Not in Substance or in Form

Not in Substance or in Form

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,
there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.
  
When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn—
as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces? Not in substance or in form. 

2017 June 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
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Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have not quite succeeded here, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font, with the "small" font-size. 

But if you want each line to fit as it should, and have good eyesight, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the blog's default font, but with the "smallest" font-size. That is at:
 http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form.html 
  

Not in Substance or in Form (smalllest font)

  
For a larger font, please see the duplicate of this post, at: 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form_29.html 
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Not in Substance or in Form  (smallest font)

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,
there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.

When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn—
as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces?  Not in substance or in form.

2017 June 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have succeeded here, by using the default font, with the "smallest" font-size.

But if you want a slightly larger font, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font in the "small" font-size. That is at: http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form_29.html 
  

Broverbs for Teachers

     
Broverbs for Teachers
 
There’s many a way to say a truth, and many a way to lie,
And all our lives we dance with words, until it’s time to die.
Let kindness reign, not cruelty, in how we speak and act –
For if, within, we've empathy, we've also, in us, tact.

The dogmas and the diktats that are used to tame and rule,
We each should quietly challenge – or be treated like a tool.
If even angels can’t devise a method for all things,
Then should we trust the shysters who pretend that they have wings?

Be wary of the ones who lie – who bully, cheat and worse,
But not of those, whose only sin is truth – in prose or verse.
Be wary of the powerful.  Look not for fame or wealth.
Go humbly, where the peaceful are.  Be mindful of your health.

******

The labor that’s of love may bring rewards of cash or kind.
And if it does, be grateful.  If it doesn’t, do not mind.
Subvert the mills of humankind.  They feed on flesh and soul.
Renew your ties to Nature.  She will help to keep you whole.

******
 
The autumns in these polar lands are times when schools begin.
The summers fade to memories – and soon, we’re sunk in sin.
Resist, resist, with all your might, and yet preserve your strength.
The battles, you may win or lose.  The war is long in length.

When humbled by the overseers, when robbed of strength and sense,
Remember then the humbled ones, and be not over-tense.
The work you do has meaning, though you’re told that it has not.
Go gently to your work at school, and shy away from rot.

Blessed is the one who teaches, teaches from the heart.
Blessed is the one who learns – learning, too, of heart.
For all the universe may spin around and disappear,
But knowledge is a precious thing – that should be without fear.

2014 October 13th, Monday
Brooklyn, New York 
 

Meaning

    
Meaning
 
When conflict rages deep within, paralysis then reigns,
For when that fire consumes the brain, what trace of sense remains?
Then fear becomes our ruler, and our actions are constrained.
Our courage fails.  We stand and watch, as all our strength is drained.
   
We need our air, our water and our food, so we can live.
We also need philosophy, when wounded, to forgive.
And some would say we each require a share of empathy.
But meaning too is needed – or we lapse to apathy.
 
There’s caring in this world, and yet there’s also cruelty.
Betrayal and deception vie with truth and fealty.
But as we grow in body-mind, we each construct a map
That gives a meaning to the world – and this becomes the trap.
 
For when a tremor comes that shakes the base of what we’ve built,
Our edifices crumble, as the siltstone turns to silt.
And then we realize, as we are choking in the dust,
That all the meaning and the worth were only seen by us.
 
What’s left for us to live for, when the meaning has departed?
We labored long for nothing and we’re back to where we started.
But many years have passed – and now, we’re aged, defeated, worn.
We’re sickened from the madness and we wish we were unborn.
  
And yet, from dust and ashes, a phoenix still may rise.
And even as we’re humbled, its figure, we surmise.
And one may see a dragon; another sees a bird;
Another yet may realize – there is, for it, no word...
  
And so, with loss of meaning comes another kind of worth.
When all is seen as worthless, then we find in this the mirth.
And laughing at our egos and at all the world’s conceits,
We exit, and reenter, and we relish our defeats.
   
2014 September 22nd, Mon (first four stanzas)
and 23rd Tues (last three stanzas)
Brooklyn, New York