The Darkness of Noon

The Darkness of Noon

Bow to the ones who are rich, my friends!
Kneel for the ones who have goons on call.
These are the gods of our times, my friends.
Toil at the feet of our Pharaohs tall.

The human race is a servile one,
For those who had pride are dead and gone,
Except for the ones who have clearly won.
They straddle the land that we are on.

******

Gone are the ones who had striven and died.
Lost are the causes for which they fought.
Rich are the ones who had stolen and lied.
Poor are the sons of the men who rot.

The mothers had wailed and the daughters had wept,
But who can remember the reason they did?
The truths are forgotten, the falsehoods are left.
The darkness has gathered, the moon has been hid.

******

When will the clouds and the dark be dispersed?
Where is the courage and where is the truth?
Where is the learning with which we were versed?
When will the trodden be rid of the boot?

The ones who are workers can gather and rise,
And bring down the ones who have risen on high,
But first they should strive to be wary and wise,
To sift what is left of the truth from the lie.

******

Strive then, oh worker, to question and learn!
Learn to distinguish the fine from the dross.
Then you will see that your sense will return.
Then there’s a chance you’ll recover your loss.

You never will bow then to those who are rich.
Your knee will not bend for the lord or his goon.
The humble will smile, as you know which is which.
The Pharaohs will see then the darkness of noon.

2018 May 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Races

The Races 

  

There’s misery in many forms – and happiness is found
in many things in many ways by you and I and more.
But let me speak awhile of woe that’s come from speeding up
and of the joy that once was here, when most were moving slow.

For Mammon wants us each to work and also spend our wages
at faster rates and more and more, expending all we've earned,
and then He wants the ant disposed before it ails and ages.
So each of us should swiftly then be buried or be burned…

For both in labor and in payments, humans serve their lords,
the ones that now we bow to, who are seated on their thrones.
So most of us are racing at our work and through our lives,
for he or she who doesn't, soon, in poverty, atones…

The more we work, the more it is that profits large are gathered.
The faster that we do it, the faster profits grow.
The more that we are spending, the more the stocks that rise.
And who can dare to posit, that all of these should slow?

But see, what all that speeding up has done to humans ‘round –
the illnesses of body, mind that also grow at speed,
the madness in the zones of peace, the madder zones of war –
and ask, “Is this what humans want or what they truly need?”

And those of conscience suffer most, while those with fewer qualms
can still survive and flourish.   So our breeds are still evolving
to be of better service to our masters, as we race
upon the treadmills that, at speed, are always now revolving.

    


The artisans have gone their way; the workers took their places.
And then the robots came – and those, that slaved before, displaced…
The quieter joys of life and work are lost in all our races,
and so our satisfactions are, by paychecks, now replaced…

So who has time to be with children, teach them, tell them stories?
And who has time to taste their meals, to savor still their lives –
to slowly walk, to pause to see, to read of woes and glories,
to hold another in their arms and be as husbands, wives?

For humans always knew to race, when moving fast was needed –
in hunting or in fleeing, in the battles of the past.
But we also knew of slowing – and the need for it was heeded,
for there are things we cannot do, when we’re moving fast.
 

 


The work that’s fine, that’s focused, be it that of mind or hand,
the attention that is needed, when we’re learning what is new
or pausing from our schedules to attend to those in need,
were understood to be for all – and not for just a few.

There was a time when most of us were “primitive” indeed.
We then would hunt and gather – and were truly artists each.
Our lives had woes but also joys and flowed as rivulets.
We sang and danced and worked and did our children duly teach.

And no, it was no paradise, but yet we each were free
of masters who could make us work and rob us of our labor.
For we were truly humans then, in all our little clans.
The quiet joys of human lives, we then could truly savor.

 
 



No clock-alarms, no rushing then to work in soulless mills,
not even fields, by brigands owned, to whom we owed their share –
no landlords then to claim their rents, no trace of feudal ills,
no “paradise on earth” and yet – a life that we could bear.

For we had friendships then – and bonds.  We cried at deaths, departures.
We laughed aloud and smiled a lot, we joked and had our fun.
No hospitals or nursing homes – and yet we did our best
to care for those who needed care – until the setting sun.

And those, who first then tilled the land, enjoyed awhile their grain,
and so could settle down and tend to elders and the sick.
But then there came the bandits who became their masters and
who put in place their feeding chains from populations thick.
 

   



So predators can feed off prey, when prey becomes abundant.
So just as men had “tamed” the beasts and set them then to toil,
so also men were tamed in turn, so others then could feed
on all the work that peasants did upon the yielding soil.

And then the cities, then the trades, the ships and factories –
and so the trek towards the towns, to work in dreary mills,
and then the start, towards the end of all that humans had
that can’t be bought.  And so the starts of many present ills.

So having told this history, however poorly, I
would now beseech you to observe and question what you do.
For only when such attitudes are prevalent will we
return perhaps to slower lives – as meant for me and you.

 


For those conditioned by their times – this age of packaging
and those that came before – they rarely pause to question why.
But to survive and to “succeed”, they quickly learn to race,
and so their lives become  a blur.  They never see the lie.

And only when the lies that we are fed, from when we’re born,
are seen for what they are, will men and women start to stop
and question wars of arms and those that now are waged in “peace” –
in all the races that consume our lives, until we drop.
 
2015 March 7th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
    

On Winning and Sinning

 
On Winning and Sinning
  

http://memegenerator.net/instance/58914267

  























We've had our castes, our classes, sects and tribes.
And all of these remain, along with bribes.
But now, as "winners", "losers", we're divided.
And all the "losers" ever win are jibes.

Our virtues old, we've long exchanged for vice.
To those who're young, we give this shrewd advice:
"When 'winning' is the only thing that counts,
Then who has use for those who still are nice?"
 
The race is on, and all are running fast.
The gentle folk are those who finish last.
"Produce, consume and sock away your stash."
That mantra is – and all the rest is past.
 
In every land, the workers rise at dawn
To race to work.  And others, every morn,
Return from working on the graveyard shift.
We work and work, until we're dead and gone.

How much of labor!  Yet the question, "Why?"
Is rarely asked, until it's time to die.
To pay the rent, to feed ourselves, our kids –
Are these the reasons?  Who perceives the lie?

There's food enough and room enough, indeed
To house us, feed us – more than what we need.
For we and our machines – we work enough
In half our time – for all but endless greed.

Ignore the corporatists and their rants.
We've harvested the labor of the plants –
The myriad seeds of grass, the fuels below –
And yet we labor at our jobs like ants.

So pause to trace the path that value takes
From where it's made, where human labor slakes
The thirst that drives the ancient feeding chains
To where it ends, within the bankers' lakes.

And see – from there, the cash, in cycles, flows
And hither, thither, 'round the planet goes
To everywhere that rent and debt are used
To lead the harried workers by the nose.

How many hopes arise and then are dashed,
As profits grow and bonuses are cashed.
To Mammon's anvil, humans bound are led –
The hammer falls – and skulls and lives are smashed.

And what's the cordage that has long sufficed
To bind the ones who're daily sacrificed?
Their blood is flowing dark along the drains,
But few are they, who've paused – and so surmised.
 
Make no mistake – the jets that scream on high,
The cloud that rises in the crystal sky,
The fire below, the screams and silence – all
Are gifts of those who will not question why.

"That's how it is." they say and shrug or grin
And so they clear the path for more of sin.
"The way it is" is not by Nature made,

Nor made by gods, but those, who always win.

http://blogdailyherald.com/2011/03/14/higher-ed-roundup-winning-sinning-and-wtfing/

 

 


The Pharaoh once had stood between the sun
And those that worshiped both of them as one.
They worked the land from which he drew his wealth.
Six thousand years – and still we haven't won.

The newest Pharaohs now bestride the land
And their intrigues are still the stories grand.
We workers toil – and ever faster run,
And though we lose, we rarely understand.

The game is rigged. The scam is always on.
And those, who're losing, cheer the winners on,
For we've been gypped, and so we only blame
Ourselves and luck for how our lives have gone.
 
And so this worker writes, perhaps in vain.
He writes, so each of you can ease the pain.
Arise and see, what mischief is about
And end it, so it does not start again.
 
It's time the winners tasted too of loss,
It's time for drudges to defy the boss.
But only when we rise together, will
There be a chance for us to win this toss.

There's fortune, blowing in the winds of chance,
And there are pipers, playing us the dance.
And we can go with wind or piper or
Resolve to stand and take our measured stance.

Let's call for revolution, of a kind
That opens eyes and ears and also mind.
Until we see and hear and understand,
We'll never pause, our value true, to find.

But only when we pause can we begin
To see that we, who've lost, can also win.
So here's a catch that's needs to be released –
So virtue is, where now there's only sin.

As long as vice is seen as what is needed,
So long will labor's voice remain unheeded.
To cynics and to parasites, we say,
The time will come, when you will be defeated.

For though the ignorance is broad and deep,
Beneath the murk, the sense will slowly seep
Until it flows, in currents, like a tide
That clears away the rotten garbage-heap.
 
Then "winning, losing" will no longer be
The chorus that we hear, the fog we see.
Then vice and sin will yield to vision, yes,
As rivers open to the boundless sea.

And for that time I wait.  And if I die
Before that hour, and on my deathbed sigh
Because I did not live to see it, then

Remember still to ask that question, "Why?"
 

http://www.geniuscoaching.com/2014/11/4232/

 
 
 
 


When those like me are dead and gone, there still
Will come the ones who'll question, with a will.
And all the myths and lies and fakery
Will yield to those who dare to deeply drill.

"The way it is" is not by gods dictated.
This "winning, losing" we have overrated.
And this is what has led us into sin.
But sin is not the thing for which we're fated.

"The way it is" is not by gods designed,
To losing, workers long have been resigned...
But if, indeed, it's good, at times, to win,
Then by the gods, a win, we have in mind.
  
2015 February 16th, Mon. 9:36 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

Bosses

   
Bosses
 
As long as men and women have a boss or work as bosses,
So long will they have cavities that can't be fixed with flosses.
So if you go to work, one day, while wearing just a thong,
Perhaps you'll strike a blow for those, who'll honor you in song.
And if you are a man, perhaps this might not work out well,
But if a woman, when retiring, try it -- what the hell!
And if you think, by then your body might be out of shape,
Then go to work, that final day, while dressed up as an ape,
And jump upon a table, stomp your feet and thump your chest,
So bosses, seeing this, might from their bossing take a rest.
 
2015 January 24th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Revolution

  
Revolution
 
You call for revolution – and I support your call.
Let’s set the wheel in motion – but let it turn for all.
What use is revolution – if peasants still must starve,
If workers still must labor – for less than they deserve?
 
What use is revolution, if not for each and all?
What use is revolution, if despots still are tall
And all the rest are crawling – if bosses still give orders
And soldiers still have stations at every nation’s borders?
 
When hierarchies are flattened – and newer ones not built,
Then all can claim we’re better – and this, without the guilt.
For if the price was bloody, and yet the value’s low,
What use was revolution, for those who’re still below?
 
What use are revolutions that do not free the soul,
That do not heal the body and make the fabric whole?
Let’s set the wheel in motion, but let it turn for all.
Let virtue rise, with justice.  Let vice and evil fall.
 
We cannot make a heaven, upon this spinning Earth,
But still can make things better, for those of humble birth.
We need no more of leaders, but more, who are aware.
Of lies that are misleading, from those who lead, beware!
 
The sheep, domesticated, have herders, so their fleece
And flesh can yield the bounties – in England or in Greece.
So humans, too, were corralled, and those, resisting, slain.
So peasants, workers, toiling, gave "landlords", "owners" gain.
 
We're long domesticated – to beings tame and mild,
Who do as they are bidden, forgetting eons wild…
So those, who wait for leaders – they wait for them in vain.
For when they find their leaders – they’ll find they’re fooled again.
   
The slaughterhouse is waiting, for grazers on the meadow.
Be wary –  and be humble, so none may cast a shadow
In which another’s hidden, deprived of rights and voice
Or stays content to follow – and so surrenders choice.
 
If leading is your habit, then lead us with the truth.
Perceive your branch of falsehood – and trace it back to root.
If more inclined to follow, then be of courage strong.
It's difficult to follow what's right, when all is wrong.
 
But revolutions happen – and seem to hold out hope.
The martyrs' blood then darkens, and people feed on dope.
It's still the same old story, and often even worse.
The people still have leaders, who soon will hit "reverse".

The pressures mount from bankers, the threats from powers grow.
The country is in crisis, with prices rising more.
There's fear and there's repression – and soon enough, there's war.
We sacrificed for nothing, for back to naught we are.

For still we had divisions, which still could be exploited.
We turned against each other, and all we gained was voided.
So it's the same old story that's one more time retold.
For those who bought the fictions could once again be sold.
 
There’s the marching in processions, there’s the shouting in the streets.
There’s the storming of the barracks.  There’s the tasting of the sweets
That lasts for just a season.  There's then the season sour,
When once again there’s "order", with leaders still in power.
 
And what has changed, in essence?  The hierarchies remain –
Or even when they’re broken, are seen to rise again.
The only revolutions that humans can sustain
Are those that start within us, that seek to end the pain…
 
We cannot, by our thinking – or writings, prose or verse,
Replace the need for action – or currents strong, reverse.
We need the strength collective, we need the actions bold.
We need to break the choke-holds, reject the notions sold.

But this can only happen, when each of us has strength
That comes from inner practice that’s been of depth and length.
For each must dare to question.  Together, mind and heart
Can give to us the answers.  To reason, there’s an art…

But reason, in a vacuum – or feeding on what’s fed,
Produces false "solutions".  Beware of being led!
There’s fact and there’s opinion.  You’re only sure of that,
Which you yourself experience – by wrestling on the mat.

You might have gone to college and learned a lot.  And if
You’ve kept yourself updated, unlike the working stiff,
You might have your opinions.  But only they, who’ve labored,
Can truly speak of labor.  Beware the circles favored!
  
The inside’s often different, from what the outside looks.
Do not believe the media or even what’s in books.
It’s only when you’re present, to do and see and hear –
It’s only when you’ve lived it, that vision starts to clear.
  
So who can be a leader, except to lead himself?
For only you have knowledge of what’s around yourself.
No presidents are needed, no bosses up on high –
Or even one that’s nearer.  There’s truth – and there’s the lie.
 
The truth, indeed, is bitter – and yet, what else is there?
To taste of truth, unsweetened, who first will rise and dare?
And who of us will follow – and each with firm resolve,
So all the old deceptions, with newer ones, dissolve?
 
For that is revolution, when people clearly see –
And that’s what really matters, as all the rest will be
As warmth that follows daylight, as seed that senses rain…
From vision, there’ll be action to lift the yoke of pain…
 
Beware of those divisions – of race or speech or creed –
That leave the heart in darkness – and mills of evil feed.
Of ignorance, be fearful; in learning more, be bold.
Observe the new perspective – and yet respect the old.
 
Do not despise the wealthy – nor hold them in esteem.
Do not look down on paupers – or these, as snowflakes, deem.
For all of us are human, with virtue and with vice –
From all around, take counsel – but heed your own advice.
 
If free to follow conscience, if free to seek the truth,
You then can praise your freedom – and praising, speak the truth.
And that is revolution – when each one, speaking freely,
Can say that she has freedom – that's freedom, well and truly.
 
What freedom can the man have, who answers to a boss?
What freedom in a country, that’s ruled by gain and loss?
What freedom, when we're fearful of losing jobs or lives
For speaking truth to power?  What freedom then survives?
 
What freedom, when, at Apple, they can pinpoint where you are?
What freedom, in a country that's torn apart by war?
There’s freedom that is waiting – there’s freedom for the slave.
But freedom needs its fighters – it asks you if you're brave.
   
How many wheels, in violence, have lifted up the low –
But then have kept on turning – until they’re back below?
Let’s call for revolution that frees the mind, the voice –
That clears the vision clouded, so each can then rejoice.
 
2014 December 20th, Sat.
(Some stanzas added Dec. 28th.)
Brooklyn, New York
   

Homo Sapiens

   
Homo Sapiens 
 
I had traveled over continents and crossed the oceans wide
To then settle on this island, by the swift Atlantic tide.
And here, I’ve made a living and have duly paid the rent –
But on looking back I wonder where my time and labor went.
 
For the joy I had in learning and in teaching what I’d learned
May be extant still, but muted, from the lashings that I’ve earned.
And the ebb and flow of seasons and the passing of the years
Have left me worn and weary, as my time of ending nears.
  
For though I’d flown across the globe, my travels since that time
Have mostly been to work and back – the worker’s tiresome rhyme.
And though this had a rhythm, like the whip on rebels brave
Or on men or beasts of burden, it has made of me a slave.
 
Should the men, of Earth begotten, and the women, side by side,
Have the Sky they claim as father watch his offspring still provide
The flour for the ovens that their humankind may make
And the fire, in which humans, yet other humans, bake?
 
Though all my life, for workers’ rights, I’ve carried high the torch,
I wonder what my thoughts will be, while gazing from a porch,
Retired from work at factories, if lucky – or, if not,
While blindly slumped upon a chair and by the world forgot’.
 
I walk to work and back each day, and though the work I do
Might give me bread to eat and more, I quietly say to you,
“Let not your son or daughter grow to work within a mill,
For that might rob your child of joy and even break the will.”
 
And what you would not have your offspring do, I’d ask that you
Should not expect that others do.  To conscience, then, be true,
And ask, what humankind can do, to free itself of fetters –
So no one issues orders, nor aspires to join their “betters”.
 
Let’s rid the world of pestilence.  Let’s start on it afresh.
Let no one call another “boss”.  Your mind and soul, refresh
In waters pure of dignity, so all can rightly claim
There lived a race of beings wise – in truth, not just in name.
  
2014 November 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

There’s Much That Needs Repair

  
There’s Much That Needs Repair
 
The minds of men are fickle, and women too are swayed
By wind and tide and fashion, as others watch dismayed.
They seek for reason steady, they look for conscience clear.
They hope for true compassion, but rarely find it near.

We go to wars in frenzies, we’re led to battles dire,
And though we’re red and gory, of this, do humans tire?
The horsemen whip the stallions, and see – they gallop more.
And who will pause from racing – or even try to slow?

For faster, ever faster, is Mammon’s main demand.
But who can still resist this – or even understand?
The Bloombergs make their billions, they squeeze the workers tight,
And who will dare to question – or say it isn’t right?

The more the factory’s profit, the more we are oppressed.
Can learning true, or teaching, be more and more compressed?
We’re told to cut the corners, but never told this loud.
We bow to all the falsehoods that pose as purpose proud.

There’ll come a time when loving, in euros, yen is sold.
For all, that’s deemed as precious, is eyed for ventures bold.
Enough of buying, selling – of body, mind and soul!
It’s time for a repairing – to make what’s shattered whole.

How sweet the sound of wisdom, how clear is reason’s call!
But who of us has courage, to stand for one and all?
Behold the spoils of carnage, and hearken to despair.
The time has come to stop it.  There’s much that needs repair.

The child is quietly playing, as children once did do.
The mother and the father are none but me and you.
The calf is quietly grazing – but no – it’s what we dreamed.
When conscience has awakened, it’s not as what it seemed.

Do not depend on prophets to tell you what is right.
And do not run to bosses to aid your petty fight,
But listen to your conscience and be of charity.
Expel the must of madness and breathe of clarity.

The revolutions happen – and then they dissipate
And make things even harder, for those who work and wait.
It's quiet that is needed, so rush and madness cease.
The sound is then of gladness, the work is that of peace.

2014 November 13th, 3:29 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho (The Cremation of the Clocks)

Dear readers of my floods,
 
The Bangla (Bengali) verses below were written in a rush (which may cause much amusement, given their content).  The translation (that interleaves the stanzas) was done in even more of a rush.

The reason I was (and still am) in a rush is that I should have been working solely on job-related matters, as grades are due early Monday morning, and that usually keeps me busy all weekend.

No matter. I'll send this off now, and, with that off my resentful chest, attack the other thing tomorrow, starting early in the morning instead of staying up late, which is rarely is a good thing.

The Bangla word "sraddho" (Sanskrt: "shraaddha") should not really be translated as "cremation".  I may have done that (subconsciously) mainly for alliteration with "clock".

Hindus try to cremate (burn) their dead, with rituals if they can afford that. They then try to have, later, the further rites and collective feast that are together known as the "sraddho".  So "memorial service" might be a better translation than "cremation" or "funeral".

With apologies,
Babui / Arjun
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho   (The Cremation of the Clocks)   
                                
Ei jo`gote keu ba khat’e, keu ba orae ghuri.            
E`ker hate ador khali, onner hate churi.                  
Karor ko`pal xukher jibon, alxemite khuro.              
Karor do`xa, dukkhe bhoga, xexeo tara-huro.           

In this world, some work, others fly kites.
In one’s hand, there’s love; in another’s, a knife.
Some are lucky to live happily and lazily grow old.
The lot of others is to suffer, rushing even at the end.

Malik bhabe, munafa-t’a barate ho`be, bhai.
Mojdur-der khat’ate ho`be, capte ho`be tai. 
Calaki die, xukaj theke bo`dmaxi ho`e bexi.
Xaheb malik ja kichu bojhae, joldi xekhe dixi.

The boss thinks, we have to increase profits.
We’ve got to squeeze the workers, so they work more.         
From cleverness, there comes more evil than good.
Whatever the white boss teaches, the brown one learns.
 
“Ei je ghori, kajer jinix, bilet theke ana.                    
Et’ar ka~t’ae mojduri ae, ruiye neoa mana.             
Ghont’a-minit’ rakhle hixeb, barbe ahar tomar.         
Tumio khabe, amio khabo. Bexir bhagt’a amar.”
            
“Here is a clock, a useful thing, imported from Europe.
They’ll be paid by the clock; they’ll have no time to rest.
If you keep track of hours and minutes, the feast will grow.
You’ll dine well and so will I. The larger share will be mine.”

Tai to de`kho, karkhanate, khat’che sromik-do`l.        
Ka~t’ae ka~t’ae colche de`kho, notun juger ko`l.        
Jontro-ko`le jo`ntro bo`ro, t’akar pho`de dho`ra.     
Ei to do`xa sromik-xo`ber – bedo`m khet’e mo`ra.
         
And so you see the workers toiling in the factories.
The machines of the new age run precisely by the clock.
Caught in the money-trap, workers race upon the wheel.
This is their lot – to work without rest till they die.

“Tai to boli, ghont’a-ghori koreche jo`khon golam,
Curmar kore bhangle po`re, milbe to`khon aram!”       
Ei ko`that’a bolechilo je, nam chilo tar Hori.              
Karkhanete, kaj thamie, bhanglo rege ghori.             

“That is why I say, since the clocks have made us slaves,     
It’s only when we break them into pieces that we’ll have rest.”
The one who said these words, his name was Rock.
He stopped his work at the mill and broke the clock.

Tai dekhe to uthlam jege, sromik xo`bai jo`khon,      
Bajlo sit’i, gund’a pulix korlo jo`bai to`khon.              
Horir sriti morbe na go, roibe agun buke.                  
Thambe jedin ghori, xedin jolbe abar mukhe.            

And when we workers saw this and rose up,
The whistle blew and the goon-police came to kill us.
We’ll remember Rock. The fire will burn within us.
When the clocks stop, it will flame up again.

Khuxir cote gaibo to`khon, “No`mai tomae, Hori!        
Tomar name biplo`bete cuklo xexe ghori!                   
Jindabad, jindabad, moder xohid Horir!                    
Murdabad, murdabad, xoetaner po ghorir!”

In our joy, we will sing, “We salute you, Rock!
The rising up, in your name, has ended the clock!               
Long live, long live, the memory of the martyr!
Death to the devil’s spawn, death to the clock!”
 
 Ho`cche jo`khon, xukher bhore, gho`nt’a-ghorir sraddho,  
Monuxxota ghumer theke jagte to`khon baddho.         
To`khon, “Co`l-co`l, hat’-hat’!” cole jabe jekhane,       
Porci-hixeb chire-phele chure debo xekhane.

When, in that dawn of joy, the clocks are cremated,
Then our humanity will wake again from its slumber.
Wherever the “Go, go! Run, run!” goes to then,
There we shall throw all the torn-up accounts.

Xukrubar, 21e Marc, 2014 kri.                                    
Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk   

2014  March 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York   

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Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  

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 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

Thunder

          
Thunder

The occupiers came and went.
It seemed the movement then was spent.
And yet, the echoes still rebound --
That "ninety-nine" and "one percent"...

I dreamed I walked, where Wall Street stood.
But all was gone -- and gone for good --
The bustle gone, the hustle too...
I woke, and dreaming understood...

For Charles M. Blow, a numbers-guy,
Might read the stats and tell me why.
And I'll be grateful, nod my head,
And none, of what he says, deny.

But hush!  If you would cup your ear,
That sound -- that's quiet, you would hear,
That's yet like surf or rolling thunder.
Hark!  It rises -- and is near!

2013 September 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn

Occupy Wall Street Legacy, by Charles M. Blow
(New York Times, 2013 Sep. 14)
  

The Empire

The Empire

The Empire grows – and all must bow
To It, on bended knee,
Be they the nations of the world
Or those like you and me.

The Empire knows – and yet, we see,
This knowing, It denies.
So though we have no privacy,
We have our fill of lies.

The Empire speaks – and none can dare
To challenge what is said.
The Empire acts – and those who dared
Are silenced – or are dead.

******
   
The Empire grows – and who can stop
Its growth, oh citizens?
It's up to us to say, “Enough!”
Before Its next offense.

But each, who stands, will soon be crushed
Without that public space
And public ear – and voice and deed
That spits in Empire's face.

Yet spit alone won't do the job –
For spit is merely spite.
Our hearts and minds – they must be one,
To win, for all, this fight.

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with last 2 stanzas added June 29th, Sat.)
Brooklyn  

Returning Home + Bradley's Way

Returning Home

How peaceful are the shades of blue above,
With streaks of white that arc across the deep...
How glorious, the greens in slanting sun,
How restful, those in shadows cool below...
How comforting, the reds and browns of bricks...
The city seems at peace as sunset comes...

And soon enough, it will be dark again,
As blues give way to indigos and blacks.
And far from city lights, a villager
Will see, afar, the myriad burning suns...

How beautiful, this world, in which we are,
How wonderful, this fleeting chance to see...

Returning home, from frenzied place of work,
With no one home, to whom to hurry to,
A little time is found, for breathing free,
A little time, to lift the head and see,
Remembering the ones that are no more,
With sorrow – yet with gratitude to be...

2013, June 4th Tue.
Brooklyn  
---------------------------------------------------------------
 
Bradley's Way

How peaceful seem those shades of blue above,
Until they see those streaks of white appear,
Those villagers, who scatter if they can,
Who seek the shadows where the elders hide,
Uncomforted.  And then, the dreaded blasts
That shred the children, who were on their way...

How further, this pretense that cannot last,
This city, driven wild by Mammon's lust,
Where children go to school to be the tools
Of those that wage those wars that have no end?

And in those growing children's eyes, we see
The kindled fires of that insanity...

And when will soldiers sent abroad return,
And those, that fly the drones, from horrors, turn,
To see, with eyes renewed, the sky, the trees,
To watch their elders and the setting sun,
To lift their children in their arms and say,
“No more of sin. We walk on Bradley's way.”?

June 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn

Fools

Fools

I dreamed that I had woken and the wars had finally ended.
I dreamed that people reasoned and they knew they did not know.
I dreamed that that those who're humble had a voice that could be heard.
I dreamed that myths were seen as myths and facts were verified.

And in my dream, I went to sleep the sleep of peace, content,
For little did I know that I, to my own self, had lied.

I woke and saw that people, though they seemed to be awake,
Had put to sleep their conscience and, while praising liberty,
Did everything they could to please and strengthen hierarchy.
And so were soldiers sent to war and others to the schools.

And so it was, that though awake, I wished that I could sleep,
For cleverness was ruling and had rendered us as fools.

2013 May 26th, Sun.
Brooklyn
sjanah@aol.com 
 

The Prophet

The Prophet

I slept and thought I heard a prophet say,
“Awake, with joy, to greet the newborn day!
The sun is risen and the night is fled.
So hope will rise for us, who've been misled.

“We're born and learn that we are here to race,
And every year, we run at an even faster pace,
Until we can't – and then it's time to die.
And even then, we still believe the lie.

“Take courage, men and women, young and old,
Pursue the truth and speak with heart that's bold.
No worth is added by the lie of fear.
Be free and act – to save what's truly dear.

“Observe how panic, wrought by fear and greed,
Obscures what we and others truly need.
Compulsive action leads us all to hell.
Go slow, to clearly see – and so be well.”

I heard her speak, with others gathered 'round.
I saw them smile and heard a joyful sound,
As men and women paused from race they'd run,
To greet with joy the red and rising sun.

And in my sleep I smiled and tried to sing,
As fear gave way to joy and hope took wing.
And so that night my dreadful demons fled,
I slept in peace, to wait that sky of red.

I woke and found the night was still and dark –
No sign of light or sound of morning lark.
And yet, I still could hear that prophet's voice –
“Awake, oh serfs – and in the light rejoice!”

2013 May 16th, Thu.
Brooklyn
sjanah@aol.com