Freedom-2022-05-05

Freedom
 
Freedom is a vital thing
That’s dear to young and old.
Freedom is a precious thing
That can’t be bought or sold.
Yet freedom can be snatched away—
Or taken bit by bit.
When freedom’s lost or threatened, then
It’s time for actions bold.
 
There’s servitude, to those who wield
The whip, the rod, the gun;
Indenture, too—to those with snares
And webs of debt they’ve spun—
And labor, for the wage that’s earned
On terms befitting serfs.
And then there is dependence on
The beneficent one.
 
These all are forms of slavery.
To varying degrees,
We each are captives, happenstance,
Or humbled, on our knees,
To those adept at trickery
Or playing on our fears.
Arise, arise—to liberty,
So tyrannies may cease!
 
The tyranny of masters, be
They private or the states;
The tyranny of lenders, who
Extract usurious rates;
The tyranny of doctrines,
Administered by “priests”—
It matters not. Beware of those
Who “own” the others’ fates.
 

If Fortune gives you fortune, friend,
Or if you're fortune's earned—
Do use it humbly, kindly—
So your fortune then is turned
To that of others. If instead
Your fate is that of labor,
Then give, to others, service that
Will surely not be spurned.
 

The “owners” and the “workers”: both

Have rights—and both have faults.
Be fair, be just, in what you do—
With service—as with vaults.
Open up your eyes and heart.
Be wary—yet be kind.
Be neither slave nor master. Taste
Of freedom’s vital salts.
 
But wait! Beware, my patient friend,
Of those who say they act
In freedom’s name—and boast of this,
When what they do, in fact,
Is in pursuit of power, wealth—
But cloaked in freedom's garb.
Do not be fooled by merchants. Keep
Your soul—and sense—intact.
 
2022, May 5^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Murmuration

 
The Murmuration

I saw the starlings in the sky.
They wheeled and arced and seemed to weave
a giant form of sentience.

I stood transfixed and watched with awe
the flowing shapes that being took
that twisted, turned, dispersed, condensed…

And as I watched, I heard the sound,
the murmur of the beating wings—
a hundred thousand pairs of wings.

I heard it rise from a whisper, surge
and fade and rise and ebb again—
like waves within an aerial sea.

And all at once the cloud grew dark
and swiftly plunged across the trees,
as one by one they settled down...

A giant bird is created out of a starling murmuration in Scotland.
http://www.grindtv.com/random/starling-murmurations-create-fantastic-show-in-scottish-sky/

   
I wondered whether starlings had
their schools, in which they taught their young,
and whether tuition there was free.

And did the students there have tests
and were the teachers graded too?
Did Danielson hit starlings too?

I shook my head.  I’d seen and heard
the murmuration on a screen,
as schools were just about to start.

I thank you, Diane Ravitch and
the one who sent this, Susan Schwartz,
and Dylan Winter for the clip.

But most of all, I thank the birds,
who fly across the heavens, free,
as  humans were—and still could be.

2015 September 6th, Sun, 12:26 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
   

• http://dianeravitch.net/2015/09/06/this-beautiful-video-will-make-your-day/ (This leads to the video in the next link in this list.)
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88UVJpQGi88  Dylan Winter and the Starling Murmurations
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XH-groCeKbE   Starlings on Otmoor
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmO4Ellgmd0  Unbelievable Starlings
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8V6qUUWa4zk  Starlings in Rome (This attempts to describe how the starlings manage their coordinated performance and how they evade predatory birds.)
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTFFJ8hTC_Q   Starlings Coming To Roost - Starling Murmuration in Cornwall England (This shows starlings roosting, in close-up.)

Beware, the Planes!

 
Beware, the Planes!
   
And some now fly in jet-planes through the sky,
While others labor closer to the dirt.
And surely none would either space deny,
But who does more of harm to this our Earth?

Some fly across the continents and oceans
For reasons every human understands.
But others fly, as part of world-elites,
To propagate the ills that plague our lands.

Yet these, who fly in arcs across the blue,
Are adulated by our pundits wise.
There may be sky enough for pundits too,
But is there oil enough – as waters rise?

“The wealth-creators” is the term that’s used
For flyers high – they make, we’re told, the wealth.
Yet one more term, in ignorance, abused!
Do tell us, why we still should worship stealth?         \1

The theft of labor – that is nothing new.
On that was built the empires of the world –
But never on the scale that now proceeds,
As all the planet is, in hellfire, hurled.

We each were one among the myriad,
As person or as species, part of a whole,
With all our conflicts, still in harmony,
And playing, each, an individual role…

For each has senses – so that each perceives
What’s best for each and for the others too.
If a cell or other being does not care
To listen, then – it's deafness, it will rue.

Can this, our world, bear such an overrun
By one deaf species, maddened, cancerous?
And does this species have, as destiny,
This lunacy? For what’s become of us?

We have the financiers, the ones with cash,
And those who serve them, in their penguin suits –
And then the masses, laboring for bosses –
And then, there’s jet-planes, bombs – and marching boots.

For who can stand against the megatons?
And who can down the devil-drones that fly?
Omnipotent, omniscient are those
Who fly above – while village orphans cry.

The brigand kings, their lords, the emperors,
And all the ruthless feeding chains below,
Were gone, we thought, with “rights divine” and worse.
But now we’ve more, to whom we all should bow?

The empires gave, to each, a place, indeed,
In which, at rung on ladder, each could toil.
A few could climb, on others, towards the top,
While most, near bottom, worked the planet’s soil.

But now our emperors are globalized.
We’re cogs in gears, within their great machines.
And where’s the place, where we can flee their reach
Or hide our children from their venal schemes?

Our kids, corrupted by what’s marketed
From all around, ignore the words we speak.
They eat of fire – so they each then burn,
And in their turn, yet more of havoc wreak…

So classes new are born and take their place.
They toil, consume – as profits rise, like cream.
What’s left of cultures, profiteers deface,
As missiles, guns and jails enforce this “dream”.

Whichever nation tries to dam this tide
And so survive, however small its bay,
Is flooded, by the dollar, as the plane
That flies on high ensures that all obey.

A state that tries to sing a different tune
Is quickly crushed – or suffocated slow.
It's demonized – until we all agree
That states like it should bleed to death and go.

Its leaders, pressured, may then means devise
To stay in power – means of brutal force.
And this adds powder to our media’s guns.
Our leaders stay upon their ruthless course.

For what they do – or what our allied states
May do – are not revealed to us.
Who bulldozes the shelters that are left
Or bombs from high – except the goons we trust?

And there’s resistance – here and there, we see
The workers, peasants or the tribesmen rise.
And then they’re crushed, with hammer-blows, while we
The sorry truth, but rarely might surmise.

We scarcely know, what happens down the street,
Much less, what occurs in another city.
So when the flyer makes his distant deal,
Who’s there to watch – or those, who suffer, pity?

Our minds determine what we humans are.
Who captures minds, directs what humans do.
And so are media used to start a war –
Or make us work to buy a product new.

For guns and bombs alone do not suffice.
Along with fear, they’ve yet more tools to use.
For every human virtue, there’s a vice
That works – to capture, weaken and abuse.

And seeing their societies rot, we see
That some, alarmed, for reasons right or wrong –
To privileges, rights, as case may be, preserve –
Have grown suspicious of the siren song.

So there’s resistance of another kind,
That rears its head and howls with ancient fury.
To violence, it answers loud in kind.
A “holy book” is made the judge and jury.

Go read the Torah, Bible or Koran.
Hear Krshna weasel Arjuna in rhymes.                   \2
Of what was lauded in those ancient texts,
You’ll hear the echo then, in present times.

In our Manhattan, as the workers toiled,
The towers rose in grandeur in the skies.
And then they fell. But others rise again.
So who has won? A widow softly cries.

In the autumn sky, a plane that arced and dove.
And Sodom then it was, in Mammon’s city.            \3
So zealots here repeated, as they did
In Bamyan, an ancient, sorry story.

But it was wealth that challenged wealth that day
And does – across the globe, as angels dark
Do battle, as the people cringe and die.
Beware, those streaks that through the heavens arc!

2014 January 18th, Sun. &  25th, Sat. 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

1. The word "stealth" has been used here in its original (now archaic) sense.
 
2. The reference is to the Bhagavad Gita, in which the god Krshna persuades a reluctant warrior, Arjuna, to try to slay, in battle, his childhood mentors, relatives and friends.

3. Bamyan, in Afghanistan, was where the huge statues of the Buddhas stood, until they were dynamited by the Wahabi extremists, not long before they successfully attacked the Manhattan towers as well as the Pentagon.  The fierce monotheistic zeal recorded in the old Hebraic texts survives and manifests itself in this and other ways. This zealotry is also utilized, as always, to reach towards worldly ends.   

Please see also:
  
The Wealth Creators  

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-wealth-creators.html


 

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

Genghis Khan Has Come To Town

             
Genghis Khan Has Come To Town
                                 
Awake, oh citizens of the ancient city,
When you were sleeping, waiting for the dawn,
A horde had gathered and, before the sun,
Had entered this, your city, as the gates
Were opened by the gatemen, they who saw
The army stretching to the distant north…

Awake, oh citizens, awake and see
The Mongol horde is here, with all the rest.
And many are their tongues -- but they are one,
United in their lust for conquest, loot,
For women that they’ll rape or take as slaves…
Awake, for Genghis Khan is in your town!

And when you see the soldiers, look away,
But when you see their lordlings, then bow low.
We have survived invasions, plagues, before.
So to this tempest bend, and it will pass,
And then we’ll nurse our injured, bury those
Who gave their lives – and carry on.

But sing the praises now of conquerors.
In Mongol, sing – for I will show you how.
We all will sing, as we had done before,
We’ll sing the praises of our conquerors.
We'll imitate their ways and learn their tongues…
Sing now, “Genghis Khan has come to town…”

2013 November 24th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

The Teacher

The Teacher

I came upon a person by the sea,
Of haggard aspect, battered down by time.
He slumped upon a bench with downcast head,
And though the sky and ocean were alight,
It seemed it was in darkness that he sat,
An abject figure, sunk in hopelessness.

I sat beside him, wondering at this.
Had death or separation caused this man
To slouch like this, alone by oceanside,
As breezes blew and all around him seemed
A picture drawn of paradise on earth,
With Nature in her garb of happiness?

So when at last he turned to glance at me,
With a look of desperation tinged with guilt,
I bravely ventured then to ask of him
The reason for his obvious sunken state.
And hearing this, he then began to speak,
With a voice that trembled in its earnestness.

“I am a teacher.  That is all I know.
For many years, I labored at my job.
And all, that's thrown at teachers, I withstood
And tried to teach, so students then could learn.
But towards the end, I burned, it seemed, in fire,
And all my nights were seized by craziness.

“The job, impossible for those who are
Disabled by the human tendency
To do their best, and do it honestly,
To care for those they teach, and what they teach,
I still had done, for many, many years,
And even drawn, from it, my sustenance.

“We teachers earn, as workers, salaries,
But that is all.  Whatever benefits
Our union got for us, that now erode,
Do not suffice for labor such as ours,
Which sucks, from each who labors, life itself,
And leaves behind a husk – and emptiness.

“And though some fall away, defeated, some
Persist, for reasons various, and each
Has self to feed – and family as well.
And some are able, by some magic art,
To distance selves from what they do each day,
And so survive, by gift of provenance.

“And others find, perhaps, a little niche,
In which they may find shelter for a while,
And even, if they're fortunate, a bit
Of satisfaction, as their students learn.
For that is what sustains the teachers true,
Who cannot feed at troughs of callousness.

“For teachers learn, who truly are sincere,
Beyond their payment, never to expect,
From those who run the show, the sordid game,
A word of praise  – or even from their wards,
Who still are young –  and unaware of all
The teacher does, in strength or weariness.

“But teaching, just like learning, is a joy,
And when the ground is fertile, even seeds
By sowers lightly cast, untended, grow
And then bear fruit, with more of seeds in turn.
But others fall on ground that's arid, hard,
And all our tending ends in fruitlessness.

“For teaching, learning need some shelter, space,
Some attitudes from those who teach and learn,
From those who run the schools, who make the laws.
For all our culture did not come from those
Who play at high finance or at their wars,
But those, who wove their threads in diligence.

“There came a time when I grew tired of stress,
Of all my labor past and present and
The prospect of yet more until my end.
And all my efforts seemed a waste of time,
So many hours and days and years misspent,
Amounting, at the end, to nothingness.

“And even then, like a horse that's trained to pull,
I strained at harness, though my load grew such
I only crawled.  But never, even then,
Did I succumb to any of the scams
That pass for teaching and are glorified,
Though none can pass the test of harmlessness.

“For we have students, who have but one life,
And parents, live or dead, who gave them this.
And every day they spend with us is less
From what they have, before they too are dead.
So can a conscience let one sleep, who then
Gives other than his due of diligence?

“Deprived of sleep, I felt that I was spent,
So all, that once had looked alluring, now
Appeared as dull.  And what was savory,
When I was rested, now had lost its taste.
And life itself, with all its promise and
Its pleasures seemed absurd and meaningless.

“The ones I'd loved, the ones who gave me life
Had passed away – and even as I worked.
Not only all my most productive years,
But even those for whom I deeply cared
I'd lost to this, the work that teachers do,
Impossible, in total earnestness.

“For teachers, as I said, to labor true,
Look not for praise, but need – the space to teach.
But even this, to them, is now denied,
And all the castigation of the world
Is heaped on those who labor most to teach,
And they are left with naught but hopelessness.

“And yet, I could not leave my job, because
On it depended life and family.
And teaching was the only thing I knew,
And from that thing, that all my life consumed,
I'd drawn my meaning, structured all the rest
Around that thing – that turned to shamelessness.”

He stopped. The blood, that seemed had drained away,
When first I saw him, pounded in a vein
Upon his temple – and his face was flushed.
He'd straightened, gestured, come to life, but now
Again, I saw, had started to collapse.
I took my leave, in sudden fecklessness.

But when, returning from my evening walk,
I passed that spot, I saw, in gloaming's light,
That selfsame man, that teacher, self-described,
Was sitting there, with eyes affixed on ground.
And seeing this, I hastened then my step,
And passed him by, in haste and wariness.

2013 September 17th, Tue.
Brooklyn
 
On Teaching 

http://subject-teacher.blogspot.com/2013/09/on-teaching.html 
 

With Harlot Falsehoods

With Harlot Falsehoods
                                       
When we've walked the road of verity,
Throughout our lives – with all our human faults,
Abstaining from the vices of the lie –
The path of falsehood then cannot be borne.

And when we've been obedient to the call
Of conscience, ever heeding heart's advice,
To disobey is as a living death,
A torture, hell ascended to this earth.

And yet, observe, how in survival's name,
Or merely for ambition, some, with ease,
Can lie throughout their lives and can benumb
Their consciences and hearts for worldly ends.

And slaves, be they in chains of iron or
Of silver, must obey the master's lip.
And those, who quickest shed their scruples, thrive
And do not shy from wielding lie and whip.

So should we martyr minds and bodies for
The quiet voices that we hear within,
Or should we yield to fear or seek to rise
By doing what we see the others do?

The question comes and must be answered, yet
We seek, from this dilemma, some escape.
We all have duties to our selves and kin.
Should mere survival then be viewed as sin?

And yet, those voices, that we've listened to,
Will not be stilled.  They fill our nights and days.
To path of justice, heart and conscience call.
And every step away dismays the soul.

And those, who've wedded selves to truth, cannot
With harlot falsehoods lie a moment long.
And yet, the webs of lies entrap their souls,
And they are found, where they do not belong.

******
   
The ways, that lead to what some call as "god"
And others, "truth", are varied, manifold.
So each may choose to walk upon the way
That's fit for him or her, while harming none.

And all creation, all that's filled with light,
Has source in this.  Compulsion kills the soul.
But even that, which free creation brings,
Is used to slaughter and to dominate.

How many ways have humans engineered,
To make, of others, slaves!  So all, that minds
Have wrought, in innocent ingenuity,
To free us, then is swiftly turned to this.

So farming gave us brigand kings and turned
The freemen into serfs.  And now we see
Computers, mathematics used to serve
As watchdogs on the herds that daily teach.

It will not be.  We shall not be a part
Of evil, though our backs are loaded, bent.
We'll bear our burdens, labor as we've done,
But will not harm our wards or blur our truths.

Our lives have taught us that humility
That those of hubris rarely see till end.
And yet, whatever remnant self-respect
Remains, demands we do not dance to lies.

For how can we fulfill our duties core,
When heart and reason clearly say, "Do this."
And fear and slavery proclaim, "Do that."?
We choose the freeman's path of clarity.

Whatever punishment that brings, we'll bear,
With inmost beings calm, in dignity.
We'll do our work and walk the path of love,
And that will be, for us, reward enough.

stanzas prior to the break written
2013 September 4th, Wed. night
(after being briefed for two days
on the new teacher-evaluation
system in New York City) and
stanzas following the break
added September 5th,Thu.
and September 6th, Fri.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 Comments below.
  

The Age of Packaging – Part II

       
The Age of Packaging – Part II 
             
in which the state of these United States (and perhaps of other countries) is described and reflected on, albeit with eye and mind of prejudice... 
           
The Age of Packaging is what we're in.
But there is more to say.  And we had thought
To leave that out, as it's dispiriting.
But pessimism has its uses, too.
So we shall venture now upon that road
And leave to you to follow us or not.

We shall endeavor now to wail a dirge,
With sordid details woven in that seem
To indicate the death was homicide –
Except that we're recounting the demise
Of what was left of sorry humankind,
And so, perhaps, it's suicide that fits...

And some of you, I'm sure, would disagree.
For soon, that dream we had, when realized,
Will let the village boy or girl access
The knowledge – and, perhaps, the wisdom – stored
And ever growing, of our human kind,
So all can use this – and can add to it.

And soon, that other aspect too
Of that same dream – that when their citizens
Converse – and see the others' sufferings,
The nations then might bomb and war no more –
This too, we hope, could be reality...

And that might be, but isn't yet, and those
Who're cynics – or are realists – might ask,
“When families and clans and villages
Resort to violence, can nations cease?”

And others yet, more hopeful, might reply,
“If provinces and cities find their peace,
And often do not care for race or creed,
Then nation-states may surely do the same,
Or else dissolve, in time, so men may move
About and do, what they have always done
To live, without the burdens of a state
Or nation or of empire on their backs.

“And as they talk, across the distances,
Their narrow prejudices then might yield
To broader vision, while what's local still
Is treasured, drawing vigor from the new.”

But all of this is dream and speculation.
We look around and view reality –
And though our sighting may be jaundiced, we
Perceive, that as before, each step we take,
Made possible by reason and by work,
Is then reversed – and all, that labor wrought,
Is turned around to deepen slavery.

This keeps us busy, as we need not be,
While even more distractions rise to cloud
Whatever vision gave us hope of clarity.

When life was simpler, and we ran with apes,
We cannot doubt that many still were caught
Within that web that beings weave, with selves
Emerging from that weaving, like those shapes
That close inspection sees are only threads
Of colors, magicked by embroidery.

But when that weaving too is done for us,
So we have even lost that freedom sole,
Then what remains, is to our ancient selves
As are the plastic prints to cloths of yore.

And so, while in the past one still might hope
To clearly see the woven self and so,
With gentle art, unravel all its knots,
What hope remains, when distant hands conspire
To tangle us so even gods despair?

And as we tire of all that comes our way –
In print or via copper, glass and through
The air itself, on oscillating fields,
We're even less inclined to look within
Those boxes black that run on magic code
That seems beyond our plebeian minds to ken,
To ask, from where the things that we consume
Have come – and how – whose labor was involved –
And whether what we're told by Congressmen,
By rabid ranters on the radio or
By salesmen – archetype of current age –
Is true or false.  A numbing apathy
Descends – and all we wish to sense
Are colors, sounds and titillations.  Pablums feed
Not only children, but our adults too.
We substitute, for facts, mythologies.

So all are turned to salesmen, pitching sales
Of goods and services and attitudes –
Plus wars, of course, as needed for the rest...
And all depends, at end, on packaging.

And only violence appears to wake
Our souls from somnolence.  We vent that rage
That stems from fear, frustration, ignorance.

We cannot see, through blinding prejudice.
We cannot hear the subtleties of tone,
With ears that have been blasted by the noise
That issues, amplified, from gadgets' mouths.
We gladly dance to tawdry piper's tunes
That lead us further into misery.

The package, when it's opened, then is seen
As having content that is clearly not
As we envisioned from the packaging.
So we're enraged, but rarely blame ourselves
Or even packagers, but someone else.

The system's rarely questioned much in depth,
By him, who is a modern fatalist,
Conditioned to be so, by all he's seen,
Despite the jive and all the packaging.

“A pinball game it is, this life,” he says,
And some will win, and hopefully, it's me,
But all of us are losers in the end.”

“So let us all consume, as best we can,
While running fast to earn, so we can spend,
Or if we're prudent, sock away that sum,
That's ever growing, for that future time
When we can either work no more or else
Are rich enough to finally relax.”

But then, too often, the unraveling:
The wealth has disappeared, along with health.
And what's now left is argument, divorce.
The dream's still distant. What is real, is debt.

And as with persons, so with larger realms.

“What happened?  This was not to supposed to be.
We cannot lose, for we're the winning kind.
It must be those and that and all the rest
That's come between us and the very best.”

And welcome, all, to world, as it's perceived
By optimists who flourish in the west
And surely, in our day, in east as well.
Mirages will be chased, as empires rise
And even as they fall to sordid death.

“So what, in this, is new?” you well might ask.
Our masses, long ago, to sheep were turned,
That did, as wolves-turned-herders, class of lords,
Commanded.  Violence was always used,
With law and church subverted for the ends
Of those who reigned and profited the most
From all the labor of the ones “below”.
This came to them along those feeding chains
That still exist.  But times have always changed,
With evils old acquiring newest names...

So now, it seems, the ones who do the best
Are those adept at selling, to the rest,
The products and the myths that propagate
And feed yet more the cancer that has spread
To all the globe, devouring all of life
And humankind itself.  For it's been found
That we've been numbed and dumbed enough to yield,
And gladly, to the art of packaging...

So commerce rules, as many had foretold,
And finance now is openly our king,
And as predicted, local business dies
As giants dominate the globe and run
Their races for resources, markets and
For humans, too, that robots can't replace.

And since so many care for price and show,
And little else, the jobs, to places go,
Where pay is least, conditions often worst.

And labor thus gets cheaper by the day
And yet must face replacement by the ones
Who need no wages, pensions, benefits,
Nor even sleep nor pause from constant toil,
But clank and whir – or function silently.

So many now are jobless. There's no land
Or village to return to.  Others strive
To join their ends – and work themselves to death.
Yet others thrive – or else make do on what
The race throws up – or government largess.

The ties of village and of clan are lost.
Traditions, cultures dissipate and die.
While some may celebrate the evils gone,
Some others see that evils new have come,
With horrors often even greater, yet
So packaged that they tempt unwary souls
And snare them in the nets they can't escape.

What once was virtue, now is seen as vice.
And newer vices rise, as virtues hailed...
So soul departs, with all of substance lost,
And all that's left is lust and violence.

There's more today of entertainment, food,
But less, by far, of depth and quality,
And dare we say, of plain humanity.
We live and die on “bread and circuses”.

The children are corrupted.  Innocence
Is quickly lost, impatience, shallowness,
Suspicion celebrated, trust misplaced,
Sincerity misunderstood, abused...

And yet, on all of this, the marketers
Are able still to put a glossy sheen,
As we can see in plastic packaging...

We do not know, what misery's behind
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, our drugs,
And all that we so willingly consume.
But there are those who suffer.  Yet we're told
They do so willingly – or else, it's God,
Who has ordained they serve our endless wants. 

And if we're scolded for this painting dark
That spreads the shadows, at expense of light,
And does not show the ones who benefit
From all that vision, driving labor, wrought,
We answer, “Surely, of those things, you've heard
Enough.  Discern advances genuine
From those that are yet more of packaging.

“Remember, we are beasts of local scope.
The more the distance is, the more the chance
Of scams.  To pipers, near or distant, do
Not dance – or if you do, step carefully...

“And open, if you can, the packaging.”

2013 August 4, Sun.
(additions made August 10, Sat.)
Brooklyn
   
The Age of Packaging -- Part I
    

A Ramble and a Rant--Part I

        
A Ramble and a Rant
        
Part I – A Ramble

When I was young, I read or I was told
That you can tell a lunatic by this –
A person who believes that he is sane
But is convinced that all the rest are not.

I look around, and more and more, I see
That people rarely question what they do,
For if they did, they'd see the craziness.
I wonder, does this mean that I'm insane?

I also see, the ones who're sensitive,
The ones who care, are diligent to fault –
They seem to be the ones, who're most at risk
Of going quietly mad from hopelessness.

When I was young, I saw a fly that buzzed
Against a window pane.  It beat its wings
And dropped, at end, exhausted – there to die.
How many now are caught, as was that fly?

The sages say to find the peace within.
The seers speak of vision, bright and clear.
But when our work, our lives, are steeped in sin,
Can far be seen – or even what is near?

We learn a language – and what's right and wrong.
And languages, and morals  too, may vary.
But when there is a moral conflict, then
The ones of stronger conscience meet travail.

In this our world, where men can feed on men,
Our ethics turn to baggage that we carry,
And those with less can speed along with ease
And so can prosper.  Those with more cannot.

Our morals had evolved within our clans,
Where actions had their consequences as
The ones aggrieved or aided would be there,
To give to us, at end, what we deserved.

But now, we interact with strangers, who
Are next to naught to those who swindle, rob
Or even murder, singly or en masse,
And then depart – to dine and soundly sleep.

And so we did, with beasts we chased and killed,
Although some thanked the spirit of the beast,
While others thanked that god, who had ordained
That all that lived was their inheritance.

Religions, laws arose to meet the needs
Of people, unacquainted, thrown together,
With old constraints removed, in childhood learned,
With gentle arts that sprang from loving hearts.

But love and friendship bind, with tenderness,
The ones who're bonded by their births or chance,
And few are they, who're sainted far enough
To stretch these spheres to all that lives on Earth.

It's clear enough that laws, religions were
And still are used to keep us herded, tame,
Obedient to our masters, who exploit
Our labor in a god's or nation's name.

And so it is that hierarchies abound,
Be they in lands of empires in the east
Or north or south or west.  And each must bow
And be a vassal to a lord or god.

For even as there is, in all but few,
A sense of fairness, justice, equity,
There also is, it seems, proclivity
To be a serf – or else a master be.

How little do we know of history!
For even where traditions tell a tale,
How much of it is myth, we do not know,
And every nation centers on itself.

So victims' children may recall, perhaps,
The horrors past, those bloody annals that
The perpetrators' children glorify
Or do not care to know or understand...

And victors soon can occupy the place
That despots past assumed – and be the lords
To which the vanquished pledge their fealty.
So brigands rise, in time, to be as gods.

For see, we strive to learn the victors' tongue.
We ape their habits – and their vices, most.
We scorn the ones who feebly might resist,
As we, of newest lackey stations, boast.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

The Husband's Creed

  
The Husband's Creed
       
 Let me leave you here, my dear,
For just a little while.
And when I'm back, I'd like to see
A dinner and a smile.

An hour or two, perhaps a day,
A month or more, maybe...
How do I know, don't ask me more.
To tasks of household, see.

The duties of a wife, you know –
And that is all you need.
I will provide you wherewithal,
With which to children feed.

But do not ask me what I do
When I step out that door.
With what I say, be satisfied –
And do not ask me more.

I am a man – and men have needs,
As you, perhaps, were told.
Let that suffice.  Let those, who serve,
Refrain from questions bold.

So let me leave you here, my dear.
I'm sure you've work to do –
And I have mine.  We're married now
And I'll be watching you.
   
2013 July 21st, Sun.
Brooklyn
   

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  

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