
But in time we will see, when it comes to our turn,
That the Devil will laugh, as he watches us burn.

2019 April 25th, Thursday
D train from Manhattan to Brooklyn
   

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  
  

In Mammon’s Jaws

 

In Mammon’s Jaws

We are angry at the others, we are angry at ourselves.

We are saddened, we are sickened and we find we are in hells.

What’s the reason for the anger, for the sadness and malaise?

What’s turned us all to turtles that are hiding in their shells?

That’s a question I would answer, if I suddenly could see

Through all of my confusion to the thing that’s driving this.

But I do not have that vision, so I’ll let you have a try.

If you figure out the answer, let me know then what it is.

You might give to me an instance, and that I will accept.

But if you’d dig a little deeper, to be nearer to the cause

That is driving humans crazy—and not only you and me—

I’ll be grateful for your efforts, as we writhe in Mammon’s jaws.

It’s a thing that’s new and ancient. It was then and it is now.

Is it evil? Is it madness? Is it sorrow at the heart?

I could ramble on about it, but I know that isn'’t wise.

So I’ll leave you with the question, as I bow and I depart

2017 October 18th, Wed.

Berkeley, California

 

Self and Other--The Cooler Spots in Hell

Self and Other  (The Cooler Spots in Hell)

The mantra is—it's I and me
And then perhaps some others.
And off to hell with all the rest!
We aren't sisters, brothers—

For even if by chance we were,
We now no longer are.
So each is free to cheat and steal.
All's fair, in hate and war.

And so we've made a hell for most,
And heaven for the vile,
Who sit upon their thrones of gold
And look at us and smile.

We hate the ones who're far away.
We hate the ones who're near.
We hate each other, even those
Who surely should be dear.

It's self that is the king, be it
The self of self or more.
The others are our enemies
Or those we should ignore.

And how is it we've come to this,
Where brother turns on brother?
We've bitten on the hook, whose bait
Is that of self and other.

Oh wake up from this dream, and see
The other too is you
As you are him or her or it.
Those bonds, again renew—

For lonely is the heart that lives
In isolation long.
Rejoin this world of joy and woe—
The one where you belong.

But see, we now are penned apart,
By pressure or by choice.
How rarely can one leap the fence
And then, in tears, rejoice!

We're told that we have freedom, yet
We now are worse than slaves—
For look at whom we adulate
And see how he behaves.

If only we could find within
That innocence of old,
And also all the wisdom lost,
In Man's pursuit of gold!

How many pounds and shillings earned,
At the dearest of expense?
How many starved, or burned alive
To raise the margin’s pence?

We prey upon each other and
We praise the ones who feast,
While mocking those who're feasted on,
In west and south and east—

For in those lands the natives too
Are preying on each other,
Although they still, on meeting, use
The greetings, “Sister!”, “Brother!”

But those are turned to empty words.
We use the behen or bhai, *
But then we set that all aside,
For each must sell and buy.

So each of us is caught within
That net that snares the world.
We see but self and other, so
We each are lured and hurled—

To land within the cooking pot.
And there we simmer, fry,
As all around we hear the ones,
Who suffer, wail and cry.

But look—how many stop their ears
And say that all is well.
They've found themselves the cooler spots
That still exist in hell.

2017 October 16th, Mon.

* behen, bhai:  sister, brother, in Hindi-Urdu and other languages of northern India and Pakistan
  
These terms are habitually used in some regions not only for siblings but more generally, including as a title or in greetings. This was meant to express sisterhood/brotherhood—as was, and in places still is, common in many cultures, especially rural ones, all over the world.
  

Not Made for Me and You

Not Made for Me and You  
 

Did King Philip's Class Order Five Giant Spiders?
Taxonomy of Ursus americanus
https://www.pinterest.com/sarahrenee1067/science/

We have left the wells of wisdom.
We have thirsted long instead.
Let us quench the fires of madness—
be free of greed and dread.
 
******
  
There are places in the forests
where we humans haven't been,
who are caught in nets so tangled
or are spiders spinning webs.
  
There are places in the mountains
that have kept their beauty still—
where the mists caress the cedars
and the peaks are kissed by dawn.

There are places on the planet
that are not in Mammon's realm,
though he hungers to possess them—
so his serfs can till and reap.

There are places sans an “owner”
that are sacred to the few
who remember that this planet
wasn't made for me and you.

There are humans, in those places,
who are free of Mammon's yoke.
But their songs are near their endings—
as their bondage now is due.

******

Arise and hear their singing;
relearn the gentler dance.
Let us rid ourselves of Mammon—
be free of him—at last!

The grain he craves is silver—
its value gauged in sweat.
He kills the things of beauty
and steels our hearts to dread.

The beings of this planet
have made this wondrous world.
Together, we can make it
so beauty has a chance.

There's a beauty that's around us;
there's a beauty in the heart.
Let us turn towards that beauty—
let ugliness depart.

How much of woe and sorrow
has Mammon wrought on Earth,
with the “word of God” proclaiming
that this world was made for us?

******

There's a wisdom that's around us;
there's a wisdom in the heart.
Let us drink again of wisdom—
let greed and fear depart.

2017 January 24th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York  
----------------------------------------------------------------
   

Note: Two sets, of eight images each, follow below.

Stream in a tropical forest
http://assets.climatecentral.org/images/made/12_31_14_Bobby_TropicalForestStream_720_492_s_c1_c_c.jpg

Morning fog in dense tropical forest
http://www.loe.org/content/2013-10-25/25-bigstock-morning-fog-in-dense-tropical--27061052.jpg

Kanchenjuga at dawn, eastern Himalaya
https://c2.staticflickr.com/6/5010/5370734563_5c4069d4e2_b.jpg

Boreal forest, Alberta, Canada.
Source: http://hikingwithbarry.com
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/20140714113743-51802806-why-the-boreal-forest-peatlands-may-soon-be-earth-s-main-lungs

Named for Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind, the boreal forest is a critically important breeding ground for North American birds. The Albany River (shown here) divides the partially protected northern boreal from the imperiled south. Photo: Per Breiehagen
http://www.audubon.org/magazine/january-february-2009/paper-chase

San Bushman father hugging his children
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

The Bushmen Tribe of Tsumkwe
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

San woman holding her beautiful baby boy
http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.com/2013/06/san-bushmen-people-world-most-ancient.html

******

Halifax Mill Chimneys
https://diamondenv.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/halifaxmillchimneys.jpg

Factories, in what was once woods and farmland
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMXwd8Y6f3ubMQFu6dE-LI3ZjKIAza4Xx5qqbqMLE6YBgGNvJHkKf__bJzcS93g7NnFF_buiMgNHiI_RmD6pIKmN7xsfNl5dNX2jvHosUfxiuKXC8E4L6ok9iE83kPGwikwagO2LMvUHU/s1600/William+Blake+Jerusalem+Dark+Satanic+Mills+Poem.png

Horst Faas: Images of Vietnam War
http://justiceghana.com/blog/research/books/horrors-of-war-in-a-long-long-way/

A child clings to his bound father who was rounded up as suspected Viet Cong guerilla
https://image.slidesharecdn.com/vietnamwarbyassociatedpressphotographers-150504154330-conversion-gate02/95/vietnam-war-by-associated-press-photographers-51-638.jpg?cb=1430772430

The Death of an Iraqi soldier, Highway of Death, 1991

In the 1991 Gulf War, American pilots bombed a retreating Iraqi convoy. Most US media declined to publish this photo, taken by Ken Jarecke.  His quote: “If I don’t photograph this, people like my mom will think war is what they see on TV.”

http://rarehistoricalphotos.com/dont-photograph-people-like-mom-will-think-war-see-tv-gulf-war-1991/ 

ISIS Hanging & Burning Alive Four Iraqi Men
https://www.zerocensorship.com/uncensored/isis/hanging-burning-alive-four-iraqi-men-graphic-video-201668

Tibetan mother and child
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

Amerindian mother and child, 1905, Oregon
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

Mother and child, Namibia
https://www.pinterest.com/joyclown/i-ll-luv-u-4ever-i-ll-like-u-4-always/

As Mammon Smiles

As Mammon Smiles

I have walked on city sidewalks
to my jobs and back to “home”.
I have watched the others walking.
I have seen the cars go by.

I have watched the people rushing
from place to place to place.
I have seen the cars that speeded
and I've often wondered why.
 
I think I know the reason—
at least for some of this:
we've learned that time is money—
on jobs—and errands too.
 
And who am I to question
the ones who race to work—
and back again for children
or things they have to do?

And yet I've walked and wondered—
for I have also raced
and been in stress and tension
from demons in the mind.
 
We each have been conditioned
to run when we could walk.
To things that we should notice,
our times have made us blind.
 
The aged are often lonely—
and scared, as savings ebb.
The moms and dads who're working—
they work and work and work.
 
So what becomes of children—
who troop, for years, to schools?
They take their turns as hirelings—
and labors, dare not shirk.
 
The workers spend their earnings
on things that drive the wheels,
the gears, the thrusting pistons—
and now, the pulsing bits.
 
I've glimpsed, at times, the village
where people too would work
and yet would sense the seasons—
with bodies, hearts and wits.
 
There are dances that are graceful;
there are rises, ebbs and flows.
There is work that has its rhythm;
there are things that take their time.
 
There is hurry, worry, scurry;
there are slipshod ways of work—
with our facts and logic faulty,
with our lines that do not rhyme.

There are many who are driven
by the few with inner drives
that need the work of others
so shares and profits rise.
 
And who am I to question
the workings of our world?
And yet, I've walked and wondered
if racing so is wise.
 
But speed is now a virtue—
and slowness is a vice.
So artisans are banished,
and the masses slave in mills.
 
It's “more and more and faster”
that drives the GDP.
The stocks and rents are climbing,
as Mammon smiles and wills.

2016 November 28th, Mon.
Berkeley, California

When Jesus Christ is CEO

 
When Jesus Christ is CEO

When lamas, popes are set on thrones,
And ayatollahs throw their stones,
Who heeds Gotama's words? Alas!
The one who does is deemed an ass!

When Mammon rules the hearts of men,
What chance is there for Yesu then?

So missionaries once would bless
The remnant natives who'd confess
That they had sinned, so greedy Spain
Was not to blame for all their pain.

The peasants labored in the field,
As kings and priests enjoyed the yield.

A king, enthroned, could sip his wine
As priests declared that he's divine.
The temples then were filled with gold
As pigs and slaves were bought and sold.

It then was so and now is still.
The names have changed, but not the swill.

So presidents invoke the Lord,
And guns have now replaced the sword.
The gods on high, it now appears,
Have bombs that burn. They shed no tears.

The TV's used by reverend Stash
For praising God and raising cash.

When godmen and the Aga Khan
Are weighed in gold, should we demand
That they be gilded then as well?
So Mammon leads us all to hell.

When Jesus Christ is CEO,
It's time for us to quietly go.
 
2016 May 22, Sun
Brooklyn, New York