Tag: the Earth

The New Business

On By Donny Lee DukeIn PoetryLeave a comment
photo courtesy of https://auroville.org/
I couldn’t come from
the city according to our needs.
A oneness organization,
that’s the start of it,
the city the Earth needs.
The walls are coming down,
it’s where we begin.
This is the largest city in Heaven,
and it’s expensive to live in.

How many people protect themselves from the Infinite?
How many people have bibles
they won’t cross thresholds with?
They can’t get out of the Book
or this Name says.
They can’t plant infinity there,
and they argue and bicker among themselves about it,
the rulebook says.

Am I just a hedonistic paradise?
I sacrifice even my thoughts to the divine
and live a simple life to prove it.
I don’t cut down banyan trees.
I sit together with everybody there,
and I know hard work,
and I know rest and play.

I love God,
and that is my first priority,
not the God of this man says,
the God of the banyan tree.
I have seen God’s eyes
staring back at me in everyone’s.
I can pet a dog and feel that,
rub a cat.

I am about the mountain in springtime.
I know how to address the world:
oh my God I love you.
I have seen fire and rain,
and I changed my life because of it.
I no longer hurt people
or cause them pain.
I draw the lines everywhere
to prevent that.
I know the meaning of sacrifice.
It’s how my thoughts meet the world.
It’s how my hands meet the day.

I am an Aurovillian comes
theoretically,
and I shout this to the Earth.
I will get bigger than my kind.
I will transform consciousness inside
into our greater type.
I will give birth to divinity
on a collective field,
and our hands will salt the Earth
with its great and needed change,
and I am here my friend
opening doors for you
that you may walk through them.
Auroville will you hear me?
Auroville can you feel that
looking?

This poem was emailed to many Auroville email addresses, most all the principle leadership bodies, and it was the object of an art action on Sept 3rd and 4th, where I and Mithun taped and tacked it up on bulletin boards and walls around Auroville and on banyan trees in the township, or it was just handed to individuals. This is the performance art a recent poem, “The Diamond”, mentioned, before, I might add, there was inkling on my part to do any.

This poem and the preceding one made the secretary of Auroville, Jayanti Ravi, mad, and she got me kicked out of India over it, personally.

An Appointment with the World Today

On By Donny Lee DukeIn applied nonduality, PoetryLeave a comment
image by the author, Earth in space public domain via Wikipedia
The world is at the skid point.
We are so caught in this movie we can’t even see beyond.
Tell me you don’t care.
Tell me you’re hangin’ out clothes to dry,
and your little one’s screamin’,
and that’s just big stuff on TV.
Got caught in the movies.
I know you ache at night,
just about to spill it all,
everything you know about the world but don’t.
You don’t know what to make of it
it holds you so close.

Can we climb out of this?
We can sure get lost in it.
Will you play with me?
I’m a poet from Skid Row.
No I’m not a drinker.
I’m a free world thinker,
and I want the world to last
longer than its appointment
in the annuals of our sun.
I’m with you on that.
I want to outlast the sun
where I know I can be happy.

Have you ever seen the world up close?
It’ll finger your dickens.
No, no I’m not talkin’ about the rovin’ mania all around yah—
the whole teeming world
as an entity in front of your face.
Got boxes
and spring cards,
but it’s the real McCoy.

I don’t know if you know what I’m talkin’ about yet.
I scrap it off my shoe
no.
This is a divine appointment in time,
the world as an organization
that brings God on earth,
and we can’t get over the word divine.
I’ve lifted up your skirt
and showed you religious offerings.
I mean an intelligence bigger than the skies
that can fit in our green Earth
and bring it to the next level.
You think of the universe as a flat individual organization,
but the many levels of the universe go beyond the universe,
and I tell yah Earth is scheduled for that.

I’m far from the clothesline now,
but that screamin’ kid,
I’ve gotten into his ache.
We want a better world,
expressive of need,
and the world as an organization can do that,
be unto our need.
It’s flat and big
everywhere we look today,
but have you met the world yet?
That’s what I’m tryin’ to say
so that it matters,
so that we can get bigger than ourselves,
knowin’ the world’s done
with livin’ for your kin.

Bigger than any national flag,
the world is our step-brother
that needs to know its name
spoken on your lips.
Oh no Mohammad you don’t own the world,
nor Jesus Christ,
and certainly not Hindu
or Buddha,
and the Jewish people will not rule the Earth.
We’re all gonna get goin’
to see the world in each of us,
to understand its nature
bigger than the machine.

Are you with me on this?
I think you’ll fight me some,
until we realize Earth’s got an appointment
in blue skies,
and we will all revel in it,
giddy with the realization of harm’s end.
Do you know that cost?
Can you turn around and see the world today?
Flabbergasted can you see it?

A step-mother,
seven kids,
and digital shock,
can you grab that?
Help me chase it
to we meet the world there.
I’m not horseplay.
I’m the world looks in on you,
not the teeming multitudes,
the world as a being in front of you in time,
and I’m travelin’
a poet to forgotten shores,
what a seer give society,
its determining wings,
how it lays out itself
and what it be's.
It’s the arms of society to tell you the truth.
You must not let that little you.
It’s the One looking in on itself.
You’re the One.
I am really here for you.

Now sing along.
You can’t fool me anymore
by your nonchalance.
I know the score.
You can’t shoot me anymore
either.
I know what I’m about,
and even dead I’ll know it,
and so will my poetry.

Open up in there.
There can be no losers.
Bite into something hard.
Stare into something new.
I gave you the congressional service.
No shame in that.
A wardrobe
you know you can catalogue
here take this self:
we’re goin’ to the
end of society
as the machine.

Sheltered animals move and breathe.
They just don’t get away.
What was defeated in Mexico?
Waiting by the bomb.
You’re encountering
that work’s envitalment,
and you can’t get out of it.
Best documentary
That Worked.
What are you doin’?
Getting our own hands dirty in blowing up the machine,
a long action
that we can do without war
or blowin’ people up
or shooting them down.
Here I am doin’ it don’t you see?

Never mind the behavior
they stopped us from realizing it.
What was that membership?
Blowin’ up the world
in I don’t care,
oh no.
I’ll give you as much as possible
to farm time
freedom from the machine.

Love,
it actually
gave us tomorrow,
is the active ingredient.
I find that news with anything.
It’s real
and normal
if you realize you have met the world
out during the day
in every box you’ve met today,
in every pair of eyes staring out at you,
all of it,
the whole damn show.

The Roles of the Machine

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
Nithish and I
Take the questionnaire.
I have problems existing
the way you want
Council Bluffs.
An opera,
just what the world needs right now,
our post-traumatic show,
and I can’t do anything to stop you.
You’re the stupid muse.

Who’s to listen to?
I’m talkin’ storybook Earth.
Are you wrapped around the axle with it?
My God it’s got me by the balls.
I’m in Nithish’s pan.
Other than that I’m free.
You would not stage this.

I’m too honest for broad noon,
and I’ve got some big thoughts Earth don’t wanna look at,
I mean in your society room.
Have you ever seen an Earth poet?
You’re supposed to.
That’s what we’re all made of.
We’re speakin’ to all mankind.
Earth today,
we get mad at the word man,
but it farms poetry, you know?

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
I’m in a limousine,
but let me get more Tennyson on yah
and Marilyn Monroe.
You think poetry’s got to have capital letters
and sing about verses and stuff.
Emily Dickinson would agree
poetry comes from the inner voice.
Slipped into you a mind swell
the beautiful rose of poetry,
even if it’s not a football field
of the huddle of verses
that high sound poetry to you.
I give you an inner lunch.

Okay we’ve brightened our books today.
I give you an inner sound,
tryin’ to find your head.
It’s all Madagascar.
Have I opened a movie on the showroom’s floor?
Train’s coimin’.
It’s all about them dice
watch your hedge podge in
where you put your blinders on.
Cute animals, eh?
And everybody’s longing to be free.

Be not normal men and women,
but reach above our kind
and show how it’s done,
ain’t that the anthem?
Movie after movie
of the greatest stories on Earth
get by our living room with this.
Would you believe they keep you in line,
even in your underwear?
Ask the surveillance movie Drop from start to ticket
or Seven Veils,
and I’m sorry I’m giving them credit,
but I can’t watch every movie in time
that littles us,
I mean like right now as we’re havin’ lunch.

So many lies are told
to manipulate your mind
and bring all the bad country to bad men
so demon they shine
with the impossibilities of human nature
taken to that degree.
They’re demon bad.
My mother sucked me when I was three,
and my step-mother terrorized my mind,
and I had to hide from her in the woods
until my father got home.
Teacher after teacher put me in the corner,
the kind that hate little boys all over the globe
for bein’ who they are,
and they had a score to settle with men.
Give a world this schoolin’,
and let’s see how she acts.
You can’t trust nobody.

Now I’ve got a little boy in the lurch
taken from me and reamed,
who grew up with me since he was five,
but I was there from birth
his daddy.
It makes you all nervous inside
that I’m speaking about him in this poem.
Exactly.
Can I show you the hurtin’ in the machine?
You think it’s child abuse
or a host of other ills,
men bad to women,
or a sudden and frank genocide,
or tumultuous war.
It’s our wrong seeing that causes harm,
how we bake bread
willfully and ignorantly
with the guardians of the universe resistant to change.

I love my little boy,
and that’s right and proper,
but I’m a White man and he’s a Tamil boy
in a red flag zone.
Surely his parents must be right
in beating him,
slapping him across the face,
not letting him go out of their sight
or surveillance system
or visit friends
so he will not contact me.
Do you know what this does to a child?
He doesn’t write poetry.
Now buy him anything he wants
and wine and dine him.
Surely he’ll stay on our side.

What’s the beef you reckon?
I made better miles with him,
and he preferred me to them.
It’s all in the menagerie.
Parents got rights over their children’s lives.
Just ask Child Welfare.
The mother gave them a bribe
and the police
and paid my lawyer more than I was paying him.
This is India and this stinks,
but who gives a damn?

Is anybody listenin’ to this poem?
I mean he’s got to go with us,
how you make a child today
serious
to produce that child
the staple of the machine.
Now let’s give ‘im bright airs
and promise him the moon
when he’s older
if he complies now.
Study hard kid.
Your worth is in those grades,
and your future depends on them,
and we will ignore your dyslexia by ignoring it,
you lazy little bastard.
We’re smart can’t you see?

Now what’s a boy worth?
I’ll tell you in this poem.
He wrote some miracles
that transcend time,
all in anticipation of being taken from me.
His parents hate those poems
and don’t let ‘im read ‘em.
I’ve put ‘em out in a blog
I’m addin’ to now.
A few more posts and it’s complete,
the body of his work now.

Now this has been shut off,
squeezed out of him
in a parental vice par none.
You like that?
That’s okay with you?
Who the hell are you anyway,
ordinary people?
I heard you.
The Indian consulate the Indian dear,
kick ‘em
to give this boy what he needs.
For fruit to work
tell ‘em read this boy.