THE
NEW WORLDERS
The
land of our future, virgin, wild and free
Ours
to fashion once our strong arms work from sea to sea
Our
call to freedom from air snuffed with slowly crumbling plaster
Within
the towns of the old world where it pinches even to be master
Imagining
the new course past the still unplotted shore
Penetrating
from all sides to nature�s unspoiled store
With
mountains tall and valleys rich, we perceive also the day
That
our own roads and cities, too, will glory in the way
And
if we make an empire, �twill be as not yet seen
Not
army against army much, but a pressing o�er the green
No
Assyrians nor Persians with metallic shields and arms
Will
bar a path for freemen with their trade skills and their farms
When
we approach our new land with passion and ambition
It
will satisfy as well our love for sense of mission
We
can let forth our work with a spirit the overgoverned lack
And
enjoy the rewards without fearing vultures at our back
We
will map out the outline
We
will explore the inlay
Where
old powers covet to harvest and mine
We,
instead, may yet claim and stay
Whatever
wild and wondrous river
Or
El Doradic vein
Embodies
the Westland�s certain wealth
We,
the New Worlders, might dare retain
Soon,
European not the more
And
Englanders not even in name
But
liberated on a third and fourth shore
We
became something Europe can�t tame
And,
because of the unforeseen liberty of thought
The
Enlightenment let loose on the nations
Alien
banners appeared in the west
And
we left our imperial stations
North,
a brave and able nation
Gave
a final dissent from the Crown
With
a Protestant sense of moral rightness
They
wrote the case for liberty down
And
revolted in the name of things due to man
-Though
guarding these things only for whites
They
pushed away heathens long on the land
As
their grasped their inalienable rights
South,
crimes already more than two centuries old
And
criollos half-secure in their rule
Long
past the days of the free-flowing gold
Had
left only the land as their jewel
As
the rights of man sounded in the Old World
And
democracy shone in the north
The
elites pieced out their new nations
And
hoped the new ways would carry them forth
But the contradictions unresolved at the birth
Cut into the blessings of the new age
No final redemption lay in the new vision
Those guided by the new light do not fail to enrage
Take
the good conscience of the North�s destiny
It�s
a quite peculiar thing
So
underlain by thievery
And
pushing to the silent spring
Once,
softer feet trod this continent wide
And
traced their progenies� foundations
Now
to the dead ancestors who view how we lied
We
have added dead entire nations
And
the liberated Caucasian spirit
Seems
divorced from the call of shame
That
a moral man would think should be near it
For
treating taking this land as a game
We
prided ourselves on moralities
We
pretended we could keep our word
When
we were not a people, but from land and cities
Competing
bands, whose greed was not cured
And
what one man promised, even with good intentions
Though
he spoke for the leaders of his day
And
though signed for eternity, with Washington�s consent
Was
just a ruse: they did not sell, we did not pay
We
impressed on them our alien law
As
if honesty were in the treaties� words
But
in ruffians' actions the native man saw
The
erosion that his concessions ensured
In
the South, there was no such hypocrisy
No
pretense of semi-equal relations
No
treaties, but submission; no handshakes, but taking
No
deception that the victors honored native nations
The
relations were not dictated by ideas of contract
The
domination was not self-questioning
There
was no humanistic humility toward other cultures
In
full power, lands were taken for the King
Proud
peoples were ground beneath pure force
And
lordship was given to the Crown�s merciless men
Civilizations
given one more layer of slavery
Tribes
squeezed and set to sicken in the pen
Now,
after the bright ideals of Bolivar
There
is the ferment of Latin modernity
Still
possessed of ancient, tangible ways of oppression
So
unlike the dissembling ones in the land of the free
Indigenous
peoples still treated as sub-European
Poverty,
still a means of social control
Hard
to struggle for either decency or revolution
In
the lands that hold them most sincerely as a goal
In
both lands, liberty�s call gets distorted
To
the freedoms of the newest brand of thieves
Controlling
national flows of information
And
constricting the resources that each receives
Selling
the concept that class interests are obsolete
As
they get on with the greater concentration of wealth
Selling
with credit what cannot be bought with wages
Letting
greed choke off the masses� economic health
We
play sleight of hand with our old ideals
We
laugh at or invoke the next and better age
According
to our needs; our rationale is inconsistent
Our
policies profit our richest, yet we are baffled by the world�s rage
Where
once we worked against slavery, the grossest or the finest
Where
once the haughty feared us, and the embattled read our page
Now
we use economics to preach a slower evolution
Now
we use doubletalk to keep the masters on the stage
DAY�S
EYES
On
the early foggy morning
When
social conscience called
And
the missile race pressed upward
And
half of Berlin was walled
And
political ideals had credence
Even
after a young leader was slain
There
were peaceniks and poets and sit-ins
And
acoustic guitars on refrain
Dawn,
with the painted faces
Gathered
later, without the protest
The
creation of the beautiful new
Not
urgent, but born at its best
They
went cool to the voices of crisis
They
chose not to be on their guard
But
to be, without argumentation
Amid
a culture that liked answers hard
Their
objections had cascaded and fractured
Seeping
inward, back toward wordlessness
Not
playing the game of compulsion
Not
responding to claims of distress
Soft
drums, and soft eastern wisdoms
Came
and passed, without asking for pledges
Hues
and spirits welcomed their arena
And
kept them from politics� edges
For
a time, and the time was a wonder
It
changed the whole angle of being
�No
longer what we say, but what we are�
Suffused
their new way of seeing
They
met the coarse elements of the world
With
reborn naivet�
From
a battlefield of right and wrong, their world turned
To
the elements of ecstasy
Time
and time in abundance
As
if it took only the opening of doors
And
doors flew open in all directions
To
a magic that gives, and never stores
Strange
symbols arose in the minds of the many
Gambling
some moments on the length of the peace
Hoping
it was the time, rather than chance conditions
Flowing
out in lysergic release
Beauty
in the fields, in the artistry
Breathless
in the psychic creativity
Joyous
in affirming liberality
Timeless
in the new tribal nativity
Facing
clear-eyed the structure of false privilege
Preaching
freedom to those caged by scripted power
Teaching
laughter to those seeking revolution
Metamorphosing
the machine into the flower
For
a time, and the time was a wonder
Amazing
that there was such a way to see
Amazing
to them, that they had it in themselves
But
amazement melted, for it simply had to be
Though
fragile, like the season of the flowering
A
brief sidestepping of the machine�s hostility
It
was, in its own way, the most open confrontation
Just
not being what the machine called on them to be
And
they smiled in the face of America�s masters
Smiled,
drawing from nature�s own free air
Drawing
from the open and its powers
The
hard story had not caught them in its snare
Dreaming
away the racism and oppression
Dreaming
away the addiction to needs
Dreaming
away the potential confrontation
Tearing
the camouflage off the war machine
Courting
the conscience that heeds
Belief
was the magic of the moment
And
unfolded, seeking all that it could it mean
Four
years after the Missiles of October
The
young turned in a direction never seen
And
did not shiver at mentions of Moscow
And
fingered the lies that Washington pushed for war
And
spoke frankly about all the hidden slavery
That
the land of the free had hidden in its store
Time
and time in abundance
As
if all it would take was the opening of doors
The
young turned away from the praise of competition
Unashamed
of a way of life that shares and adores
Looking toward an unexampled emotional richness
Future-loving,
not due to the myth of advance
But
jumping off the mad logic of our civilization
Saying
�yes� to genuine humanity
Believing
brotherhood stood a new chance
AT
THE CREST COMES SHIVA
The
heirs of the victors intermarried
With
the vanquished heirs of past victories
And
together they adopted the new fashion
Shaved
their heads, recast themselves, replanned their cities
And
uncramped themselves from their histories
They
chose what to build upon and what to drop
What
to promulgate, and what to leave dried in the ink
In
a wisdom of unknown provenance
They lived close to and contemplated the sea
There
was peace, there was peace, there was love of peace
And
clean human energy, future-minded
Like
a stable amphetamine, unreeling
Reward
came to the good planning of the intelligent victors
Ruling
with those who�d also known success
Like
some better attainment infusing the entire won realm
One
could taste that the moment was blest
Cursed
drums was how it sounded
Generations
on, and ill-will without excuse
When,
with progressive plans still half unaccomplished
The
dreamlike world was assailed by an undertow
Of
death�s-heads rattles, and barbarous looking young
With
a discourteous, slicing way of discourse
Without
any prospect of constructive contribution
No
appeals to justice lay in their insulting glances
These
children of the victors and the vanquished prior victors
Now
intermixed beyond attempt to trace
These
few spitting out the blessings of the shared victory
No
brother-love or openness in their souls
No
sharing of the vision, no attempt to make things fit
No
elitist hardness, nor democratic counter-call
But,
seeming, Hobbes� social id, wearing Pictish finery
A
strange disease was how it felt
As
even the peaceful young consorted with these ways
With
an even-handed attitude toward the coarse destructiveness
As
if it and the good were merely options on par
And,
as these young were easy in their tenor
The
elders could only feel it was a failure to reckon
A
self-lulling of defenses, a belladonna placidity toward peril
A
quiet, acceding energy where there should have been opposition
An
embrace of ill-placed meditation amid the vespine malice
A
transcendental absorption while the walls were being battered
A
strangely fraternal attitude toward those who wanted no reconciliation
As
if the young were saying to them �I am not the enemy,
�The
children of the enemy are not the enemy,
�Rage
on, we are pleased that you have appeared�
A
machine overdriven was how it smelled
When
the rudeness was no longer held back from the streets
A
rawness seeking no amelioration
Punching
through the air like burning sulfur
Not
rendered subtle by public-shielding filters
But
blown to full effect by powered machines
The
warriors now loose advertised in loudness
Disruption
was their victory, their glory, and their claim
No
Spring, Summer, Autumn or Winter scents could rule
Where
the atmosphere carried the spray of the caustic release
An
assault on coherence was how it looked
As
the young stole symbols from enemies new and old
Broken,
and breaking also the symbols of their own tradition
Mixed
them both, creating meaninglessness out of meaning
Mocking
the careful work of understanding
Stealing
wise thoughts, turning them into jumbles
Praising
cruel devils, criticizing good men for hidden motives
As
if imperfect good were indictable, and true brutishness unimpeachable
The
young wore the visual promise of discord
Which
at its grossest asserted the unacceptable
And
yet, disturbed the most with assertions the least comprehensible
Rising
leads to belief that victory follows victory
The
winners understand the temporary, but are blinded by eternity
The
lunar pull allows them visions of upward breakthroughs
Even
after the upward pull and earthly gravity come into balance
The
upward force sustains a people in their elevated state
And
gives duration to the good that a people achieves
At
the crest comes Shiva
The
signs proclaim that the wave is thinking to break
Nothing
that is built up can reverse achievement�s essential fluidity
As
the coherent make-truth comes to face anarchic ones
The
young, adhering to their favored role
If
they cannot be the heralds of the Rise, become the heralds of the Fall
The
same force that gratifies us with elevation
Is
felt yet more intensely when released in the crash
Thrilled
by the dynamism of standing in self-contradiction
Trusting
ultimately in a myth like that of the Phoenix
The
favored young gladly affirm the downward trend
Trusting
themselves to be invulnerable to true destruction
Acquainted
with the myth that only hitting bottom allows redemption
Having
a faith in the cycles of the world
Having
faith that once the bottom is hit
All
will not be lost, and the new will have its chance
Having
only an abstract appreciation of the prospect of laying bone-broken
As
the living either course toward the hard, jagged rocks
Or
toward a beach, to be stranded, or sucked back into the flow
The
myth of the Fall breaking, just like the myth of the Rise
And
time begins again to teach us, from the bottom
With
Shiva standing above, in peak vitality
THE
LAST GOD
Our
understanding of higher forces has always been translucent
Unsatisfied,
we cast stories more definite
And
the constructed definitions bring their own persuasion
Postulated
beings, impossible to refute
Holding
sway over minds, if not over reality
As
we try to confute belief with observation
Making
our position in this world less destitute
Beliefs
become the cornerstone of a civilization
And
alter jarringly, as that order must move on
Synthetic,
as they must be credible to two opposing classes
The
rulers and the ruled, the compellers and the compelled
Early
on, empire tolerated various beliefs among the conquered
But
once empire needed, beyond submission, the allegiance of the masses
Radically
various religious ideas needed to be dispelled
Empire
has a way of destroying the credibility of the old gods
Who
were relied upon, and failed to protect those devoted to them
And,
while one may admit that the reasons of fate are beyond the human ken
And
one may suffer the moment of bad fortune, awaiting vindication later
As
time goes on without deliverance, the old gods, too, become mere shells
The
investment deinvested, and unwillingly freed men
Are
psychically flattened, and know to hope for nothing greater
Temples decay, and the only god left is the lawgiver
The
only god believed in or desired
Meting
out hard paths to his believers
On
the difficult but promised path to a better fate
The
spiritually outcast must decide if to accept
The
one last way, or count as pious deceivers
Those
who claim they know the cause for our forsaken state
EISENHAUER
Earth,
ball of iron
With
its thin silica shield
Its
face of lighter elements
Propped
up on the iron weight
When
the surface creatures writhe
From
the taunt of impermanence
Some
will follow the iron extrusions
Press
their will on the workings of fate
Hewers
of iron, having sensed its currents
Pushing
the material course to manual intent
Their
biting tools will seek the veins of mountains
Creatures�
hard labor exercising the will to press back
Their
hearts attuned to the tenor of the massive metal
Slow
and grave below the landscape�s fluctuations
Pulling
magnetically on the blood and the will
Keeping
the work teams steadily on attack
Uncorroded
iron will slice the world�s resistance
Implements
and shields will hold a domain fast
Within
iron armor lay protection and endurance
As
cast metal breaks the Earth to our hand
With
iron devices we uproot and replant
We
show the effectiveness of human calculation
None
will deny our fatefulness as we
Refashion
to our vision the face of the land
HELIOS
At
times I feel, not like a person
But
like the aether through which other things flow
Not
possibly a particle with a vulnerable existence
As
the ungifted do try to show
The
human story does not bother me
With
its ominous or ailing turns
I
thirst to affirm all its dark counterpoints
In
my depth, as my highest hope burns
In
my breadth, I am the aether for Helios
As
he refutes the unwanting infinite latency
Understanding
no weariness, radiant always
Defining
for each the role of spiritual agency
Not
awaiting some future aeon
Not
overwhelmed by the much larger past
Letting
us cycle again and again to the open
Saving
our awareness, and holding it fast
From
the solar encyclopaedic thirst
We
diffract into material diffusion
From
wanting to stream out into the all
We
mix our ideals into the worldly confusion
Our
fumbling souls misarticulate our will to return
To
the Sun, the unfailing reminder
Best
when silent, we yet clatter world-mixed aspiration
True
to base, step each step, longer blinder
They
slice my palm vertically, the blood runs down
I
feel the fluid�s vitality
But
it is a crude earthly ritual
Which
accents the upward gropings of animality
Unescapable
in this heart-beating moment
As
we stand, braced by life�s emergency
We
are not yet sand, but deep, rich soil
Not
clear, but fertile with urgency
ARGON
I
hear that I travel unaffected by others
That
I travel, I would know
I
remain untempted by the world�s interchanges
I
feel complete in my holding
Though
on the surface, I shiver
With
the most remote sympathy and perception
My
truest sisters and brothers
Are
those undisturbed by the flow
As
the majority always rearranges
In
solid combinations or folding
Looking
for the next change to deliver
A
rightness that will withstand exception
Emergence
is always at play
Time,
a problematic addiction
Always
pressed by a minus or a plus
Always
wanting the good or the better
And,
when good, wanting time to stop
Not
wanting to flirt with good�s passing
Trying
to believe in the power to stay
Trying
to forget good�s contradiction
Not
complete in themselves, unlike my kind
Not
happy with the solitude or the fetter
Wanting
to drink in or to pop
Starved
in freedom or drowned in amassing
There
is no ill-will in nobility
In
self-confidence, no false manners
My
lack of hunger seems to rankle some
Even
my lack of wanting to be master
I
carry the right quantum of pride
Yet
pass proudest of leaving no trace
To
what I pass, in unconcerned civility
I
show the most subtle of banners
To
which, perhaps, none of them will ever come
And
I do not mean them to come faster
But
the interchange will quietly confide
The
balance that hunger does not let take place
CLAIMING
THE SILENCE
All the words, that were so hard to learn
Seem
to us like the keys to the world�s course
Yet,
when the rain is over and the water just drips into pools
The
mind encounters a questioning force
Perhaps,
when the work of words has gone far enough
Words
themselves are meant to move on
Perhaps,
what we�ve tried to break through to with words
Can�t
be seen till the words are gone
And
that which is here before us
And
that which we take to make sense
Sifts
beyond our most careful phrasing
And
returns us to half-knowing suspense
Doubt
suggests we rely on the wrong senses
Doubt
suggests we just wait at the station
Doubt
suggests some landmark that words leave us near
Beyond
comment, is our true destination
As
verbal propositions multiply and bog down
Mysterious
counterpoint, silence
Enters
into the lexicon of civilized minds
Like
art intruding on science
Like
the richer understandings upon falling asleep
Where
the wakeful mind has baked substance away
Silence
enters the struggles and banners above
And
suggests the prize that words stalk away
It
says nothing against consciousness
It
says nothing against reasoning out
That
what we seek and identify with our eyes
We
must feel then, or remain without
And,
if we believe in essences
And
believe in intentional forces
Then,
the things that present themselves to our eyes
Might
be felt through unto their sources
If
words tell us where our kind can aspire
If
words teach us steps to the dance
If
words show far rivers and sacred places
Where
unknown parts of our souls feel a chance
If
words inform us that a wise man once lived
Or
unexpected things humans go through
Or
any realities we�ve not experienced or seen
We
must be thankful for the work they do
But
if the very train that gets us there
Does
not let us disembark
And
we spend all our days traveling the rails
Trying
to steal some cerebral spark
We
might learn well to pontificate
And
make our conclusions sound ironclad
Bluff
assurance that, in the safe of our minds
We�ve
all the answers we wanted to have had
But
the leftover truth seeps through us
Felt
in pauses, in a more quiet minute
The
positing half says what it can, partly well
Feeling
poor each new time it must begin it
Feeling
tempted, in the world�s pregnant twilight hours
To
follow the soul�s oft unrewarding demanding
To
climb hills and mountains under the starlight
To
reach past, to direct understanding
THE
CASTLE IN STONE
All
the surface knowledge
Answering
the widening thirst
Occasionally
rests in corners
While
it displays the ways it is versed
Yet,
looking toward the depths
That
want me to place them first
I
feel the claims for my entire mind
From
spots where loyalty is reimbursed
I
feel bright, but, then, I feel shallow
Compared
to things that carry weight
I
drop in and out of the substantial
Able
yet not to be dyed by fate
And,
though I think I follow a duty
In
no particular does that duty find a mate
I
sift through the elements of the big picture
I
have a flame that no one fuel can sate
I
come to the castle on its home ground
The
wind is sweeping, the sky overcast
The
wet stone confronts me with knowledge
Its
deep reality catching me fast
Not
wanting an entry in some mind�s inventory
Wanting
to come first and last
Drawing
my awareness to the inescapable
Trying
to push ranging ways to the past
It
seems not as if the stone blocks
Were
cut from anywhere
All
their history seems rooted in this place
In
a different angle of time
They
feel neither quarried nor transported
Not
preceded, but the original base
No,
though I know it couldn�t be
With
a form so obviously created
Still,
its own hour seems the start of all hours
With
a self-dominion that will not be frustrated
I
will not be captured
I
cannot be fixed
And
tied to a single perspective
Nor
gain the solidity
Earned
through the thoroughness
Though
I need it, as a corrective
For,
I do not know when I�d be free again
If
I descend, as if in a well
Or
if my whole course will be redirected
Once
some specific grabs me in its spell
Though
the quest for the overview
Itself
is open-ended
Itself,
a capture that may never run its all
Yet,
I feel no threat
Compared
to some foreign home-ground
No
peril to my personal control
Though
it disillusions me greatly
To
now see the flaws in the higher view
I
prefer the valleys in perspective
Though
the neatness I see is, partly, untrue
And
yet, the Castle seems to pull on my loyalty
Its
claim on me, I cannot explain
Were
I to give in to it only the once
It
would then have claims it could retain
The
Castle is built for keeping
And
wants to plug me in, I know not how
For
one more step in some unfulfilled mission
Anchored
by a resolute vow
NOT
ALL THINGS
The
questing mind wants to grasp the whole world
Wants
to know the meaning that encompasses all
In
its health, it sees things affirmed in sunshine moments
When
subdued, it sees shades only revealed in light�s fall
Some
things are not meant to be grasped as knowledge
And
as the day-worn spirit recovers in a shaded room
If
sensitive, it senses things as fleeting shadows
And
those observing the hour may mistake it as gloom
Far
away, then, stands the sunshine understanding
Drawn
off of, perhaps, but well muted
None
are destined to have them both at one time
Some
beliefs come only when they are suited
Some
things are never actual, always potential
Whispering
near us in their potentiality
And
when our fingers go searching out our inklings
We
dispel them with our concrete mortality
If
we cannot seek the all, what should we seek?
How
can we choose what parts are worth the trying?
What
do we do with our thirst for the universal?
How
can the best in us need such denying?
The
work we are called to will not show us all things
Nor
whether destiny is real, or our construction
Though
we sense we can contact any part of the whole
We
all cast wide, and then settle for reduction
Those
who can�t let go of the encyclopaedic pull
Must
become canny toward the way that knowledge grows
There
do come times when the questing mind
To
learn more, must relax some things it knows
Copyright � 2006 George Raymond Schubert