The first sight of true dark

 So angels do not hear our fearful cries,

our voices are muted beneath the sun,

and we are frozen even when we've won.

Trapped in a world of loudly buzzing flies

we can't be sure of either truths or lies,

there's no security beneath the sun,

for it's all finished before it's begun

as we become the things we most despise.

The days run faster before life returns 

from the dark hollows of uncertain times,

but we're not satisfied by normal life.

What we desire is a warm heart that burns

with light enough to heal our sordid crimes,

and silence then all anger, fear,

or strife.

Open or closed, it really doesn't matter

The price is always measured in dried blood,

the world's all visible, naught may be hid,

reality's a pot lacking its lid,

truth strikes the floor with a definite thud

revealing the deep rot beneath the crud.

Nothing we do can temper nor forbid

our paying up for awful things we did

for all can see our footprints in the mud.

All that we claim as fact is one huge lie 

that we have used to win us, out of strife,

delay from the inevitable end 

hidden above even the brightest sky:

The levinbolt that blasts every sweet life,

for which there is no answer that could mend.

What all mankind eventually learns

Watch as the open gate swings quietly to,

you will not see it open once again.

When the door slams the message is quite plain:

There’s no more chance of ever getting through,

no matter the hard hammering you do 

it will not budge. There’s no way though you strain 

up to the limit of the harshest pain;

but all your sparkling moments you shall rue.

You’ve spent each lively minute, and you quail 

at the tremendous signal you receive,

yet you’re the one alone who is to blame.

It’s where each man and woman knows they’ll fail,

where every one of us begins to grieve,

when we reach the conclusion of the game.

Thin glass

 When we discover the bright day

must pass, 

and we’ll be lit only by distant stars,

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

We thought we’d spend our time on the soft grass

adding more pleasures to our slow memoirs

when we discover the bright day must pass,

and every shining moment we amass

leads, without pause, to the dark, closing, doors 

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

We think the sharp reminders merely crass,

and then we’re filled with fear of stormy shores 

when we discover the bright day must pass.

Time, that seems gentle, turns out to harass

each one of us, and, as our sorrow pours,

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

It turns out we are all of the wrong class

to bring an end to these eternal wars.

When we discover the bright day must pass

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

Never surrender

When you can no longer stand on your feet 

it is not yet the moment you must yield 

to perceived fate. On knees, but on the field,

you have not reached the point of swift retreat.

When you are right where pain and courage meet

but hope remains your solitary shield 

your deepest strength will at once be revealed,

and you will choose to rise and not retreat.

You may not stand among the very strong,

nor speak the language of the nobly hard,

but in your heart you know you will not tire;

instead you will keep fighting for as long

as you retain the spirit of bright fire.

What I think now

 It’s time to see if there are miles downhill 

left in my time, or if the road will end

sooner than I wish, though I pretend 

that I shall keep going by force of will.

Human desire has all the force of nil,

and there’s no way I may make nature bend

to what I wish. I cannot now depend on

on inner strength, my powers shall lie still.

There’s little left about which I should care 

yet while there’s hope I think I might remain 

to feel the warmth of sunlight on my face.

I’m now too tired to bother much with fear,

my body’s well-acquainted now with pain,

but my heart still keeps to its proper place.

Steadily the options go away

When you surrender to the normal way

it’s not a matter of finding a true 

direction from the old unto the new;

it’s finding out there’s nowhere you can stay

in ordinary life, but yet you may 

discover that there’s truly no good clue.

Return and you can’t recognize the place

where you began. You have no better choice 

than to move forward with strong foot and hand,

hoping that energy wins you the race.

In such a case you surely may rejoice 

at having found a secure place to stand.

The moment it returned

 

Then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle 

before the moment that the sonnets came,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

I thought the Muse had destined me to Hell,

that for my writings all I earned was shame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

I thought that time had me under a spell,

for which my acts alone should bear the blame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

You don’t expect the stories that you tell

bear actual truth. I felt the very same

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to tell,

but that all of my horses had gone lame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

To my surprise, there was a sudden swell

of rhyming words, and a returning flame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

O poeta é um fingidor

What we pretend is really what is true.

Unlike the wise, the poet sees the real,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

We know the struggles of each life ensue 

from being born, since all the days reveal:

What we pretend is really what is true.

Each maker knows, regardless of the view,

that what we dream as pain is what we truly feel,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

What he perceived was never what he knew,

not one of us saw iron become steel.

What we pretend is really what is true, 

yet he discovers that there’s no way through 

the actual, but he’s no mind to kneel, 

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

So when he sees forces of life renew

themselves each day, so what exists is real,

what we pretend is really what is true,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue