PARENTS AND THEIR RESPONSIBILITY TOWARDS HUMAN SOCIETY

How sons and daughters should be brought up, parents are very touchy in this matter. They use all their powers, even if they have to go for loans, to offer them a world of surety and security. They cannot be faulted in their passion to make all the provisions for the happy stay of their offspring. But some obvious facts that we have to contend with are that the over-protected and pampered sons and daughters of the rich are worst examples of humanity. They have power and wealth which they squander and make life difficult for people who want to live life with dignity.  

If a father is a great painter, can he make his son also a painter, and at that, great too like him? A businessman can bequeath his organization to his son, but has he made the son equal to the task he is going to inherit? We see great organizations and establishments which disappeared when they passed into the hands of crafty or craft-less offspring. We have this equation before us: Wealthy parents have sons and daughters who squander wealth and prove good for nothing and the establishment crumbles as soon as the father is gone. We also have another equation. When the parents are financially weak, and suffer indignities in society because of their poverty, the sons and daughters work hard and rise to high positions. These are far better specimens of humanity, who have seen poverty and who have struggled hard to gain position in society.

Creating Artificial Scarcity

I feel every father who has wealth should not lavish it on his son or daughter. He must create an artificial scarcity for them. Let them feel the pinch and work hard. There is nothing bad in it if he sends his son to work and earn his livelihood, so that he knows the value of being useful to society and learns the art of living with others. This is a world society which we all inherit, and we must know how to share this commonwealth of joy and pain, which are shared for us all. We cannot create young men and women who know everything of plenty and have no knowledge of penury.

When I see fathers doting on their sons, and mothers killing their daughters, I feel how sinful we are. We are not ourselves, we are a part of human society, where we are expected to add to its well-being. If we are centred on our self, or our family, it is a foolish exercise. And it is being practised on an astronomical scale. Parents are worried only about their sons, and little less for their daughters, provide them every joy, every amenity. So far so good. But what is the result of this doting? Particularly, for the society in which we are living? We are giving to society men and women with twisted sensibilities, women and men who could not grow to their potential, people who were made to choose to be parasites.

If a man has to work hard in life, face many struggles, and suffer so many wants and losses, he becomes humble and wise too. But, when he stops all these forces of correction from his son, and gives him a protective atmosphere, it means that son will never rise to those heights to which his father had risen. When we stop our sons and daughters from facing rough weather, [to an extent, it can be excused] but in order to make them men and women in the real sense, so that they could develop their own capabilities to the maximum, they need to be in the ocean as an independent entity.

Protection destroys their potential. You can just cast a look around and see, how my kids who are under protection, they have to be helped in getting jobs, in staying in jobs, and cannot take independent decisions. It is parasitism of the worst kind. Parents must realize their duty towards their sons and daughters. It is poverty of wisdom and foresight if we end up scuttling their progress and growth as human beings, which is a cumulative loss to human society.

Author

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 190 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards.  His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand’s work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.

Sorry for What I Said While I Was on Salvia

I took a big hit from the bong,

coughed hard

through a cloud of smoke,

and sat back on the couch.

I looked around and noticed

that the living room

was expanding and shrinking.

Then I started to get paranoid

and thought that the TV

was ordering me to do things.

At some point during the trip,

I must’ve said something

my girlfriend didn’t like

because she ended up

getting upset with me.

But what can I say?

It wasn’t me talking,

it was the drugs. 

°

Drunk on Peach Wine at the Christmas Party

And I’m having

a pretty good time.

I laugh and smile

after opening the microwave

my mother-in-law got us.

But something else

is on my mind.

There’s always something else

on my mind.

So I take another sip

from my glass

and try to forget about it.

Gabriel Bates is a poet living in Pittsburg, Kansas. His work has appeared in many different publications. Keep up with him on Facebook!

We Were Not Taught How to Hold the Future

They taught us dates

before they taught us consequences.

How empires fell,

but not how to catch ourselves

when hope slips on wet floors.

I grew up learning that history is past tense,

as if it doesn’t knock on our doors every morning

wearing our faces.

My country wakes up tired.

Even the sun hesitates before rising

as if asking,

are they ready today?

We are a generation fluent in survival.

We know how to laugh during blackouts,

how to fold dreams small enough

to fit into pockets with holes.

We know the price of bread

and the cost of silence.

Nobody warned us

that growing up would feel like translating pain

into productivity,

that resilience would become a compliment

used when repair is too expensive.

I write because talking fails me.

Because some truths are too heavy

for ordinary sentences.

Because poetry is the only place

I am allowed to be unsure

without being called weak.

They say the future belongs to us,

but they forgot to leave instructions.

So we improvise!

with borrowed courage,

with borrowed time,

with faith stitched together

by hands that are still shaking.

If this poem sounds unfinished,

it’s because we are.

Still becoming.

Still choosing softness

in a world that profits from our hardness.

We were not taught how to hold the future,

so we are learning

with open palms,

and hope that refuses to sit down.

———————————————————————

nightmare after nightmare

the holidays…

where some people

drown themselves

in nostalgia

where those of us

that grew up in

dysfunctional

families

get to relive nightmare

after nightmare

what i tend to think

about when the holidays

come around is my

father’s father

i never got to meet

him

he committed suicide

three years after my

father was born

as i have grown older

i can’t help but think

he was probably the

smartest man ever

to live

—————————————————————

sunk into the creases of existence

pride will kill

you faster than

any disease

i was told that

long before i

could understand

what it meant

fast forward to

a bad back, arthritis

head to toe, apathy

racing through the

veins and i’m pretty

sure i’m an expert

by now

the dreams of exploring

the world and becoming

a legend died in my

twenties

and before life

simply became

a battle between

bottles of lotion

and liquor

i had sunk into

the creases of

existence

laughing in the

shadows

pretending that any

of this had meaning

empty and broken

pride no longer exists

i suppose now it

is up to the disease

————————————————————————

that tempting myth

the bitter taste of defeat

the sad songs of christmas

always hit the hardest

love, that tempting myth

so many miles away

like water in a world

of concrete

and here comes the

neon of the season

joy wrapped up

in a bundle of

greed

these are the moments

where i wish i could

sleep more than four

hours a day

they tell me all these

things that will happen

when you die

i laugh

i tend to think nothing

will happen

and if it does

i won’t have much

say about it, being

dead and all

—————————————————————

chaos and bewilderment

a paper cut that won’t

stop bleeding

a sign that the end

is near

must be the most

beautiful time

of the year

hot enough on christmas

to be wearing shorts

i suppose this is the future

we have all been running

from

chaos and bewilderment

i believe that is a drink

i made by mistake in

my teenage years

i haven’t closed a bar

in a couple of decades

now

that probably held off

a disease or two

the sound of darlene love

will put me to sleep tonight

solitude on christmas never

felt right, just what i had

still time for that to change

but not as long as i would

like

—————————————————————-

where they came from

a buddy i used

to work with

said one night

that the problem

with the world is

men spend their

whole damn lives

trying to get back

in where they

came from

everyone laughed

and i took another

drag from a cigarette

i said dan, explain

this to me

i was a c-section

he laughed

and said hope you

won’t be lonely

forever

fucker…

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Crossroads Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days at home in Ohio taking care of his disabled mother and betting on sports. Most people will say he’s okay at both, most days. He does still have a blog, evil delights, but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Audacious Winter

Winter has just come back

Knocks the doors again

The walls have fallen 

And the doors are opened

No doorsteps or locks

Just a piece of cloth

Covers my humanity.

You’re so audacious guest

Enters without permission

Violates all the rules

And even the soft young leaves 

Turned to be brown and old.

Your clouds took the light of the day

And added the grey view in the surrounding.

To exacerbate my sadness and depression

They also took the heat of the sun

To make my children burn from the coldness inside a helpless tent.

Your water ran like a huge snake 

Sneaking to our shaky tent 

submerged my blankets and covers my heels

Where humanity fell under my feet.

ANOTHER DAY,  ANOTHER SHOOTING

Gunshots flame, and children

incinerate like smoke.

Parents plead for humanity—which doesn’t hear its name

and flits off to save the whales,

a safer endangered species.

Gunfire rips through fences, gates, and locks.

Places where people gather

are ripe for impromptu executions.

The flare-up of excuses—doused by thoughts and prayers.

And still gun sales thrive.

Guns sold and resold—a solid investment.

Fear and need eat like cancer.

Guns kill the pain—but, like all drugs,kill from the inside. 

Society’s caretakers shrug,

chanting a mantra revamped for profit:

the right to bear arms. 

Sunshine hums with voices of the newly-slaughtered

who no longer vote

and won’t get in the way.

Some leave tiny footprints,

tracking grief all over rugs and hearts.

Tiny footprints:

the cost of doing business.  

Big and Small

There were 

Big and small moments

When he told her

That he was sorry

That she felt that way

He should have just said

That he was sorry.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”