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
 

Broverbs for Teachers

     
Broverbs for Teachers
 
There’s many a way to say a truth, and many a way to lie,
And all our lives we dance with words, until it’s time to die.
Let kindness reign, not cruelty, in how we speak and act –
For if, within, we've empathy, we've also, in us, tact.

The dogmas and the diktats that are used to tame and rule,
We each should quietly challenge – or be treated like a tool.
If even angels can’t devise a method for all things,
Then should we trust the shysters who pretend that they have wings?

Be wary of the ones who lie – who bully, cheat and worse,
But not of those, whose only sin is truth – in prose or verse.
Be wary of the powerful.  Look not for fame or wealth.
Go humbly, where the peaceful are.  Be mindful of your health.

******

The labor that’s of love may bring rewards of cash or kind.
And if it does, be grateful.  If it doesn’t, do not mind.
Subvert the mills of humankind.  They feed on flesh and soul.
Renew your ties to Nature.  She will help to keep you whole.

******
 
The autumns in these polar lands are times when schools begin.
The summers fade to memories – and soon, we’re sunk in sin.
Resist, resist, with all your might, and yet preserve your strength.
The battles, you may win or lose.  The war is long in length.

When humbled by the overseers, when robbed of strength and sense,
Remember then the humbled ones, and be not over-tense.
The work you do has meaning, though you’re told that it has not.
Go gently to your work at school, and shy away from rot.

Blessed is the one who teaches, teaches from the heart.
Blessed is the one who learns – learning, too, of heart.
For all the universe may spin around and disappear,
But knowledge is a precious thing – that should be without fear.

2014 October 13th, Monday
Brooklyn, New York 
 

Dialog – A Teacher Retires

     
Dialog – A Teacher Retires
  
There are ways that we die, in our bodies and minds,
And one is the way of the worker,
Who may labor for pay but who frequently finds
She’s imprisoned, because she’s no shirker.
 
If you care for a child or an elder or one
Who is ailing – or teach in a school,
And you care for your wards or your subjects, you run
And you slave – and they think you’re a fool.
 
So you’re treated like dirt, by the ones who’re in charge
And even by those, whom you work with.
You’ll be robbed of your sleep and your peace, till discharge
From the job, as a worker unfit.
  
I’ve taught many years in the schools in a borough
That once was a city as well.
And I’ve learned how to teach so as not to be thorough
And so earn a good living from hell. 
 
To “go with the flow” is to say what is apt,
To pass off, as truth, what’s a lie –
For the one who’s not clever, who cannot adapt,
Is swatted and squashed like a fly.
 
“I’ve had it, my friend!” my co-worker said,
“I feel I’m a moron – a fool!
I can’t do my job, there’s a fire in my head,
And soon, I’ll be starting to drool.
 
“The sleep that I get isn’t restful or long –
I’m panicked and always behind.
I can’t do the things that they want. I belong
In a nuthouse – I’m losing my mind!
 
“I can see that my days in this job will be dire,
Even more than they’ve been till this day,
Unless I can change – which I can’t. To retire
And be poor, is what’s left as the way.
 
“There were times, in the past, when the work had its fun,
When I felt that my labor had paid,
So I slept well at nights. Though I still had to run,
I could do so.  My nerves weren’t frayed.

“I have taken as much as I can of this strife.
I will have to retire now, my friend.
So this year is my last.  Though this job’s been my life,
It is time now to end it – or end.”

I answered him lightly, with scant consolation.
Perhaps I’d been at it too long.
My manner had roughened, from years of frustration
In a place, where I did not belong.

“We’re here in a nuthouse, that’s also a jail.”
I said to my colleague and friend.
“The sincere – in this job, they are destined to fail –
For they’ve heart, and don’t follow the trend.

“You’ve been working too long – and you’re paying the cost,
For we’re marching and prancing in step,
But you’re tired and confused. You are frightened and lost,
And you feel you’re the stupidest schlep.

“Oh hi-dilly-dilly and hi-dilly-do!
You don’t see a way to get out of your rut.
So sing with me, hidi-hi, sing with me more!
For what does it matter, if they think you’re a nut?

“How can you think, when your brain is on fire –
If you’ve worked and you’ve worked and it still makes no sense?
So sing with me, hidi-hi!  Before you retire,
Sing with me loudly, and you won’t be so tense.

“Oh pity the young ones, and pity those caught
As they’re ground by the millstones of madness to flour.
And think, what you’ve suffered – and vow, there’ll be naught
That you won’t do to stop this, that’s still in your power.

“For how can you think, when your mind is aflame –
When all that you’ve worked for is whittled to naught?
So sing with me, hi-dilly, hidi!  For blame
Won’t free all the students and teachers who’re caught.

“So you first must escape – and put out that flame.
And then, with your thinking and speaking and acts,
Put an end to the running and lying and blame –
Dispense with the falsehoods and deal with the facts.”

“I’m tired and confused – for it’s all so surreal!
But the outside is better, you say?
There are times, when I think that this just isn’t real –
That I’ll function again, if I stay.

"Perhaps all the teachers will rise up and cry,
‘We had it!  Enough, with this dung!’
Perhaps then our union, on hearing that cry,
And fearing, will get back its tongue?”

I laughed – and I told him, what cynics would say.
And he winced, when he heard what I said.
Perhaps I was harsh in my words and my way,
For he listened – and hung down his head.

“They’ve got us, they’ve got us!  There’s Bloomberg and Arnie.
There’s Rhee and there’s Gates and there’s Cuomo and Klein.
And who is resisting? Is Mulgrew or Randy?
Ach nein, meine Herren und Damen!  Ach, nein!

“So sing with me, hidi-ho, hi-dilly-dee!
You’ll still go out singing, although you’ll sing low.
And when you’ve retired, remember then me!
And do then your damndest, so this is no more!”

“What?  Escape from the jailhouse and stay at its fences?
You surely are joking, my friend in the jail?
Say what?  They’ll still get me, the Bloombergs and Gateses?
My pension?  Oh come on!  This city can’t fail…”

“My friend and colleague, who’s retiring, who’s worked
His sentence of years and yet more – yes I know
That you gave of your best – and you rarely have shirked,
But your work is beginning – and your labor will grow.

“But sing and rejoice!  For now you’ll be free!
No more of the dread and the drudgery, no!
You’ll work now for love – and for those who’re like me.
For us and our students, you’ll settle the score.”

He had listened and quieted. I waited a while.
It seemed, at a juncture, my friend had arrived –
For he looked at me strangely, with a sad sort of smile,
As he spoke to me softly, in a whisper that knifed.

“You’re dreaming, my friend, who is caught in the school.
I’ll think of you often – and perhaps you are right.
I’ll still have to fight on – but only a fool
Would flee from the darkness – to run back to night!”

My turn, to be quiet!  Our roles had reversed.
It was I, who now felt like a fool.
And perhaps this was right. For a man should be cursed,
Who has treated his friend like a mule.

He left rather early.  He was late the next day.
I saw he was smiling.  I guessed at the why,
But asked for a reason.  He answered me, gay,
“I’m off to the city, to tell them ‘goodbye’.”
 
2014 September 28th, Sun.
(edited & added to, October 8th, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
    

Thugs and Crooks

  
Thugs and Crooks

You’ve been a model student, and you’ve done what was expected.
You’ve come to class on time and done your homework as required.
Your teacher and your classmates, you have humored and respected,
And while in class, you’ve done your work – and furthermore, enquired.

You’ve asked me questions, seeing that I’m older and a teacher.
And I will try to answer them, as is, indeed, my duty.
But some things, that you ask, are deep.  If only we could reach her,
The goddess, if she knew, might speak, in words of truth and beauty.

But I am just a mortal, who was born, like you and others,
To live my life – to wake and sleep, to work and then to die,
And like yourself and others here, their fathers and their mothers,
And those, whom you might bring to life, I’ll never know the “why”.

I came to my awareness on this planet that we’re on.
I do not know from where I came or why I’m here today.
I haven’t figured where I’ll go or whether I’ll return.
And yet, despite this ignorance, I still have lots to say.

On many things, I can expound, and do so endlessly.
I went to school and read in books, and even paused to think.
So I can tell you of the earth, the heavens and the sea,
And how it is that icebergs float – but ships that hit them sink.

And though I wasn’t there and so it all could just be fiction,
I still can tell you tales of times of very long ago.
I’ll even speak of what will be, when you and I are gone,
And tell you why you need, at times, to say to others, “No.”

So sit right there and listen – when you’ve finished with your notes.
And I will tell you what I know – and you can ask me more.
And I may ask you questions too, to write below those notes,
And you can tell me what you know – and question even more.

But do excuse my ignorance, on all that really matters.
They didn’t teach that at my school, it isn’t in the books.
And that is why, I cannot, truly, give you all the reasons
That schools and all the rest are often run by thugs and crooks.

2014 August 31st, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Cruelty is Zen

   
Cruelty is Zen
 
You can rail against the madness,
You can work yourself to death.
Until the workers wake up,
The lash is what you'll get.

Why butt your head in fervor,
Until you've brains no more?
The wall will never crumble
Until you're joined by more.

You can follow, quietly, conscience,
But beware that this is known.
When you're punished for your efforts,
You will find you're all alone.
 
There are those who value labor,
There are those who think it cheap.
There are those who value knowledge,
There are those who shun the deep.

When the conscience is extinguished,
When the wisdom has been lost,
Then what avails the worker,
Who's the one who pays the cost?

The mother does her nurture,
The father works his day.
And both of them are working
For the rent and bills they pay.

The teacher does her teaching.
But if, at this, she's caught,
She had better flee the system,
For her future, there, is fraught.
 
The banks have swelled with profits,
The hedge-funds daily soar.
And Bloomberg's gone, but Cuomo,  *
At us mice, can sit and roar. 

And now, he throws us morsels,
And we run to gather crumbs,
As our union-heads, say, "Listen!
Those who're voting no are dumbs."

Can a wolf become a rabbit?
Can their Andrew be our friend?
When his hand is further strengthened,
Will we ever see the end?

There's a culture of corruption
That is global in its scope.
And until we end that culture,
For a better, is there hope?

We can see the children troubled,
We can see the children spoiled.
But can we see the reason,
And why our labor's foiled?

The quick and easy answers
Are often not the truth.
The reasons may be simple,
But you've got to find the root.

For we adults, we are troubled,
And we adults, we are spoiled,
Though there's many, who may labor
And be saddened this is foiled.

The forces, strong, of commerce,
They have made, of virtue, vice –
And so, of vices, virtues.
So the city isn't nice.

Our values are degraded,
Our honesty is fled.
And lies – and those who're liars –
They're ruling us instead.

We are all in need of money,
But this surely can't be all.
For the simple act of nurture
Makes a culture rise or fall.

When we're racing for the money,
When we're harnessed, blinkered, then
The sanity is squandered
And the cruelty is "Zen".

I have labored and I've acted,
But the time is growing nigh,
With my strength and wisdom failing,
For retirement, with a sigh.

So I doff my hat to workers
Who have time to organize.
And I hope that they're successful,
And that some of them are wise.

Is there wisdom in acceptance?
Is there wisdom too in zeal?
It is heart and sight and conscience
That will tell you how I feel.

When the cheaters are the wise men,
When the zealots are in league,
When it's money that is speaking,
Does it matter, how we feel?

We are stranded in the shallows,
As the nonsense keeps us there.
Beware of what is peddled.
To challenge peddlers, dare.

We need wisdom, we need courage.
We must listen, we must speak.
We need action, where it matters,
As we steer towards the deep.
  
2014 June 15th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
* Michael Bloomberg, former three-term mayor of New York City, and Andrew Cuomo, current governor of New York State, moved strongly to curb whatever was left of union strength in New York, while maneuvering, fairly successfully, to keep compliant union leaders from coming out strongly against them. 
   
Bloomberg and Cuomo, along with the owned mainstream media, have worked to further the interests of the affluent and powerful elites of the financial institutions and other large corporations, with support from the federal (currently, Obama) government.  They also have the backing of the political right, the "center", and those who are on the left on "social" issues (such as gay rights) but not on issues that might lead to giving workers a voice.
   
Unfortunately, many workers have been brainwashed into divisions along ethnic, class and occupational lines.  Divisions have also been created between workers in the private and public sectors.  And so we have been conquered -- at least for now. 
 

The Job

A  brief preface to this can be found at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
   
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part I

  

The job I do, it pays my rent and more,

it gives my life a form – and when at work,

I see a village there, of which the kids,

the teachers, others and myself are part.

Although I know it’s just a fantasy,

this fills the emptiness and gives a why,

a reason to arise at dawn.  The work –

it’s filled my life for close to thirty years,

and it is endless, overwhelming, yet

it’s better than the walls and emptiness

with which I’m left on those rare times

when I have done what’s needed to be done

and so there’s space.

And yet, for all the sustenance it gives,

the job deprives me too of sanity.

For all those years, obsessed with doing right

what can’t be done, left little space for else.

And more and more, I see how mad it is,

this job I do – and my insanity.

And so, when there is space, there is regret,

and not for what I did, with all my heart,

but for all I never had a chance to do,

the duties that were lost to distances

and this, the job that I and others do.

2014  April 17^th, Wed., 6:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part II

We work to pay the rent, to feed ourselves,

our kids.  But in our times, with workers flung

apart across the continents, our labor

may become, for some of us, the thread

we daily weave that strings what’s passed, the now,

what’s coming, into one.  So what to do,

when all our work is seen as meaningless?

And as the pressures mount on those who work,

we work yet faster, more. The workday spills

and washes over evenings, weekends, more...

And so it is, that some of us may find

that holidays are spent in catching up

with all the job-work that we couldn’t do,

while working, daily, at the job we do!

And so, we seek escapes, from all this work,

and some may find more healthy ones than some.

And others yet are good at what they do,

efficient, even, one may sometimes think,

as were the ones who burned the Gypsies, Jews…

But that’s unkind.  Let’s tip our hat and go.

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:14 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

The Job – Part III

We learn from our mistakes and those we see

that others make, who might not care to see.

Be slow to judge what others seem to do.

For each may walk upon a path, and each

may think that that’s the only path there is.

But paths are myriad, and the walkers too.

But never run, although they force you to.

For that’s when kindness ends and cruelty

begins.

“Oh yes,” you say, “that sounds all well and good.

But when the bulls stampede, who dares to pause?”

Well run then, for your life, but try to slow.

If speed is catching, isn’t slowness too?

The worker in the line must work at speed.

She’s caught, like soldiers are, who’re sent to kill.

But wars are madness. So are human mills.

The mills are not what we or those we teach

Are destined for.  It’s up to me and you,

and not the ones who order, pass decrees.

If not for all our students or for us,
then for the students and their teachers next,

let’s bring a little meaning back to school. 

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:33 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The Job – Part IV

The savvy know, what counts is packaging.
For who has time to open up and check
the innards of what's marketed and sold?

And yet, when it's our child that sits at school
or it's our mother, in the hospital,
who is it then, that then becomes the fool,
and why the wailing at the state of sin?

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 1:43 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

Please see also the brief preface to this, at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
    

Two Beings

 
Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)
  
Two Beings
  
When all the madness of my “working day”
Has ended and I step outside the school,
I breathe the air that blows in from the sea
And see the trees against the evening sky.
And so my jangled nerves are set at ease,
As all my scattered parts are gathered slow.
And drinking in the evening’s beauty, I
Am whole again – and homewards, tranquil, go.

In every season, as the heavens change,
I watch the skies and see the clouds and stars,
The light that slants upon the autumn leaves
Or sets afire the tender ones of spring.
I see the dogs, the cats, the ones like me
And little birds that fly to roost in trees.
And as I walk, I’m filled with wonderment,
As tense fatigue gives way to sanity.

******

And though I trundle home a heavy load,
It often happens that it lies till dawn.
And when I wake and sally forth to work,
My head is filled with buzzing puzzlement.
But then my “workday” at the school begins,
And close to forty years of work kick in.
I see the children, one by one, come in,
And I teach my classes five, as others do.

In all my work before I started this,
I worked my miracles, however small,
And after joining as a teacher, I
Saw yet more wonders as I taught at school.
But many arduous years have passed of this,
And more and more, I find myself a fool,
As all my instincts, all my heart and soul
Rebel – at what no mortal mere can do.

2014 April 1, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)

Related:  Signs of Spring (March 30th), We Call for Spring (March 9th).
For earlier poems, please type in the word "spring" in the small search box in the upper right corner of the blue top-menu bar (visible if you scroll up). Then press the "Enter" key on your keyboard.
 

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.

 

What Still Remains?

What Still Remains?

Whatever be your credo or belief,
At times, you'll need some solace, some relief,
For that, on which you based your hopes and dreams,
Might be, in time, your aspiration’s thief.

For who can live for long without a loss,
Or never, racked and torn, tormented, toss?
Whenever we may think we’ve mastered life,
It turns and swiftly shows us who’s the boss.

The very things for which we’ve labored, fought,
Have focused on and all the rest forgot,
Those things, as life unwinds, may turn to dust,
And all our strivings then be set to naught.

And what remains, when all appears amiss,
When we, who’ve labored long, are still remiss?
Remember then, there still remains the dawn,
And in the darkness, smile and blow a kiss.

And when a faker, in a tie and suit,
Demands accounting, in his mad pursuit,
Then bow and hand to him a chit, on which
It says, “We’ve quit the race, so all is moot.”

For when our life’s account is drawn and closed,
Then what remains, of all we once supposed
Was worth the life we offered as its price?
“This question,” we are told, “is poorly posed.”

What then remains is still the work we did,
Though this, with time, will be in cobwebs hid –
But more than that, and lasting still a while,
The love we offered, though we weren’t bid.

Though falsehoods live, while truth appears to die,
And most accede, and few still question why,
And though the cause appears as hopeless, still
The truth remains the truth, and not the lie.
    
Let all coercion and compulsion be
Dissolved by that, which lives within a tree
And lets its branches, in the sun, delight,
That joy that makes us each, for a moment, free.

So in the valley deep of sorrows, sigh,
But never, to your courage, say, “Goodbye.”
There lives, in us, the stillness and the fire,
And these will live, though you and I will die.

2013 December 6th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Poems Related to Teaching -- 2013-11-03

Poems Related to Teaching (2013-11-03 Sun)

Here below are some of my poems related to teaching.  I have listed them in loose categories.  The list is incomplete.  I will try to revise and update it from time to time.  Thanks for visiting. -- Arjun

Note added:   Those interested in a high school science teacher's personal views on teaching may also want to read some of my posts on the The Humble Subject Teacher  blog, such as the one On Teaching (2013 Sep).  Those who have the time may also wish to examine The Sample Bill of Rights for Teachers (2006).
    
A different, and perhaps more refreshing, perspective may be found in the last three stanzas of  Tutors Two.
      
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Students

My Dream -- a student's simple ambition, 2013

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teachers and Others in the Schools
  
The Teacher  -- burnout: idealism and dedication against the harsh realities of the schools, 2013

To Our Gary  -- A teacher retires gracefully after thirty years, while working, to the end, till 6pm every day at his school.  2013.

Gerald Goldstein -- In Memoriam  -- remembering an extraordinary lab. specialist, 2006

Kathy McGunigle  -- a teacher's teacher, 2006

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teaching / Personal / Philosophy

Teachers' Lounge  -- Past, present and future meet at the Brooklyn Studio School.  2006.

Tutors Two -- In the last three stanzas of this poem reflecting on my years teaching, I wonder where our best students are headed -- and offer them the advice, from the heart, that I cannot give them in my classes.  2012.
 
Teachers' Cafeteria -- Part I  -- at New Utrecht High School's new basement cafeteria, 2013

Teachers' Cafeteria -- Part II -- reflecting on commuting to Canarsie High School (1989-2002), 2013


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Resistance

The Small and Easy Lie -- Acceding to falsehoods imprisons us in a network of lies.  2013.

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame? -- We can change things for the better -- or let them get worse.  2013.
    
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Satire / Philosophy
 
Data Driven Supervision -- Need I say more?
   

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Rants and Edupolitics

New York City, De-Bloomed + Bloomberg's Gone -- local elections, 2013
  
With Harlot Falsehoods -- on integrity, 2013

Ted and Sarah and Bachman and Rhee -- on the state of the union

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Historical

Cafeteria in the Sky -- looking out from New Utrecht High School's old 6th floor cafeteria, 2006
   

The Small and Easy Lie

            
    The Small and Easy Lie

Of all the means that are employed
    To render workers slaves,
The lie is used, most commonly,
    By each new crop of knaves.

But sadly, it is workers, who,
    To falsehoods, then accede.
And every time we do, we let
    The master-knaves succeed.

For when a job's impossible,
    The shortcut then is used.
This sets the stage for tragedy,
    As lackeys watch, amused.

For conscience is an organ, which
    Will wither, when suppressed,
And gains in strength, when what it says
    Is followed or expressed.

So when we use, in what we do,
    The small and easy lie,
We then should know, the truth begins
    To suffer and to die.

"But facts are facts!" you may declare,
    "And truth is truth." maintain.
But when awareness, memory
    Have faded, lies remain.

And when we've built a structure on
    A base that's clearly false,
That structure is a jail-house, which
    Imprisons, till it falls.

And workers then will toil and strive,
    Not knowing history.
And when they fail at what they do,
    It's not a mystery.

But failure too will then be used
    To sell yet more of lies.
So be aware, for every lie,
    A bit of freedom dies.

And good intentions, too, are vain,
    When sight is so obscured
By lies, unchallenged, mounting up,
    That illness can't be cured.

The jungle we are in will clear,
    When each perceives the truth,
And then proceeds to, one by one,
    The tangled lies uproot.

The fog that we are in will clear
    When each confronts the lie,
And tells the truth, in private and
    In public, lest it die.

    2013 October 26th, Sat.
             Brooklyn  
   

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

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

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

Teachers' Cafeteria--Part II

    
Teachers' Cafeteria
      
Part II

And as I rose from torpor,
With the work ahead surmised,
A figure walked before me,
That I scarcely recognized.

It was a teacher, who was walking,
As the sun was set to rise.
There was Orion, high above him.
It was watching the unwise.

How many had been like him,
Who would never think to shirk,
Oblivious to the madness,
As they hurried to their work?

But his days of work till midnight,
And the bracing air, on exit,
And the bus-ride home in darkness,
That has ended.  Time would nix it...

And his risings, in the darkness,
And the walks to get the bus,
With their Orions and their dawnings,
Were they real – or dreamings, just?

Another school, another time,
Perhaps another me?
How many have another chance,
A teacher, still, to be?

The memory comes and holds me,
As I pause upon the stair,
And then, I see its passing,
And I still do not despair.

I then mount the stairs with effort,
As so many teachers do,
Who are aging, while in harness,
For there's work that's left to do.

2013 October 12th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(after finding, at home, the verses for Part I scribbled, 
in faded pencil, on a crumpled cafeteria napkin in 
September's lesson-planning notebook)
   
Notes:

This is a continuation of:

   Teachers' Cafeteria--Part I

   http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/09/teachers-cafeteria-part-i.html

The New Utrecht HS teacher's cafeteria was previously on the sixth floor of the school building.  From this high location, we could see (if we could make it up there during our short lunch break) the changing sky, birds in flight, and Brooklyn's streets, houses and trees, stretched out below.  We could also see the comings and goings of the silver commuter trains (on what are currently the D and M lines).  These trains were and are part of New York City's subway system.  Like other such trains, they  burrow underground in places like lower to central Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn.  But they surface to ride noisily on elevated tracks, high above the streets, elsewhere. 

For a rumination on that earlier cafeteria, please see: 

   Cafeteria in the Sky

   http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/01/cafeteria-in-sky.html

The cafeteria was subsequently moved to the basement of an added two-story cafeteria wing, with the two floors above housing the student cafeteria, which previously had been on the fifth floor. 

The apparition alluded to in Teacher's Cafeteria--Part II  is the author's younger self, walking through Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, before the dawn, with Orion still visible in the sky. 

This was in the late 1980's to the early 2000's.  I would walk briskly for twenty minutes, and then wait for a bus (the B-8 or B-82).  During the bus ride (in a bus that started out almost empty but got impossibly packed as it traveled through subsequent parts of Brooklyn) I would sit in a favorite seat, just in front of the rear door. There, I would write up a lesson plan to go with the handouts I had prepared and run off the previous night.  To do this, I would have stayed late after school, often till midnight (along with a couple of other teachers), scurrying out just before the custodial staff locked the doors and turned on the alarms. They  had eventually gotten used to us late-nighters and so tolerated us.

After the hour-long bus ride through Brooklyn, I would walk another ten minutes to get to the school (the erstwhile Canarsie High School, between Avenues K and J on Rockaway Parkway, in the Canarsie district of southeastern Brooklyn).  This was my morning commute during most of the time that I worked there (from September of 1989 to June of 2002).  I would often return home after 1 am, and be up and out the door again by six.  Being younger and more hopeful, with a will for learning evident in many of my students, I could manage it.  Although my exertions may have been a bit extreme (and protracted) many other teachers were not that far behind.  Many of them preferred, however, to do their preparation (and grading, correcting) work at home.

Canarsie High School opened in the 1960's.  It had wonderful facilities, attracted many excellent students and came to have a talented and experienced faculty.  It was the scene (along with New Utrecht and other schools) of racial conflicts in the later parts of that decade and the 70's.  However, it survived this turbulent period, stabilized and did well for a while.  The school was, however, eventually closed by mayor Bloomberg, along with many other schools.  The phase-out began in the late 2000's.  In 2011, Canarsie High School ceased to exist.