Woe

Woe

How much of good intention,
That does not listen too,
Can lead to tribulations
For such as me and you.

We do not know each other's minds.
Suspicion then is bred.
When trust is violated,
Then all grows dark--or red.

How much misunderstanding
Has led to needless wars!
How much of blood is wasted
For Venus or for Mars!

We go about our business,
Not looking down the street,
Where those who're wretched gather,
In the sun or in the sleet.

When ignorance is sacred,
To Mammon then we bow.
How little is our knowledge!
How much we do not know!
 
How much of evil rises
From blindness of the heart!
How much of woe, imparted
Through guns or legal art!

How bitter is enslavement
That tortures body-mind!
How dear is freedom’s potion
That’s still so hard to find!

The winds are strong. The tempest
Has darkened sky and sea.
We pray, amidst the tumult,
For calm again to be.

The fever still is rising.
We shiver, toss in pain.
Oh when will this be over,
So we are well again?

There’s darkness, grief and sorrow,
Deception, slaughter, pain.
But there’s light and joy and laughter,
And there’s hope that burns again.

2016 May 26th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

   

When Jesus Christ is CEO

 
When Jesus Christ is CEO

When lamas, popes are set on thrones,
And ayatollahs throw their stones,
Who heeds Gotama's words? Alas!
The one who does is deemed an ass!

When Mammon rules the hearts of men,
What chance is there for Yesu then?

So missionaries once would bless
The remnant natives who'd confess
That they had sinned, so greedy Spain
Was not to blame for all their pain.

The peasants labored in the field,
As kings and priests enjoyed the yield.

A king, enthroned, could sip his wine
As priests declared that he's divine.
The temples then were filled with gold
As pigs and slaves were bought and sold.

It then was so and now is still.
The names have changed, but not the swill.

So presidents invoke the Lord,
And guns have now replaced the sword.
The gods on high, it now appears,
Have bombs that burn. They shed no tears.

The TV's used by reverend Stash
For praising God and raising cash.

When godmen and the Aga Khan
Are weighed in gold, should we demand
That they be gilded then as well?
So Mammon leads us all to hell.

When Jesus Christ is CEO,
It's time for us to quietly go.
 
2016 May 22, Sun
Brooklyn, New York
    

As Souls Who're Freed

As Souls Who're Freed

 It always breaks my heart to see
A bird that's caged that once was free.

And so I also take delight
In seeing wheeling birds in flight.

I thank you, Jean, for filming this
And posting it for viewers' bliss.

So too, perhaps, we both shall fly
As souls who're freed, when bodies die.

And if our dying be the end,
We yet at times can still pretend.

So in our dreams our minds can fly,
As gulls and pigeons, through the sky.

And from on high we then might see
The ones below—like you and me.

2016 May 20th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/jeanmarie.offenbacher/videos/10154242368729292/

Nodes

 

Nodes

 

In Between the Cliff Walls, White Mountains, New Hampshire
https://www.facebook.com/NightmutePhotography/

 

There are places and times, in the course of our lives,

When we seem to be able to be
At the pivots of space and of time—that are still,
As the eye of the storm in the sea.

So the universe gyres around us and yet
We seem to be frozen in place.
There are nodes that are still that exist in the swells
Of the ocean of time and of space.

There's the sea and the sky and the water and air.
There's the land with its rock and its earth.
And they pass through us each as we pass through these things,
As the spirit that's given us birth.

There are times when we trek through the ravines and see
The stars and the hand of the dawn.
Then we're grateful we've lived to have tasted of grace
In our time on this planet we're on.

In the depths of despair, in the darkness of grief,
In the sorrow and madness of war,
We have glimpses of things, without and within,
That remind us of all that we are.

We're no more than the ants and no less than the gods.
We are passing, like hues in the sky.
And yet we are born and can open our hearts
And our minds—and that innermost eye.

2016 May 18th, Wed.

Brooklyn, New York   
  

   

Notes on the poem "Choices"

  
Notes on the words 
    a) "surd"
    b) "root"
in the poem "Choices"
========================================
    
a) surd   /sərd/

adjective: surd

1. MATHEMATICS: (of a number) irrational.
2. PHONETICS: (of a speech sound) uttered with the breath and not the voice (e.g., f, k, p, s, t ).

noun: surd;  plural noun: surds

1. MATHEMATICS:  a surd number, especially the irrational root of an integer.
2. PHONETICS:  a surd consonant.

origin
mid 16th century: from Latin surdus ‘deaf, mute’; as a mathematical term, translating Greek (Euclid) alogos ‘irrational, speechless,’ apparently via Arabic jiḏr aṣamm, literally ‘deaf root.’ The phonetics senses date from the mid 18th century.

Source:  http://google.com (searched for “surd definition”)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
  
Both surd and its more common cousin absurd come from the Latin word surdus, meaning "unhearing, deaf, muffled, or dull." Absurd traveled through Middle French before arriving in English in the early 16th century. Its arrival preceded by a few decades the adoption of the noun version of our featured word directly from Latin, which referred to an irrational root, such as √3. By the early 17th century surd had gained a more general application. The adjective describes speech sounds that are not voiced-for example, the \p\ sound, as opposed to the voiced \b.

Source:  http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/surd
==========================================

b1) root of a number

The root of a number x is another number, which when multiplied by itself a given number of times, equals x. For example the second root of 9 is 3, because 3x3 = 9.

The second root is usually called the square root.
The third root is susually called the cube root

Source: http://www.mathopenref.com/root.html
------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
b2) root of a word

The root in language is either a base word, or a part of a word to which affixes are added. Or, it is the part left after affixes have been taken away. Technically, it is the smallest unit which carries meaning: it cannot be reduced into smaller units. It is the same as a free-standing morpheme.

If a root is a whole word, then it is called a base word. It is the word which stands at the head of a dictionary definition, as the base of a word family.

Examples (in each case, with the root bold underlined):

Unhelpfully
reaction
receive
science. This one is interesting because it is so ancient. It is a descendant of the Indo-European root scei, meaning to cut or split. It comes to us via the Latin language.

Source: https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Root_(linguistics)
==========================================

Click here to return to the poem "Choices".
    

Choices

Choices

It’s been awhile but now I’m writing
Once again in metered verse.
And some of those to whom I’m sending
This will smile or laugh—or curse.

And since I’ve blanked out my emotions,
I consider now my choices:
How to give a form substantial
To the whispers of my voices.

******

Should I only draw my pictures—
Not with crayons, but with words—
Painting sunsets, valleys, mountains,
Fields and skies with flying birds?
 
Or should I chant in rhythms ancient,
Sounding vowels in my words,
Seeking rhymes and rising, falling—
Trilling like the singing birds?

Or should I write of what I’ve eaten—
Rice and cabbage, lentils, curds—
Writing also of digestion
And of what I’ve left as turds?

Perhaps it’s time that mathematics
Filled my verse with roots and surds— *
Or perhaps, I should write dirges
For Armenians, Turks and Kurds…

******

Should I fill my lines with nonsense,
Wasting my and readers’ time—
Though they offer still amusement,
Spoken out aloud with rhyme?
     
Or should I write of what I’m thinking,
How I view this sorry world?
Will you enter in the prisons,
In the hells in which we’re hurled?

Or should I write of feelings pleasant,
Sing of happiness and love,
Or raise my head towards the heavens,
Howling at the moon above?
 
Who can answer whence or whither,
Give us half a reason why
Each of us is born to dither
Just a while—and then to die?

I’ll be gone and then my verses
Will be lost, as all things are.
Why then should I write of living—
Joy and sorrow, peace and war?
 
******

Who will read these verses, written
In my notebooks in the night?
Who will bother still to mouth them,
Holding scribblings to the light?

Mine are verses born of grieving—
More of black and gray than white—
Yet there’s gold and silver in them—
Sparkles, hidden, of delight.
 
So I write, as if by random
Breezes blown, till gone from sight—
Like a little sailboat, bobbing
Through the heaving swells of night.

Should I end this poem neatly—
Tie the ends and pull them tight,
Or should I leave them hanging loosely,
Wondering why I chose to write?

******

There!  It’s done, for better or—
As often far more likely—worse:
I’d felt the mists and rising vapors—
Asking for my rhyming verse.

Whence, these beings of the ether,
Seeking, each, their human voice?
Why is it—that we are bidden,
Yet appear to still have choice?

2016 May 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
(first two stanzas, central single stanza and
last two stanzas added 2016 May 16th, Mon)

====================================
 * Listed here are the uses of the words:
    (a) “surd” in mathematics and phonetics;
    (b) “root” in mathematics and linguistics.
====================================
    

Passion-II

Passion-II 

She told herself that he was worth no more

Of all her tears and unrequited love,

Remembering the many scars she bore—

Betrayals, witnessed by the gods above,

That she had only learned of later, yet

So painful then, with wounds she’d buried deep,

That even now she still could not forget

Those gifts of venom that were hers to keep.

And yet, she loved him, more than honor, life—

That man who would not take her as his wife,

But stole her heart as none had done before

Or ever since.  She only wanted more

Of what he’d tossed her, knowing she was his.

So love was hate, as passion often is.

2016 May 14th, Sat.

Brooklyn, New York

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

For perhaps a more pleasant note, see:
 
Passion
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/05/passion-i-heard-evening-moan-in-deep.html