Gizmos

Gizmos

When finance rules a nation and commerce rules the globe,
And when the two together are dancing to the moon,
Then where is there a refuge, from “peace” as much as war,
That’s greater than the shadow of a bomb, at tropic noon?
 
So Elon sends a car upon a rocket to the stars,
And Jeffrey has a business that is rocketing on high,
And bankers squint at cryptocash and stocks are climbing still,
As Donald fires his missiles so that yet more Arabs die.

But here in New York City, in the outer boroughs, we
Are counting down our dollars as we pay our endless bills,
And India has demonetized, and some can simply shrug,
As farmers drink their pesticides and leave no final wills.

We can see it as a tragedy or a comedy sans equal.
We can weep and be dejected, or laugh as madmen do.
We can try to make a difference, we can organize and vote,
Or simply play our gizmos, as those defeated do.

2018 April 16th. Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Stain

    
The Stain
 
There was blood on the sidewalk, where a man had been killed.
It was dark but was faded, from dust and from sun.
And that stain was not noticed, except by the few,
Who had been at the killing, and had seen the man run.

But he’d tripped and he’d fallen. They’d caught him right there,
The ones who had chased him. He’d cried out in fear.
And he’d cried out again, like a cat that’s in pain,
But the cries had grown weaker, as his ending drew near.

How long he had lain there, and whether alive,
A few perhaps wondered.  But they left him to lie.
And they hid him from children, whom they ushered away.
For it’s bad for the young ones to see a man die.

And his slippers had left him, as he ran for his life.
One lay in the gutter, and the other beside.
And when he was lifted, and carried away,
They lay as a witness, like the kelp to the tide.

And when I’d returned, to the spot of the slaying,
The years had been many.  The slippers had fled.
But the stain was still present, though faded by time.
I could still hear him screaming, where his blood had run red.

2014 March 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Typhoon

Typhoon

Dreaming, in the time before the dawn,
I heard a woman crying, “All is gone!
My husband and my daughters and my sons,
My mother and his mother – and the house...
And I am here – and searching, crazily.
But where are they?”

I could not answer.  All around were strewn
The wreckage and the litter of the storm.
The corpses still were rotting – and their stench
Befouled the air and sickened every breath.
Her eyes beseeched, with hints of lunacy,
But I stood mute.

And then I woke, as light was streaming in.
And when I breathed, the air was cool and fresh.
But I remembered well, what I had dreamed.
I saw that face – and felt that helplessness.
And so, at school, I gave my dollars ten.
But where were they?

2013 Nov. 16th, Sat.
Brooklyn
          
http://care.org/emergencies/typhoon-haiyan

https://www.rescue.org/donate/typhoon-haiyan

http://ifrc.org/typhoon-haiyan

Amerindian

 
Amerindian

I met a man of darker hue, upon the rolling plains,
And this is what he said, before he blew away his brains.

"You see, upon that ridge-top there, I stood, while still a boy,
And saw my people camped below, and laughed out loud with joy.

"For I had trekked across the plains, a little runaway,
Who'd fled the farm where he had slaved and lived to see that day.
I then ran down to the tents below, and what did I then find?
The ones I loved had passed away -- but not from my young mind!

"For twenty years I wandered more, with those of the tribe still left,
Forever seeking for my kin, of family bereft.
And though the tribe did take me in, befriending one quite lost,
I never, ever smiled again, remembering slaughter's cost.

"And one by one (and often more) the others in that tribe,
Who still survived, fell down and died, from bullet or from bribe.
To alcohol they turned, as those, who settled on this land,
Dispensed of them, with guns and booze -- as now I understand.

"And so, in time, I too took up the gun and drank from the bottle,
And murdered both the dark and pale, in the blinding heat of battle.
Pursued by gunmen, I rode west, and found myself a job,
A farmhand, doing the work of a grunt, and shucking corn from cob.

"But every night, I dreamed of those, my parents, siblings, slain,
And those I'd killed myself and saw, still writhing in their pain.
And grief and anger welled in me, and I would toss and turn,
And in my private hell at night, in fire unending, burn.

"Six years I worked -- but then, one day, being kicked while still asleep,
I slew the one who'd woken me, from dreams both dark and deep.
And so the spiral that commenced, with murders of my kin,
Took one more turn, and added yet more death to the arc of sin.

I spent twelve years in jail, and then I managed to escape,
A runaway for one last time -- and not in youthful shape!
And here I've come, to the selfsame spot, where I had met, before,
The ones who then were still alive, but now are here no more.

"And I am glad that you were here, a stranger, yet a friend,
So I could tell you this, my tale, before it comes to end."

He grasped my arm, and then he turned and walked to that long crest,
And standing there, he shot himself -- and crumpled down to rest.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2009 August 25th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York