To Be What We Can Be

 
To Be What We Can Be

Should we wait around for leaders, so
We then become the sheep we'd like to be—
Or even dogs that bay—but still obey?

Or should we be the ones who lead the way—
As others follow, turned to hounds or sheep?
Or should we find the wisdom to refrain
From leading or, by others, being led?

******

Should we join, with glee, the surging mob—
Or like the cows and horses do, stampede?
Or should we recognize that this can lead
To things we later view with deep regret?

******

How hard it is to think and then decide
And know that we alone will bear the weight 
Of error or the lash of consequence?
It’s easier to follow than to lead—
But harder still to be what we could be.

******
The dogs, the herded cattle, horses—these
Were once as free as our ancestors were—
Until we bound and bred them to obey, 
As we have even done to full-grown men
And women. Stop. Let’s be what we can be.

2023 March 18th, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

Kill What You Eat--and Eat What You Kill

 
  Kill  What You Eat—and Eat What You Kill

  While walking in the park, I met
  an elder—and we talked.
  And what he told me gave me pause—
  and later gave me woe .

“Kill, what you eat, yourself, my friend,”
  the elder said to me.
“Do not depend on others, who
  are slaving, out of sight.

“The food you eat, the clothes you wear,
  your trinkets and your toys—
  attempt to kill or make yourself,
  or know their provenance

“The lights and gadgets in your home
  and where you go to work,
  the vehicles on which you ride,
  the roads on which they run—

“the fuels for these things as well—
  are made for you by others
  and brought to you by others or
  the conduits they have made.

“These actions all rely upon
  the slaughters, small and large,
  of beasts (and even human ones),
  and plants—and things that we

“may think are lifeless, yet have lives,
  although of other sorts—
  the mountains, plains and valleys and
  the oceans, lakes and streams.

“If you would have the hearing, you
  would hear their groans and screams.
  The air, that we are breathing, too,
  has a life that you can feel."

  And spreading out his arms, he then
  inhaled the city's air
  and slowly then exhaled that breath,
  let down his arms and smiled.

“This air we’re breathing, you and I,
  though often breathed before,
  would be as fresh, if not for Man,
  as when the plants had risen.”

  He said these things—and made me think.
  I thought: he must be mad.
  And so I said goodbye and left—
  but could not sleep at night.

“Kill what you eat,” he’d said, “and eat
  whatever you've killed, my friend.”
  as he'd gestured 'round at the earth and the sky
  and the trees and the works of Man.

  Kill what I eat?  Oh, how absurd!
  And eat what I kill?  That’s mad!
  I tried to put this out of my head,
  but I felt his words return.

  And ever since then, I've felt unease
  and even unwell at times.
  As I'd like you to share in my misery, I
  am passing this on in my turn.

  2018 December 29?, Thu?day
  Brooklyn, New York 

Kill What You Eat--and Eat What You Kill

  Kill  What You Eat—and Eat What You Kill

  While walking in the park, I met
  an elder—and we talked.
  And what he told me gave me pause—
  and later gave me woe .

“Kill, what you eat, yourself, my friend,”
  the elder said to me.
“Do not depend on others, who
  are slaving, out of sight.

“The food you eat, the clothes you wear,
  your trinkets and your toys—
  attempt to kill or make yourself,
  or know their provenance

“The lights and gadgets in your home
  and where you go to work,
  the vehicles on which you ride,
  the roads on which they run—

“the fuels for these things as well—
  are made for you by others
  and brought to you by others or
  the conduits they have made.

“These actions all rely upon
  the slaughters, small and large,
  of beasts (and even human ones),
  and plants—and things that we

“may think are lifeless, yet have lives,
  although of other sorts—
  the mountains, plains and valleys and
  the oceans, lakes and streams.

“If you would have the hearing, you
  would hear their groans and screams.
  The air, that we are breathing, too,
  has a life that you can feel."

  And spreading out his arms, he then
  inhaled the city's air
  and slowly then exhaled that breath,
  let down his arms and smiled.

“This air we’re breathing, you and I,
  though often breathed before,
  would be as fresh, if not for Man,
  as when the plants had risen.”

  He said these things—and made me think.
  I thought: he must be mad.
  And so I said goodbye and left—
  but could not sleep at night.

“Kill what you eat,” he’d said, “and eat
  whatever you've killed, my friend.”
  as he'd gestured 'round at the earth and the sky
  and the trees and the works of Man.

  Kill what I eat?  Oh, how absurd!
  And eat what I kill?  That’s mad!
  I tried to put this out of my head,
  but I felt his words return.

  And ever since then, I've felt unease
  and even unwell at times.
  As I'd like you to share in my misery, I
  am passing this on in my turn.

  2018 December 27?, Thu?day
  Brooklyn, New York 
  

Before We Go

Before We Go

When the mind is agitated
and the heart is weighted down.
we only think of matters then
that make us fear or frown.

And then, when moments do arise
when fright and stress recede,
we might be filled with old regrets
and weep for those deceased.
 
We don’t recall those others then—
the ones we have neglected.
We leave no space or time for those
that our actions have affected.

It’s time to clear the clutter then;
it’s time to walk a while—
to breathe a bit of open air,
to look around and smile.

It’s time to say, “We’re passing through.
We’ll soon enough be gone.
Let’s tend to things before we leave
this planet that we’re on.”

And so the storm within may cease
awhile—and give us time
and space for things that matter more—
for heart—and reason, rhyme.

And then perhaps we’ll see a face
or hear a voice, and so
we might resolve to visit, call
or write, before we go.
 
And also then some things may come
to light, that the fog had hidden,
and we might see a path, a hope
that our panic had forbidden.

2016 October 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Language

                  
Language   
                   
A language is a living thing.
It breathes and grows and pulses.
It melds with us when we are young.
It’s always at our service.
And yet we are as cells that serve
The mind that lives in language.
  
How varied are our human tongues,
In rhythms, sounds and structures.
And yet they are projections, each,
Of that, which can’t be spoken.
        
******
   
A language is a living thing
That shifts and sways and dances.
The songs we sing are sung through us.
The singer true is hidden.
But in our speech, we hear it talk.
It lives in us as language.
  
So every dialect’s the same,
However each may vary.
And that’s because the mind’s the same,
That’s there, in every sentence.
      
******
  
There is a tongue that has no tongue,
And so cannot be heard.
And yet we know that it is there,
By inner sense inferred.
And each of us can feel it speak
In silence, if we listen.
   
So premonition, like a cat
That walks on velvet feet,
Comes padding by.  A faint “meow”.
We turn -- and it is gone.
      
******
  
A language is a living thing,
And yet, it’s like a shadow
That changes form with time of day,
With latitude and season.
And when the clouds are blowing wild
It vanishes.  We seek it.
 
And as the sun breaks through the clouds,
It’s born again.  We see it.
We know that it was always there.
So language is a shadow.
 
******
   
While languages, from others born,
May live their spans and fade,
In wanton acts, we murder them
As remnant speakers perish.
So as we kill the species, so
We kill our cultures too.
  
And what we’ve done is vaunted then
As progress.  Such advances
Bring tears to those remembering
The riches and the nuances.
  
******
    
As we may love a being that
Has a face and limbs and body,
So also we may love a tongue
That’s living or has perished.
As none can substitute for one
Who’s gone, so naught -- for language.
  
How tender is that love we feel
For a tongue we learned as infants…
How grievous is our loss when we
Have none, with whom to speak it…

******
   
As lovers are devoted, so
The poets are to tongues,
For a dialect has its flavor that
No other one can match.
As women have their essences,
So languages have musks.

For even as two siblings might
Have characters apart,
So sister tongues have melodies
As different as birds'.

******
   
How humble is a patois,
How regal, classic verse.
Yet each has provenance the same,
Like those, of women birthed.
They rise in rustic habitats
And end as they began.

And urban speech, where finance rules,
Is rapid, clipped and terse,
But where horizons far are seen,
The speech there slows and broadens.

******
   
Some languages are musical
And others seem more rough,
But that, imbibed with mother's milk,
For each, is sweet enough.
The lullabies of of mother tongues
Give sustenance to us.

And language can be used to lie,
To subjugate, confuse,
Or it can light the way to truth
And liberate, refute.

******
   
Like sea reflecting sky, a tongue
Can alter with our moods.
And so there's speech that's like a gun,
And that which soothes the heart.
But blame this not upon the tongue
Nor give it credit false.

For language is a living thing
That changes as we do.
When madness rules our lives, our tongues
Reflect that madness too.

2013 November 23rd, Sat.
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  
   

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

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