Pitshetsh

That P is perpetually the victim
at any time, any situation
declares the non-negotiable dictum
inviolate line of demarcation:

First the P impatiently inspects
and condescendingly dissects
Then emphatically disaffects
and contemptuously reject

Exclaims if offered Perfection:
“A set up, attempted sting!”
triggering instant rejection:
“Don’t offer the perfect thing!”

The P never needs to be coerced
A sneeze? “Call the doctor or nurse!”
Salivating, she expects the worst
So why not just line up the hearse?

But if lined up, of course: “Wrong hearse,
wrong coffin, and who stole my purse?”

+)
P = pitshetsh (Yiddish): chronic complainer

Ensnared in empty cold hearts

In erstwhile other place
in times more civil
in cultures not so base
did we mope, snivel?

While at our present time & place
feeling entitled to whine
stuck in that all consuming chase:
There’s not enough to call mine!

Chasing hard for material parts
absorbed, clinging to illusion
while ensnared in our empty cold hearts
we waste our lives in delusion

Rejoice, nothing is amiss!

From our body we may learn
beyond what mere words can express
what our mind may not discern:
To hold on would be to digress

Old age slips of grasp & grip
may only be appearing so
as we do not at all slip:
Just loosening & letting go

No need cower before What’s Next
just stay calm, let’s attempt unvexed!

So rejoice, nothing is amiss:
Aging is indeed the balmy breeze
soon now we’ll bridge that Great Abyss
to swing on Eternity’s trapeze

On the back road of least resistance

How fruitless to mumble the tired line:
‘democracy is in decline’
As well: ‘global warming is benign’
when we certainly lack of spine!

Did we not way back turn off that high road
of erstwhile courageous insistence?
Don’t we instead drive fearfully & slowed
on the ‘back road of least resistance’?

Now way late for democracy
& for human habitat
One faded in hypocrisy
other blew its thermostat

Us humans but programmed fools?

Are us Humans worms in ‘earthly bin’
lacking in context, perspectives
experts only on the ‘mud’ within?
Not sages, at best detectives?

Are we about ‘volition’
conclusively assured
or merely apparition
just anxiously allured?

Is ‘understanding’ a joke cruel
just nothing beyond illusion?
So perhaps I’m but a programmed fool
deeply tangled in confusion?

Still blessed in earthly life when in peace
when restraining ourselves from caprice

 

 

 

 

Knowing how to but less so why & where to?

Of practical tasks at hand
we’re deftly discerning
thus in impressive command
we keep right on churning

Humans clever on ‘how to’
while on ‘wherefore’ muddled
thus we’re careening askew
solidly befuddled

Soon to become an extirpated race
due to our endless greed & frantic pace

Got GPS in our cars so who needs heavenly stars?

Scarab beetles, unsung
fashion nifty balls
roll swiftly home the dung
on star-guided crawls

No need or reason, none at all
got GPS in our cars
for humans to roll any ball
guided by heavenly stars

Like human greed propels
depletion & pollution
our hubris ever swells
assuring retribution

The beetle may still roll its ball
when humans lack clean water
frantic we’ll trash about & crawl
seas rising, climate hotter

+)
Scarab beetle:
https://www.livescience.com/26557-dung-beetles-navigate-stars.html

Is impatience the slave to a mind scattered?

Though abundance never suffices
its pursuit seems never to cease
The allure still prods & entices
despite only restraint grants peace

The self’s ceaseless rebellion
rules in full out attack
The ego is the hellion
playing up to the claque

Impatience seems the slave
to the mind scattered
chases us to the grave
as lives blown tattered

An old tree grows outside an old man’s house

Saplings needn’t travel the world
they grew in place & peace
while men in youth’s folly whirled
in impatient caprice

Tree and man now old, flagging:
while thick foliage, man’s hair thin
Both bent & sorely sagging
tree still a tree, man mere has-been

Do tell why pursue & rush around
when at perfect peace in our own ground?

 

At last call to roar he staggers ahead full bore

His life’s edging catastrophic:
Seldom hoisted a trophy
Spouted but faux philosophic
Wrote no endearing strophe

Field of ‘talents’ left too long fallow
guts now weak, motivation shallow

Still calls for resuscitation
tries stagger ahead full bore!
No time for procrastination
tries charge with a last gasp roar:

As better a bullet in one’s heart
than fleeing and shot in one’s rear part!