Blessing

 
Blessing

 
How blind we are to pain and misery—
Except when it affects us or our own!
How many smiling faces turned to grief,
How many vanished, never to return!

 
They still exist, within our inner realms.
We hear their laughter, see them smile and weep.
Their voices echo deep within us still—
And so they stay with us, until we leave.
 
 ****** 

 
How many images of scattered gore
And spattered blood—so red, that then congeals!
How much of terror and of horror, yet
They each are gifts that we can cherish still—

 
The images we saw, upon the screen,
Of men and women searching for their kin
And never finding them, because they’d been
Entombed below—or burned and blown to bits.

 
****** 

When death releases us from torture, pain,
Then death becomes a blessing and release.
And though we watched from very far away,
We learned the lessons, while the victims paid.

Some say their cause was hopeless, that they should
Accept their fate and bow and fade away.
We saw the children play, so full of life.
We saw them die. And yet they gave us life—

******  

For we were blind and now our eyes can see.
And we were deaf and now we hear again.
Our hearts and minds were opened and were blessed.
We bear their witness, with their joy and pain.

Can lives be lost to madness and regained?
Can laughter light those faces once again?
Alas! No miracles can bring them back to life.
And yet they live within us—gifting strength.

2025 October 12, Sun.
Berkeley, California

Release

Release

We try to judge the act and not the person,

And this can serve us well through all our years,

But often we may struggle all alone,

And then perhaps could shed our bitter tears,

Had we not seen how others suffered more 

And so had gained perspective—being blessed

By traces left of humor that could see

The comedy of this, the “tragic self”—

And so could pause from misery to smile

And even laugh out loud at such a plight—

And so, amidst what seemed as darkness, find

The fortitude to still perceive the light.

****** 

We carry burdens, dense, of varied  weight, 

Of all the wrongs we’ve borne. And every grudge

Can add to these, until we let them fall

And so are freed to let the heavens judge

Our acts and those of others, breathing free

To hark to conscience, heed to duties left—

To breathe in peace and even take delight

In pleasures small and what we still have left.

This needs some practice, letting grasping go

Of fears, desires, attachments, rages—all

The things that snare us, all the chains we’ve wrought—

To find release from years in captive thrall.

2025, April 15th, Tue

Berkeley, California 

Faith

Faith

When bribes and threats combine with endless lies,

And death and dread destroy our bodies, minds, 

What then sustains the life, the will to fight,

The strength to bear the blows—and all the pain?

What could it be, except conviction, faith—

The love that still sustains and still reminds

Our wretched souls that there can still be light

And all our endless work was not in vain?

******

So even if we do not live to see

The darkness yield as dawn ascends the east,

We still can strive so that that hour can be

That lights the eyes of those considered least.

So some deride the faith that gives us strength,

And others say it hardly will suffice

Against the foe of overwhelming might. 

And yet we turn to virtue, turn from vice.

****** 

So faith informs our hearts and minds and deeds.

Despite our errors, frailties, and needs,

We turn from hatred, turn from hardened hearts—

To practice courage—and the caring arts.

The outcome often can’t be known—and yet 

Our faith sustains us. Though we can’t forget

The pain inflicted by the heartless foe,

Our faith does not allow the hate to grow.

2025, February 21st, Fri.

Berkeley, California 

Mayar Cho'le-মায়ার ছলে+An Infant Cries in Palestine

মায়ার ছলে

ফিলিস্তিনে শিশু কাঁদে।
দূর সুদানেও তাই। 
কঙ্গোতেও কান্না ভাসে। 

ইয়েমেন দেশেও, ভাই। 

যতই কাঁদে, পায় না জবাব। 
চুপ হয়ে যায় শেষে।
ত্রাসের থেকে নেই যে রেহাই, 
দুর্ভাগা সব দেশে।

দেশে-দেশে, অনাহারে 
লোকে ভুগে মরে— 
নইলে কবর, নইলে শ্মশান, 
জ্যান্ত, বোমার ঝড়ে।

****** 

উপমহাদেশের ব্যোমে 
শোকের বাতাস বয়ে। 
পূর্ব থেকে কাঁদুনি এসে
পশ্চিম-নিবাসী হয়।

******

কার আদেশে হত্যা এতো? 
কোন কানুনে, শোক? 
জানলে পরে, জানিও আমায়— 
যেটাই জবাব হোক। 

‘আমি-তুমি, আমরা-তারা!’ 
বিবাদ, লড়াই চলে। 
অন্তরে যে সবাই এক-ই, 
ভোলায়, মায়ার ছলে। 

এই মায়া তো উৎস, ক্রোধের। 
দয়ার মায়া নয়। 
এর ফাঁদে লোক বিবেক হারায়।
নিষ্ঠুরতার জয়। 

সোমবার, ২রা সেপ্টেম্বর, 
বার্ক্লি, কালিফর্নিয়া 

----------------------------------------------

An Infant Cries in Palestine

An infant cries in Palestine, 
Another in Sudan. 
The winds in Congo carry wails. 
In Yemen, it's the same. 

No answer to the crying, so 
It comes, at last, to end. 
No respite from the terror, pain—
In these forsaken lands 

Where people die from famines or
Are buried, burned, alive
As bombs descend like rain in storms
On those who’re terrified.

******

The winds of weeping waft across
Subcontinental skies,
As sorrows sough from East to West
And find their resonance.

******

By whose command, this violence? 
Which law dictates this grief? 
If you come to know, inform me, 
Whatever it may be. 

“You and me! Us and them!” 
Disputes and fights go on. 
That all of us are the same, within—
That truth has been forgotten.

 
This is a cause of our madness, while
Our kindness lies discarded. 
We lose our consciences in snares. 
Cruelty prevails. 

2024, September 2nd, Mon. 
(translated from Bengali, September 3rd) 
Berkeley, California

Dukkher Bhar-দুঃখের ভার-The Weight of Woe-2024-08-17+24

 
দুঃখের ভার 

 
খাবারের মধ্যে কত রকম স্বাদ! 
তেতোটাও খেতে হয়, কিছু পরিমাণে—
বেশিতে বিষ, কমে স্বাস্থ্যকর।
বাকি স্বাদের খাদ্যের ক্ষেত্রেও তাই।

 
জীবনের নিমন্ত্রণে, কত কিছু পাতে পড়ে!
সুখ চেখে, দুঃখ গিলতে হয়। 
এতেও সুষমতা চাই, তবে কারোর
ক্লেশের ভারে পেয়ালা ভেঙ্গে যায়।

  
শনিবার, ১৭ আগস্ট, ২০২৪ খ্রিস্টাব্দ
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

------------------------------------------------------------

The Weight of Woe

 

Within the foods we eat, how many tastes!

The bitters must be taken too, in turns--

Excesses poison, traces good for health.

The same is true for foods of other tastes.

 

How many fares can fall upon our plates!

We taste our bits of pleasure, swallow pains.

A balance would be good. For some, alas--

The weight of woe can break and shatter plates.

 

Sat, 17th August, 2024

(translated Sat, 24th Aug)

Berkeley, California

Tides

 
Tides

The rhythms of the skies and seas,
The cycles of our lives,
The beats within the lines I write,
The pulse of breath and blood…

As women feel, in their fertile years,
Their monthly rises, ebbs,
So we each can sense the beating heart,
The in and out of breath…

******

The days and nights—they alternate.
The moon—it waxes, wanes.
The seasons come and go and then
They come and go again.

We're carried by the tides that surge 
Around us and within.
So life proceeds, with birth and youth—
And then with age and death.

But these—the seasons of our lives—
They never will return
Within a generation, yet
Will rise and ebb in turn

For others, just as they have done
For generations past.
So let us breathe and be in peace 
Until we breathe our last.

******

But where we see there’s sorrow, should
We choose to look away—
Or strive instead, with every breath,
To ease the weight of pain?
 
For how can we remain at peace
As others suffer, die—
And truth itself has been dispatched
Or hidden by the lie?
 
******
 
The tides of justice turn in time
But not without our aid.
However small we are, we still
Can help to turn the tide.
 
Together, we can try to turn
Towards sanity and peace,
So justice, long denied, is served,
And manmade sorrows ease.
 
2024 Aug 3rd, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

My Father’s Photographs of India

 
My Father’s Photographs of India

There's happiness and even joy
Within this world we’re in,
Yet measured out to just a few—
Or so it seems to me—

As humans, all together, shape
The human world and more,
With just a few in leading roles
And others pulled in line.

But when I look at photographs
My father once had taken,
Along with images of woe—
Of famines, riots, flights— 

And those of workers under stress
In factories, sewers, mines—
I see the faces—calm, composed,

And even smiling wide—

Of peasants in the villages
Among the hills and plains,
Of tribal folk in dignity—
Not bowed, but standing straight—

Of people living common lives—
But not in misery,
In poses, choreographed, it seems,
Within a flowing dance. 

******

The interruption of that dance—
The speeding of the pace—
The separation, competition—
Is what we humans face.

******   

Inequities of ages, borne
By those who worked the hardest—
Those still persist, but added on
Are pressures more destructive.

We each can shrug and say, “So what?”
Or say that this was destined,
Or pause, reflect, and ask if we
Have choices still for freedom.

That word—it once had resonance
And gave the people hope
In struggles that they fought and won
Or lost—while still persisting.

So every generation must
Do battle in its turn—
Not giving in to cynics or
To apathy or fear.

Yet those who care and those who dare
Are few and far between. 
The rest of us would rather shut
Our eyes to cruelest sins.

****** 

I see the images on screen
Of what is happening now—
And I am sickened to the core—
As long ago I’d been

When working with the refugees,
In nineteen-seventy-one,
Who’d left behind their homes and farms
To flee across a border.

How difficult it is for me,
Now even more than then,
To watch this manmade suffering,
And see no end in sight.

And yet, I look at photographs
My father took of those
Who died when people rose to greet
The “Naval Mutiny”.

And lo—the women, children, men,
Who lie there, stripped and dead,
With bullets through their heads or chests,
Are clothed in radiance.

2024 July 30th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Jot'ilo'tae murkho-জটিলতায় মূর্খ

  
জটিলতায় মূর্খ
 
কত শিশুর কান্না শুনি, 
কত মায়ের বিলাপ। 
কত বাবার দুঃখ, নিরব।
পাপের ওপর পাপ।
 
দয়ার গীতি গাইলো কত 
ভক্ত, সাধু, পীর।
ঘুমের থেকে জাগলো কত 
বুদ্ধ, মহাবীর।
 
তবুও বোমা, তবুও তোপ।
হত্যা, হাহাকার।
প্রাচুর্যের পাশেই আজও
তৃষ্ণা, অনাহার।

******
 
এই জগতের শোকের মাঝে, 
তুচ্ছ আমার ক্লেশ। 
নেই গো কোনো জাতি আমার, 
নেই গো কোনো দেশ।

******
 
কোনো দলের পক্ষ নিয়ে 
করবো কেনো মান?
যেথায় যখন চেতন জাগে, 
সেথায় তখন স্থান।
 
অন্যের সুখে খুশি আমার,
অন্যের পীড়ায় দুঃখ।
এই টুকু, ভাই, জেনে আমি
জটিলতায় মূর্খ। 
 
ইতিহাসে, বিজ্ঞানে,
কত কিছু আছে।
সরল মনে থাকি তবু
মানবতার কাছে।
 
শনিবার, ৪ মে, ২০২৪ খ্রি.  
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া 
 

T'akar khe'la-টাকার খেলা

 
টাকার খেলা

শ্রমের চাপে, কৃষক-কুলির 
শরীর ভেঙে পড়ে। 
ধনিক জনের সঞ্চয় বাড়ে।
গরীব ভুগে মরে।

জীবন ধরে, বেদম খেটে, 
শ্রমিক খোড়ে গর্ত। 
খাজনা-সুদ-মুনাফায় বাড়ে 
পুঁজিপতির অর্থ।

সব ক্রিয়াতে টাকার খেলা, 
কৃপার ঘোর অভাব। 
‘শান্তি’-কালেও যুদ্ধ চলে। 
মহাজনের লাভ।

লোভের থেকে, হিংস্রতা,
লুন্ঠন, হাহাকার।
সহ্য করলে, মৃত্যু ধীরে।
লড়লে, শীঘ্র বার।

জনসাধারণ বন্দী থাকে 
ধূর্ত ঠকের ফাঁদে। 
অন্যায়-অত্যাচারের জুলুম।
অনাথ শিশু কাঁদে।

 বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Ki bujhechi-কি বুঝেছি

 

কি বুঝেছি?

আমার জীবন, অতি সাধারন। 

নেই গো তাতে হীরে-রতন। 

ঘোসে-মেজে বাসন, চালিয়েছি তাও, 

করেছি আয়, আয়োজন।

ভোরের আলোয় জেগেছে আশা। 

সাঁঝের সাথে এসেছে ক্লান্তি। 

দিনের বেলায় করেছি কাজ। 

শেষের বেলায় চেয়েছি শান্তি।

কত রকমের নিষ্ঠুরতা, 

কত চেতনের কান্না, হায়! 

নির্বিকারে, হৃদয় ঢেকে, 

চলছে পথে, সবাই প্রায়।

কারোর জীবন কষ্টে কাটে, 

কারোর সহজ পথে। 

ধুঁকতে ধুঁকতে লক্ষ হাটে।

কেউ ভেসে যায় রথে।

এই জীবনের স্রোতে ভেসে, 

ভুগেছি কত দুঃখে, ক্লেশে। 

দেখেছি কত দয়া, মায়া। 

কি বুঝেছি, সবের শেষে?

অনেক দেখে, অনেক ভেবে—
লবডঙ্কা, গোল্লা, জিরো!

তাই, হতাশায়, আবোল-তাবোল 

পদ্য লিখে, হচ্ছি হিরো।

সোমবার, ১৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

Tuccho, apon be'tha-তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা

 
তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা
 
 দুর্ভাগ্যদের দশা দেখি, দুঃখ-ভরা মনে।
চোখের কোণায় কান্না আসে, বুকে লাগে ব্যথা।
 
রাগও আসে, জোয়ার-স্রোতে, ভাটার টানে যায়।
কি করা, ভাই, কেবল ভাবি। দেখছি শুধু, হায়!
কিছুটুকু চাঁদা পাঠাই, কিছু পাতা লিখি।
বুঝি, সব-ই ব্যর্থ শেষে। শিক্ষা, কঠোর, শিখি।
 
এই টুকু তাও ভরসা দেখি—আলোর ঝিলিক, কোণে।
আত্মা, নিজের দুঃখে হাসে। তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা।
 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

Progoti-প্রগতি

 
প্রগতি
 
 প্রগতির গান গাইছো তুমি—
 নতুন যুগের জয়।
 নিষ্ঠুরতার অন্ত কোথায়?
 জীবের চোখে ভয়।
 বোমার ঝড়ে ঝাঁকছে ভূমি,
 কাঁপছে শিশু, হায়!
 
 মা-বাবা যে কোথায় গেলো!
 কোথায়, দিদি-দাদা?
 এই প্রগতির দাপট দেখে,
 ভাসছে চোখে ধাঁধা।
রাত পোহালো, প্রভাত এলো।
ধুঁকছে, রক্ত মেখে।

এই প্রগতির উগ্র প্রচার 

হচ্ছে যতই দেশে,

গানের ধ্বনি উঠছে জেগে 

ততই তীব্র ক্লেশে।

 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

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

 

No Matter

 
No Matter
 
There’s rarely justice in this life on Earth.
The Buddha said, “We suffer, right from birth.”
So every pleasure leads in time to pain—
And every joy to sorrow, once again.
 
So those with conscience left may speak and then
Be punished. So it's been, with the best of men
And women. Caring, labor rarely win
Their just rewards. The world is mired in sin.
 
And neither is there a hell or a heaven, friend,
That waits for us. When life is at its end,
Oblivion is—and there the matter stands,
As far as this one kens and understands.
 
******
 
No matter! We are born—to laugh and cry,
And then in time to age and then to die,
At times before our times, so some may weep—
And realize that life is not to keep.
 
No matter! Precious still, this little time!
And so, I'd end my little nonsense rhyme—
But wait! I'll slow—and sip of life a while
And raise my glass to end it with a smile.
 
To every friend or foe who's crossed my way,
I raise a toast and from my heart I say,
“I wish you joy—and though there might be woe,
You'll bend and mend, and smile and let it go.”
 
2022 October 26^th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

 

Pain

Pain
 
How much of pain can a being endure—
How much of sorrow and grief?
How much injustice can a heart have to bear—
How much of heartless deceit?
 
Yet the pain will be borne, in silence—and tears

That are felt—but cannot be shed.
And the heart and the mind may fill with the words
That will never, in public, be said.
 
One is weak and afraid, when courage has left
And the strength of our youth has departed.
Yet memories rise, of deeds that were brave
And of labor—and years that seem wasted—
 
But truly were not—for the service we did
Had its fruits in the ones that we served.
And even in pain, we remember the smiles
And that honor—in hearts—is preserved.
 
2022 May 30^th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Lord of Deception

The Lord of Deception 

How many the flags, how many the songs!
How often the nations have hidden their wrongs
And pointed to those of the others, as flags
Were raised to the skies, with salutes and with songs!

There’s a chord within humans that is struck by these things,
So our eyes—they may water as the lead singer sings
And the words of the anthem and the fluttering flag—
They can lift up our hearts as our spirits find wings.

There’s a music that's martial that is truly an art—
With the swirl of the pipes, and the drums at the heart.
It can set our hearts pounding, as schoolchildren race
To see all the marchers, before they depart.

If only the virtues of citizens could
Be uplifted by flags and by songs as they should,
We might smile at these follies and not weep at the thought
Of the evils our Master has sold us as good.

******

The sister, she suffers; the brother, he dies.
The widow remembers her husband and sighs.
The orphans, they weep for the parents they lost,
As nations and empires are built upon lies.

Oh love, with your being, your land and your clan!
Be strong, like a woman!  Be brave, like a man!
Be a seeker of truth and a giver of love,
But turn from deception, as much as you can!

The truth is not simple—and yet it is true.
It’s waiting for me and it’s waiting for you.
Uncover the truth and discover its layers.
What’s right, by your heart and your reason, then do.

You aren’t a label—a religion or state.
Be mindful and turn from the madness of hate.
We were born from the stars that are burning on high,
But it’s we who are turning to decide on our fate.

******

Let us turn towards reason, let us turn towards love.
Let’s release, from its prison, that captive—the dove.
With peace in our hearts, let us see that our fates—
They are chosen by humans, not the stars up above.

How many, the hours that a parent has labored
For the children, with whom they in youth had been favored!
How hopeless, the feeling, at the death of a child,
Whose life, in its fullness, will never be savored!

How many—the parents, who have toiled and have grieved!
As the fruit of their labors, what have they received?
How many, the soldiers and others who’ve died—
By the slogans of empires and nations deceived!

Let the death of a friend and the death of a foe
Be equal—in that there should never be more
That are needlessly caused by the madness of sin
And the lies that are layered on the lying before.

******

Let nations and empires be things of the past.
Let us turn to our essence, from madness, at last.
The roar of the mill and the din of the war—
They’re the voice of the One, who from heaven was cast.

And here, on this planet, He’s been telling His lies.
For each that believes Him, another one dies.
He’s the Lord of Deception—and the flags and the songs
He has turned to His use—as we perish like flies.

And the sins we’ve committed, with falsehoods in mind,
Ensure that we’re damned—and with death we will find
We are trapped in the hell that we made for the others—
That they might have escaped, if we’d thought to be kind.

His name?  It is Mammon.  But His faces are many.
He is inked on the note and He’s scribed on the penny.
We march to His orders, not knowing they’re His.
If we beg Him for truth—He never has any.

******

The Lord of Deception?  A title, a name—
A way of describing the source of our shame, 
A personification, like Mammon, of all
That has led to this hell that is played like a game.
 
Our Master?  Our masters—for there isn't just one—
They are making us play at this game that they've won
Again and again, and will win, till we see
That we lose even more, the harder we run.

The nation?  A deity, not fashioned from clay,
But rather from that which is current today—
From symbols like flags, and with borders on maps, 
And armies—and taxes for funding the play.

But it's Mammon that's driving the engines of war
And is making us less than the beings we are.
So bow not to Mammon or others on high!
It's love, and not hate, that will carry us far.

2019 February 5th, Tue. &16th, Sat. 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
  

For Me and You

For Me and You

We humans weren’t ever meant to be
As lonely jackals, wary of the rest.
We need at times our solitude—and yet
We need some others too, to be our best.

In nature, there are solitary beasts.
The male orangutan may munch alone.
But lonely humans at their lunches ask—
What sin was it, for which they now atone?

We hurry to our schools or jobs and there
We meet with fellow humans—more than less,
And this may tire us or sustain us, so
Our lunches may be respites from the stress.

******

But when we are confined, at home or work,
And see and hear no others for a while—
That might be days or weeks or even months—
We might forget to laugh—or even smile.

And now—in exiles or in prisons or
In lonely houses or in sterile wards,
We humans wither, torn from those we loved,
Who now are distant—or forever gone.

We pine for scents and tastes and textures that
Are now but memories—fading, even lost.
The years go by—and then the decades too.
And this is progress—with its human cost.

******

And so we worry and we wonder how
We might fulfill our duties to the ones
From whom we parted. Mothers rise to speak
In daughters’ dreams—and fathers, in their sons’.

As sap is what sustains the cells of trees,
And flows, within us, keep our own alive,
And like the air and water—and the foods we eat,
So also is this join, on which we thrive.

We need to feel the earth and see the sky,
To hear the plants, the beasts—and humans too.
There is a vibrance that connects and heals—
And so I write this verse—for me and you.

******
 
And yet—we age and in our age despair
Of ever having strength to reach across
The oceans and the continents—for some
Have hardly strength to bear the local cross.

How often has an exile wished to be
Not one, but two or even more—so she
Could be in places far apart at once—
And realized that this could never be.

So all that we can do, it seems, is this—
To do as needed in the place we are,
For we are locals, like the nesting hens
That cannot wander, from their clutches, far.

******

We're blown apart by commerce and by war.
The wealth is drained from villages to towns
And thence to hubs of industry or where
The bankers rule and presidents are clowns.

In dreams, our bodies may be imaged, and
In waking, minds are often split in two—
And only half is present where we walk,
The other being where we’re needed too.

But let me dwell no more on sorrows here,
For surely you have had enough of those.
I can’t be near to you in body, but
Remember—that in spirit, I am close.

2018 April 5th Thu. & 7th Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------

"Does wisdom come with age?"
"It does with some of us, dear, but not with the humans.
Those beasts are very slow learners."
http://news.discovery.com/animals/videos/why-cant-chimps-speak-video-140919.htm

  

Self and Other--The Cooler Spots in Hell

Self and Other  (The Cooler Spots in Hell)

The mantra is—it's I and me
And then perhaps some others.
And off to hell with all the rest!
We aren't sisters, brothers—

For even if by chance we were,
We now no longer are.
So each is free to cheat and steal.
All's fair, in hate and war.

And so we've made a hell for most,
And heaven for the vile,
Who sit upon their thrones of gold
And look at us and smile.

We hate the ones who're far away.
We hate the ones who're near.
We hate each other, even those
Who surely should be dear.

It's self that is the king, be it
The self of self or more.
The others are our enemies
Or those we should ignore.

And how is it we've come to this,
Where brother turns on brother?
We've bitten on the hook, whose bait
Is that of self and other.

Oh wake up from this dream, and see
The other too is you
As you are him or her or it.
Those bonds, again renew—

For lonely is the heart that lives
In isolation long.
Rejoin this world of joy and woe—
The one where you belong.

But see, we now are penned apart,
By pressure or by choice.
How rarely can one leap the fence
And then, in tears, rejoice!

We're told that we have freedom, yet
We now are worse than slaves—
For look at whom we adulate
And see how he behaves.

If only we could find within
That innocence of old,
And also all the wisdom lost,
In Man's pursuit of gold!

How many pounds and shillings earned,
At the dearest of expense?
How many starved, or burned alive
To raise the margin’s pence?

We prey upon each other and
We praise the ones who feast,
While mocking those who're feasted on,
In west and south and east—

For in those lands the natives too
Are preying on each other,
Although they still, on meeting, use
The greetings, “Sister!”, “Brother!”

But those are turned to empty words.
We use the behen or bhai, *
But then we set that all aside,
For each must sell and buy.

So each of us is caught within
That net that snares the world.
We see but self and other, so
We each are lured and hurled—

To land within the cooking pot.
And there we simmer, fry,
As all around we hear the ones,
Who suffer, wail and cry.

But look—how many stop their ears
And say that all is well.
They've found themselves the cooler spots
That still exist in hell.

2017 October 16th, Mon.

* behen, bhai:  sister, brother, in Hindi-Urdu and other languages of northern India and Pakistan
  
These terms are habitually used in some regions not only for siblings but more generally, including as a title or in greetings. This was meant to express sisterhood/brotherhood—as was, and in places still is, common in many cultures, especially rural ones, all over the world.
  

Baba (Dear Father)

Baba (Dear Father)

The summer solstice came and went—and now
the date approaches when you left this life
and so returned to nothingness again.

So mother too had left, a month before—
like you, before the school-year came to end
and set me free, for August and July—
too late, that year, for her—and then for you.

And so your daughter too had gone—before
you both—and left us all disconsolate.

******

Now school is ending—and there’s time to pause,
returning home—to sit within a park,
the playground of a school, bereft of trees—
with tar and concrete, where there should be grass.

So here I sit and bask in summer’s sun—
or swelter, as those summers come to mind,
beneath those skies that arced in brilliance,
beneath that sun that burned our darkened skins—
and in that land where you and I were born.

******

How close and distant were the father, son—
how rare and dear the tears that you and I
had wept, across the years and continents.

By culture, I was bred for reverence—
and more for elders than for all the gods.

But here I sit and weep, in quietude,
with little children’s voices wafting by,
remembering you, who once was little too—
and flew your kite, beneath that tropic sun.
 
******

How many children cry for parents lost,
how many parents for their children gone—
how many for a sibling or a friend,
or elder, younger—who is now no more…

So little time for joy—or even grief,
amidst the hustle of the city’s streets,
amidst the passage of a harried life…

How precious then, this time at summer’s start—
to pause and find the time to think of you.

2017 June 22, Thursday, 4:31 pm
playground, Public School 186
between 76th and 77th Streets, off 16th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

  

In Debt and in Surfeit

In Debt and in Surfeit

How troubled are our lives—and needlessly!
Our tribulations are engendered by
our own entrapment in the webs we weave.

How meager are the needs that must be met
so we may live, with freedom from distress.
The air we breathe is free—and so should be
the water that we drink.  We each can feast
a fortnight, just on rations carried on our backs.
We also need, in climates of extremes,
some shelter from the elements—and none
of us can live for long in icy cold,
without the clothes and heat that we require.
No primates ventured near the frozen realms,
except the ones who stitched and tended fires.

But that is all we really need—except
ourselves and those that give us company.
And in this last necessity, we find
a richness and a solace that had served
us well, providing culture, memory
that passed through generations—woven strands
that still endure—although we now retreat
to hermit cells, preferring to subsist
on those connections more in our control,
so keeping humans off at distances,
while drowning still in debt and in surfeit.

Till yesterday, we lived as foragers,
content and fully human—that, which we
are now no more, except in vestiges.

2017 May 5th, Fri, 6:10 pm
Milestone Park, Bensonhurst
Brooklyn, New York