History and Reality

 
History and Reality
 
A watchful trek through history reveals
A landscape that is dual in its forms—
With false facades—resembling those in sets
In Hollywood—and then the fields of truth
That stretch through time and space, but out of view
For all except the ones who persevere
And find their ways, beyond the obstacles,
To glimpse, however partly, this terrain.
 
And so it is with much that we perceive
As real, based on trust in what we’re sold.
It takes some effort—and a stillness deep—
To start to see, in part, realities
Beyond the here and now and all that we
Have gathered through our lives—by each alone—
While blessed or cursed with sight of heart and mind,
And all our senses, sharp in clarity.
 
The “knowledge” that’s beyond is second-hand
At best—and often very far from that.
We cross a border—and the headlines change
For those events that happened yesterday.
How different are then the histories
We're taught from those of near and distant lands?
We can't go back in time—or even be
In more than one place at a given time.
 
2024 June 26th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
 

Conscience and Choice / No Karma-Phala

 
Conscience and Choice / No Karma-Phala

There is no punishment, reward—
In this life or another.
There is no heaven that awaits
The ones who do what’s right.
There is no hell in which we’ll burn 
For doing what is wrong.

There are no gods with registers
Observing what we do.
There are no records being kept
Of actions good and bad.

******

The predator can kill its prey,
The parasite its host.
No ethics or morality
Constrains our human wars.
There is no nation on this Earth
Whose hands are free of blood. 

The ones with wealth and power make
The laws by which we’re ruled.
Our histories are filled with lies.
The news we get is false. 

******

So is there wrong? And is there right?
And is there good and bad?
There is a conscience—that is heard
Or not—that tells us this.
It channels our capacities
For quiet, inner sight.

It’s empathy and fairness—
That say what’s right and wrong.
And some extend their circles
And others squeeze these tight.

******

We can choose to seek for justice
For others, not just selves.
We can choose to practice kindness
Towards all that lives and feels.
We can listen more to conscience
And do what soothes and heals.

It’s not for fear of punishment
Or hope for some reward
One seeks the path of justice
And keeps an open heart.

****** 

There is a choice for each of us
To make at every time.
At times, the choice is difficult
And pain may well result
From choosing what the conscience
May whisper to the heart.

Do not expect that others 
Will sympathize or help.
We can listen to the others—
But do what conscience says. 

2023 November 30th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

 

Exile-IV

Exile-IV

We can long for what’s no longer.
We can pine for loves we’ve lost.
We can wish we were with kinsfolk
Or friends we had when young.

We can love our native country.
We can miss its speech and song.
We can yearn, when we’re in exile,
To be back where we belong.

And then, upon returning,
And seeing a nephew smile,
Within our native city,
We might rejoice a while.

But then there are the conflicts
That even roil one’s clan.
And we learn of crime, corruption—
So we’re back where we began.

Yet we see that all is changing—
That nothing’s ever still.
For some, the change is better,
For more, it’s more of ill.

The fantasy that distance
And time created goes.
We’re in our native country
And it still is full of woes.

For those like us who left it
And never could return,
Such thoughts arise in dreaming
And then we wake and turn.

2016 February 5th, Fri, 6:51 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
----------------------------------------------
  
Related posts:
   

• Exile-III  (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/exile-iii.html)
• Exile-II  (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/04/exile-ii.html)
• Exile  (http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/03/exile.html)

      

Hopeless?

 
Hopeless? 
  

Sun behind a cloud 
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   
      



There are times, upon our journeys
On the trails of chance and choice,
When our work is dashed to pieces
And we're left without a voice.
    
When the world has lost its lightness
And our hurts and worries grow,
We might seek relief in drinking
As we drown in endless woe.

When our lives are filled with darkness,
And our hopes and dreams have fled,
We might hide in our addictions
Or be paralyzed with dread.

The birds of dawn may twitter
But our limbs have turned to lead.
Our mornings then are hopeless,
So we lie and rot in bed.
 
In trivial things, we fritter
Our precious lives away.
Our nights are crazed and restless
And so is every day.

In life and work despairing,
By those we loved betrayed,
We might yield then to the darkness,
With all our moorings frayed.

But if, amidst afflictions,
We quietly do resolve
To change our lives’ directions,
Our nightmares might dissolve.

When our sails are slack and drooping,
As our winds have ceased to blow,
We can wait and wait for breezes
Or settle down to row.

******

There are many things we can’t control.
There are just a few we can.
And if we walk a step each day,
That lets us know we can.

There are forces strong we can't resist;
There still are those we might.
And if we throw a punch a week,
We'll stay then in the fight.

There are times of joy and hopefulness,
There are times we’re robbed of hope.
In the worst of times, we still can strive
Or only sit and mope.

Out happiness and our sadness both
Are met in part by chance.
A forward step, a sideways step,
A backward—that's the dance.

It's cowardly to run away—
Unless we know we'll die.
Let's share the sprouts we've found of truth
And shield them from the lie.

It's neither wise to quickly yield,
Nor stay and fight to death.
We should remember our defeats
When victories are met.

Be humble then in victories.
Do not, on failures, dwell.
Successes small can give us strength
To bear those failures well.

The middle way is often best,
But each must find her own.
Through deep despair and hopelessness,
That median might be known.

The fever comes and rises and
It seems it will not go.
And yet in time it ebbs and leaves.
What's "hopeless" isn't so.

The darkness comes and we despair
At more and more of night.
But till the end, we still have hope
And memory of light.
   
2015 July 25th, Sat. 10:46 pm
(1st, 6th, 8th, 10th, 13th, 17th & 
18th stanzas added Aug 1st, Sat.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Sun behind a cloud
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   

Divinity

   
Divinity
   

Divinity-001a

 
   
I’ve read at times the poetry you sent,
And even figured out the things you meant.
But honestly, your stanzas, tired and old,
Might need refreshment, of a nature bold…
   
******
   
So leave awhile your peace and love, my friend,
And write instead of wars without an end –
And hatreds too – for that Reality
Cannot be cloaked by all your poetry.
 
However much you dress her in your fashion
Or rouge her with your powder of compassion,
Her nature, to your efforts, will not yield.
The thing she truly is will be revealed.
 
So rather than attempting to disguise
That lady with your veils of silken lies,
Let's strip away those layers of attire
And gaze upon her, as she might desire...
 
And now you see she’s Death and Destiny,
Of visage cold that brooks no mutiny.
Her lips are set, she’s resolute and grim.
She’ll not be swayed by prayer or by whim.
 
The figure says – a woman, yet it seems
No lover touched those breasts, no eager child
Has ever reached to drink from them…  Those hips
Have never moved in throes of passions wild…
 
This woman has a twin – they look alike,
And that one is, we’ve heard, a virgin too,
Who still has heart.  She cares and gives of love...
But not this maid, the harsher of the two.
 
Untouched by sex – and cold, devoid of love,
She has, instead, a thirst for human blood.
For hatred burns within her breast.  Her lust
Will not be sated by a meager flood…
   
And as you watch, you’ll see how she transforms
And takes on, one by one, her hideous forms.
You’ll see the fire burning in her eye,
You’ll see it light on who is next to die.
 
Engulfing east and west and north and south –
She opens wide her fanged and monstrous mouth.
And you might glimpse, within her throat, that hell,
Of which you poets rarely dare to tell.

And watch her gaze, directed at the city.
It scans the streets, without a trace of pity.
She sees – and she destroys – a family.
A little girl remains – and you and me...
 
Behold, how human form dissolves and leaves
The desolation where the orphan grieves…
But even then, that child gets no respite,               \1
As booms resound from more explosions bright...

And in the rubble of the smoking ruin,
We see a form that struggles, still alive –
That child again, disfigured, maimed and torn –
Who once, from parents' love and toil, did thrive...

So from within that vestal throat divine
There springs this hell of mortal agony...
But you've been watching, with your "love and peace",
Your verses marching still in prosody...
 
So speak to her, whose skin is stripped away –
Who lies there, burned and blinded.  Find a way
To let that deafened child hear meter, rhyme –
If that is how you'd utilize your time…
 
******
  
But see, if you have inner vision, that
Which rises from the corpse it leaves behind…
The one who dies becomes the one who slays.
She now can see, who lay there dying, blind…
 
2014 August 8th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 
1.   Returning from divinity to mundane matters,
      the word “respite” here is meant to rhyme with
     “bright”, as in one of its pronunciations in standard
      British English.
       

The Vampires Are Our Lords

    
The Vampires Are Our Lords

You have reached to me for succor,
For a tune to soothe the heart.
Yet the only thing I offer
Is a great, resounding fart.

Should a toad be prized for beauty?
Should a murderer mind your child?
Will we gift the evil ogre
With a visage meek and mild?
  
You had asked me if the illness,
That we see afflicts our race,
Is a sign of human madness.
Are our rivets out of place?
    
I may try my best to answer,
In a manner long or terse.
Yet I cannot cure a cancer
Or a pox by writing verse.

Since there isn't goodness only,
Since there's much that's really bad,
There are men who wander lonely,
There are women driven mad.
    
If your conscience was awakened, 
If your duty beckoned you,
For the times that you have listened,
You'll have paid the tax that's due.

There are havens still of kindness
In a universe unkind.
There are shelters in the tempest.
These are places hard to find.

For the fortunate who've found them,
These are blessings from on high.
But the ones who are without them,
They will suffer till they die.

There is chance and there's endeavor. 
When we're lucky, these may join.
But our labor may be joyless, 
And our pay – in worthless coin.

There are those who shirk from effort,
There are those who labor long.
But the ones who are the winners
Are the ones who play along.

When we're trained to do what's honest,
Then we suffer, in our times.
We can shelter in religion.
We can soothe our wounds with rhymes.

We can choose to be unbending –
Or can sway as tempests blow.
We can do what conscience tells us 
Or can simply dance the show.

We can rail against injustice, 
We can fight for what is right.
But when we're not an army,
Is there victory in sight?

Where's the heart in one who's callous? 
Where's the water in a stone?
What we all must do together,
Can a loner do alone?

How many are the nations
That have gloried in their kings!
Of whom is it that Homer,
In his blindness, duly sings?
  
We have lifted up our brigands,
So the vampires are our lords.
The workers, we have humbled –
And have made, of devils, gods.

There are things that make us happy, 
But there's much that makes us sad.
We can try our bestest, chappy,
And be slowly driven  mad.

There are feeding chains we're part of.
It's time for you to see.
There are eaters, there are eaten –
Including you and me.
   
2014 June 10th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York