THE LAST FRONTIER

       Humanity stands at its last frontier:
       Consider it a gateway, not a wall—
       A passage to a place where minds grow clear
       And ears can hear our lofty, destined call.

       That long-denied vocation of our race
       At last attended to, will set us free
       And clear from our perennial disgrace,
       Letting us be what we are born to be:

       We are custodians of all the Earth,
       Caretakers, not exploiters, of its wealth
       Who finally realize its precious worth
       And take all proper measures for its health.

            We now see Earth as one community
            We must sustain with love and harmony.

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PROSPERITY

    Should we not rightly ask what may be wrong
    With our society and then address
    Not simply what may make our system strong
    But how we may correct our waywardness?

    For how we reckon our prosperity
    And claim our greatness as a civil state
    Must be in terms of more than GDP,
    Since only equity can make us great.

    To be impartial, just and fair respecting
    All of our fellow humans’ basic needs
    But also reckoning and then correcting
    The harmful fallacies of outworn creeds.

         Above all else, we need to realize
         Those values that will prove at last we’re wise.

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PARAGONIA

I

    Paragonia is a vision of what might,
    With effort and imagination, come
    To be on Earth when once we learn to right
    Ourselves and our far-wiser nature plumb.

    It’s clear we’ve the potentiality
    For rising to new heights of consciousness,
    Transcending eons of rank idiocy,
    Replete with warfare no true sage would bless.

    The Paragonian way is that of peace,
    Co-operation and profound respect
    For others’ rights and needs, and the increase
    Of harmony, as souls with souls connect.

         The antagonism that so long has ruled,
         In Paragonia will by love be schooled.

II

    In Paragonia our benighted race
    Will have matured and grown wholly wise,
    Having explored and mapped all Inner Space
    And ultimately come to realize

    That in cooperative community
    With all of Gaia’s creatures, great and small,
    Transcending centuries of enmity,
    We’ll have at last reversed our fabled Fall.

    On Paragonia’s whetstone we’ll have honed
    The blade that cuts our egos down to size
    And severs us from sins for which we’ve groaned
    In ages past, but finally realize
    
        That concord and collaboration can
        Now resurrect the state of fallen Man.

III

    The folks in Paragonia don’t compete,
    Since competition is a kind of war
    In which opponents struggle to defeat
    Contenders in the hopes of winning more;

    Which means they have transformed what they call
        sports,
    A rigorous pastime for the brave at heart,
    That used to be a battlefield of sorts,
    Into a win-win exercise of art,

    And thus a model of a better mode
    For all relationships, grounded in care,
    Adhering to an ancient holy code
    That virtue is supreme, however rare.

        In Paragonia, though, it’s commonplace
        To treat all folks with charity and grace.

IV

CALIBAN ON PARAGONIA

      About this “Paragonia” crap I’ll say,
      Your expectations of humanity
      Are overblown if you think there’s a way
      They’ll wise up anytime this century—

      Or any other, as far as I can tell,
      For greed and selfishness and violence
      Have been their basic nature since they fell
      From fabled Paradise and lost their sense

      Of right and wrong, then jettisoned the will
      To sacrifice self-interest for the good
      Of others when the prospect of some thrill
      Derails them all from going where they should.

          Their rule is “Looking out for Number One,”
          By which your Paragonia is undone.

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CROESUS

For all the blessings that have come to you
Whether by fortune or your industry,
There is a rightful obligation due
By fit and natural reciprocity.

For you can never claim that all alone
You’ve earned or won such gratifying wealth,
Since all your life you’ve been sustained and grown
By those who tend your nurture and your health.

Who grows your food?  Who keeps your water clean?
Who regulates the quality of air?
So many public servants go unseen
On whom you lean for sustenance and care.

     No matter how you glory in your pelf,
     You’re not an island fortress in yourself.

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IT’S TIME

     Any “religion” that would seek to sanctify
     The random slaughter of hapless innocents
     In the name of Someone Holy in the sky
     Commits a horrid, blasphemous offense.

     What could be holier than to love and care
     For the well-being of all human souls,
     And yet such holy ones are all too rare:
     In most of us it’s fear, not love, controls.

     What is the likelihood that we’ll grow wise,
     Our species in due time matured in love
     As all the sage and saintly ones advise,
     Admiring not the vulture but the dove?

          The time is now, and this is our best chance
          To live in love and let our race advance.

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BIRDSCAPE

    The songscape of the birds this early morn
    Should elevate the weary and forlorn,
    Rousing them from their nightmares and despair
    By wafting melodies throughout the air.

    “It’s merely territorial,” some say,
    “Intended to keep rival birds away,
    Or maybe amorous, to draw a mate,
    Or oratorical—a birds’ debate.”

    Well, theorize however you’re inclined,
    I’ll still maintain such birdsong is designed
    To cheer those ears still capable of joy,
    Though in a sour malcontent’s they cloy.

      Just close your eyes, attend the various trills,
      And feel the emptiness that birdsong fills.

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CLOSURE

   Two old men I’ve long known have lately died,
   Both naval veterans from World War Two,
   Who had found their souls and bodies sorely tried
   Then lived with fears the years could not undo.

   Though they went on to lead successful lives
   Adjusting to polite civilian ways,
   On many nights the ancient fear revives
   They said, the same horrific scene replays:

   Their little ships are strafed, torpedoed, bombed;
   The decks made slick with engine oil and blood
   And fears aroused that never could be calmed
   And decades later would in nightmares flood.

        But those horrendous memories now can cease
        As two long-suffering sailors rest in peace.

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